Filling The Kitchen Bin

May 8th 2006

The Trouble and I are still happily playing the game of Overfilling The Kitchen Bin. Similar in spirit to the game of Don’t Put A New Toilet Roll In The Holder After Using The Last Of The Old Toilet Roll, but a lot more physical, the sport of Overfilling The Kitchen Bin is a game that I suspect is played throughout the length and breadth of the country, and probably every other country that has kitchen bins for that matter. However if by some odd chance there is someone out there who doesn’t know what the game involves, here’s how it usually goes.

One of you, either the husband or wife, but in my experience almost always the wife, starts off the game by putting something in the kitchen bin, say an empty can, and  observes, because the lid will not now close properly, that the bin is full.

She then puts her hand in the kitchen bin and presses firmly down, thus compressing the rubbish within and making more room (This sometimes results in a cut finger from a jagged tin, but that’s one of the hazards that an Overfilling The Kitchen Bin player has to put up with). Having compressed the rubbish the lid will now fit on properly again.

Later the husband drops something or some things into the bin, enough to fill it again. He too observes that the lid will not now close properly. He does exactly the same as his wife did.  Both husband and wife carry on in this manner until the lid won’t fit on properly even after you’ve put your hand in the bin and pressed firmly down.

You then put your foot in the bin and press down. A couple of good pushes down ensures that the lid will fit on again. You both carry on doing this until even the downward pressure from your foot fails to compress the rubbish sufficiently enough for the lid to fit. The way of disposing of kitchen waste now is not to open the lid and drop the rubbish in, as that can’t happen now as there is no space in which to drop it, but to pick up the lid, drop the rubbish in the bin, then balance the lid on top of the rubbish. From where it keeps falling off. (Actually climbing into the bin and stamping the rubbish down is looked upon as cheating and should only be done when you are quite sure that your partner is out)

Eventually one of you, usually the man, as women have been blessed with more patience, tires of picking up the lid from off the kitchen floor and changes the bin liner. This is far from straightforward as due to all the pushing down by hand and foot the rubbish has become compacted to such a degree that it might just as well have been bonded to the sides of the bin with superglue. You now have to pull at the bin liner with such force in order to release it that either (a) it rips at the top, part of it coming away in your hands, leaving the rest of it in the bin and rendering it almost impossible to get out as there is nothing to grip, or (b) it comes out more easily than you expected, taking you so much by surprise that you drop the liner and spill the contents all over the floor. On very rare occasions the liner will come out slowly and cleanly, but this is no cause for celebration as when this happens there is invariably a rip in the liner caused by an empty tin and the contents spew out through the hole and all over the floor as above.

The Trouble and I have been playing the game of Overfilling The Kitchen Bin ever since kitchen bins and bin liners were invented. Occasionally, to lull the other into a false sense of security, one or other of us will replace the bin liner when it should replaced, i.e. when it is just full. But only occasionally. Mostly we play the Overfilling The Kitchen Bin strictly by the rules. And being human we always will do I suppose.

Tree Surgeons

May 6th 2006It’s the time of year when you get men in important-looking green overalls knocking on your front door asking you if you want any of your trees topped, lopped, felled or otherwise assaulted. The tree-felling close season is over at last and they’re raring to go with their screaming chainsaws at the drop of a tenner. “That one needs to come down, tree that size, the roots will be right under your conservatory already, leave it any longer and your floor will be like the deck of the Titanic at iceberg time.”

These men are only marginally easier to get rid of than Irishmen who have some tarmac left from a job up the road and who for a mere couple of hundred pounds will re-tarmac your drive with it to the depth of the thickness of the walls of a condom.

A few years ago, tired of the annual intrusions of the tree-fellers, I devised a plan to rid myself of them with the minimum of fuss. I would simply tell them that my house was for sale, and therefore I am not a man who is about to spend any money on it, as obviously it would only be to the benefit of the new owner. It has always worked like a charm. Until yesterday.

“Good morning. Ace Tree Surgeons. Do you want any of your tree’s branches pruned or trees felling?” As he said this he was expertly eyeing our small oak tree and no doubt the probable distance of its roots from our conservatory.

“Sorry we’re moving house.”

“Oh.” He almost went, but then turned and stood his ground, clearly not completely happy with my excuse. “Where’s your sign?”

“What?” My reply was the old standby of the guilty.

He pointed across the road to the ‘For Sale’ notice planted on the Rigby’s front lawn.

“Your For Sale sign? Where is it?”

The first thought that entered my head was to tell him that a tree surgeon had cut it down yesterday in mistake for my oak tree whose roots were about to undermine the floor of the conservatory, but he was a big bloke and I wasn’t at all sure he’d appreciate the wit of this riposte.

“Kids stole it,” I said, “Little bastards will pinch anything round here,” and closed the door quickly before he offered to massacre them for me with his chainsaw, only a tenner.

A Snag

May 5th 2006

I’d never have suspected in a million years that you could buy inflatable rubber women on e-Bay. However not only can you buy them, you have a whole harem of them from which to make the selection of the plastic partner of your choice. They come in all shapes, sizes and colours, in blonde, brunette and redhead, with or without ‘artificial vaginas with realistic juices just like the real thing’. Christ when I was in my youth you had to make do with a hole bored in a telegraph pole.

But who on earth would want to buy a used inflatable rubber woman? Especially when the part of it most used is likely to have been the artificial vagina with realistic juices just like the real thing? Apparently many people, if the very competitive bidding for Bouncy Beyonce is anything to go by. I hope the lucky man who eventually bought her takes the precaution of giving her a thorough scrubbing and disinfecting before he exposes his penis to her realistic juices otherwise he could soon find himself with a realistic sexually transmitted disease.

After I’d found out that these sex dolls were available on e-Bay it got me wondering if you could also purchase them from Amazon. Could you buy an Amazon from Amazon? Apparently not, although they sell a book about them.

It’s surprising how many outlets you can buy inflatable rubber women from via the internet though. Literally hundreds. However a minute’s careful consideration might inform you that the internet is the ideal place to sell these artificial floozies, as the comparative secrecy of the transaction completely cuts out the embarrassment factor; for while it would be a huge source of embarrassment for most people to have to enter a sex shop and ask for an inflatable rubber woman, there is no stigma whatsoever attached to receiving an inflatable rubber woman through the post in a plain-wrapped package, provided of course the consignors have let it down first.

All this has rather put a damper on Atkins Down The Road’s plan to sell inflatable rubber women as artificial car passengers, as it his  contention that it is  the embarrassment factor that would drive the inflatable rubber women/artificial passenger traffic our way.

In consequence of the above I reported my findings to him. He agreed it could be a major snag and is to give the matter some thought. Rather him than me. I haven’t managed to get the thought of artificial vaginas with realistic juices just like the real thing out of my head yet.

A Money Making Scheme

May 4th 2006“What’s this?” said Atkins Down The Road.When I answered the door he was standing there, his arm round an inflatable rubber woman. I hazarded a guess. “Your new girlfriend?”

“Very funny. Now be serious.”“It’s an inflatable rubber woman. And you’d better come inside with it, I don’t care for men standing on my doorstep with an inflatable rubber woman, people might think you’re delivering it.”

“The only think I’m delivering is our very rosy future,” smiled Atkins, stepping inside.I already didn’t like the sound of it. From time to time Atkins has ‘bright ideas’ which will make him a fortune. They never do. And for some reason he always wants to involve me in them, usually because he’s too broke to finance them himself. It will be a long time before I forget his mobile massage parlour idea that cost me eight hundred quid and almost cost me my marriage.

“Let’s be having it then,” I said, once we’d reached the living room, “The bright idea,” I quickly added, in case he thought I meant the rubber woman.

“What you are looking at,” said Atkins, going into his sales pitch, “is not an inflatable rubber woman. It was an inflatable rubber woman. Now it is an Artificial Passenger Aid. Or APT. Or at least it will be when I’ve got some clothes for it.” A thought struck him. He weighed up the rubber woman for a moment. “She’s about the same size as your wife. I don’t suppose….?

I nipped this in the bud straight away. “What exactly is an Artificial Passenger Aid?”

“Or APT. Well apparently they’re making one lane of the motorways for the exclusive use of cars carrying at least one passenger.” He patted the inflatable rubber woman on the bottom, affectionately. “One passenger.”

“You intend to sell inflatable rubber women to drivers so that they can use them as pretend passengers?

“Got it in one.”

It seemed like a good idea by Atkins’ standards but I immediately saw a snag. “Why won’t car owners simply buy an inflatable rubber woman themselves?”

“Embarrassment. Would you go into a shop and buy an inflatable rubber woman? No. Hardly anybody would. I wouldn’t.”

“You bought that one.”

“Yes but the people I bought it off didn’t know what it was. The Age Concern shop. They were using it as a mannequin. I’d have bought the clothes it was in too but they wanted too much for them. We can do it all mail order. All very discreet, plain brown packaging. I’ve costed it all out, we can get the rubber women for about a tenner, say another tenner for charity shop clothes, twenty quid all in, we charge fifty plus p and p. We’ll clean up.


I must admit it seems like a good idea on the face of it. But then all Atkins ideas do. I told him I’ll give it some thought.
   

 

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