Men Ask The Darnedest Questions

For a few weeks, I've been meaning to put a bag of trash in the dumpster. It's on the passenger-side floor of T-Hoe, full of junk mail. Not full, of course, because that would split open the extra-strength black trash bag. It's full enough, to be heavy and awkward. I finally decided to deal with junk mail this way, and end the step of carrying it in the house, putting it in the trash, then carrying it back out.

Farmer H swove me to the casino on Tuesday. As we came back up the driveway on our return, he said, "I'll take the trash up tonight." It goes out on Wednesdays. They'd been coming around 1:00, but last week it was 10:00. So we're not letting them get away without our trash! Anyhoo... I said,

"Oh. When I get out, I'll put this mail in, and get that trash bag out of T-Hoe. The junk mail I've been telling you needs to go in the dumpster."

I had been planning to do it myself. But I'd also told Farmer H. You know, just in case he might be fiddling around over the past three weeks, trying to fix my passenger side mirror. He wasn't.

Farmer H lets me out before he pulls into the garage. There's stuff along the wall where I open up my door. (I'm sure this comes as a complete shock.) I was leaning in T-Hoe's passenger door with the day's mail, adding it to the trash bag, as Farmer H finished parking A-Cad, and opened up his door.

"Or... you could do it for me. It's kind of heavy."

"Okay. Where is it?"

ARE YOU FREAKIN' KIDDING ME?

There I was, standing with my arm elbow-deep in that trash bag, putting in the day's junk mail, and Farmer H had to ask me where it was? So I said,

"ARE YOU FREAKIN' KIDDING ME?"

"No. Where is it."

"DUH! It's in the back, heh, heh! Where do you THINK it is? I'm standing right here, putting stuff in it, like I said!"

Farmer H carried the trash bag to the dumpster for me. I'm surprised he found his way there.