Trash Night

5 PM, time to feed Lola. Linda is all over it.

“OK, I’ll do it,” I say as she stares from across the kitchen.

Lola is ready and waiting, staring hard at the bowl I have in my hand.

Half a cup of dry dog food and half a cup of wet, along with a couple of so-called lubricants.

Sitting across from my bow-killed Impala ram, I’m sipping on a glass of red wine as I watch Tucker Carlson argue with a gun control fanatic. Doesn’t get much better than this at my house.

Then Linda begins her Monday night theatrics. “Trash night!

“Ugh,” I respond as I turn up the volume on the TV set.

“I’m tired of Tucker, is there anything else we can watch?” she adds.

How about “American Pickers,” say I.

“OK,” she responds, “But don’t forget it’s, it’s TRASH NIGHT!”

“Ugh,” says I.

The pickers are kicking butt on some great unusual stuff and Linda announces she’s ready for a shower.

“Don’t forget. Trash night!” says Linda as she heads down the hall.

“I won’t forget,” I respond wondering why she makes such a big deal about trash. It’s not like they won’t be here to pick it up again next week.

The National Championship game is on and soon Michigan takes a significant lead. I’m thinking this could be a big-time up-set.

Both teams are playing great, but Michigan is maintaining. Then some white guy comes out of nowhere and scores about nine points in a row for Villanova. Then he throws one in from about 30 feet.

“Trash night!’ I say to myself at the half. Time to go break down some cardboard boxes and rip them to shreds.

American Idol is recording.

 

 

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