Chico Buller
Washing Up
I don't know how many of you are familiar with a comicbook/movie called "Tank Girl," but I have lived her plight for many years. Today was chapter 27 of an ongoing novella, and I'm getting tired of it.
In "Tank Girl," her nemesis is the evil director of water and power.
As you know, I live in a little suburb of Madison, Wisconsin, and we also have a small department of town services, who at one time posted a bounty for the capture of my home water useage monitor.
The latest tale of woe is with the "garbage police." We have just switched over to an automated system of pick-up that requires two containers--one for garbage, the other for recycleables--which are designed to be grabbed by the truck's cherry-picker arm.
If your plastic bins are not positioned "just so," you get a yellow warning sticker stuck to the lid of you can. The clown who does our labeling has a heavy hand, and actually bends in the lid when affixing the sticker.
I received yet another sticker today, this one for placing the bins too close to each other, despite the fact they were twenty feet apart. I called the garbage police, and asked for Commisioner Trash. They asked for my name, and I answered "Batman." You don't get put on hold much that way.
I got some county pencil pusher who received her job through patronage. She informed me that it was very difficult for the driver to get in and out of the new trucks, and that only the most grievous cases received stickers. She reiterated their policy of "four feet of clearance" and I asked if twenty feet was adequate. I also added it was the same harlequin who caves in my lid.
After another three minutes of practiced drivel, I interrupted her. I informed her that I am a very humorless man when jerked around. Despite knowing the three people she calls 'boss' personally, and by their first names, I was now retired. This change in my working status gives me ample time to screw around with do-nothing city servants and greedy attorneys who need to make regular monthly boat payments.
Finally, I am so frustrated with her crappy yellow stickers and my proud ownership of a Ford F-150, that I was completely comfortable with the idea of packing up my unclaimed garbage and depositing it at her desk--for the length of the rather short tenure that the desk would in fact still be "hers." After that period, my truck would be delivering the trash to her home.
She asked if I minded being put on hold. Obviously, the real decision maker had just stepped into the room.
In about 30 seconds I was informed that the trash and recycleables would be picked up tomorrow morning. Without me giving my name, the civil servant also asked if their water meter was available to be picked up. I told her she was lucky enough to get the trash, and she shouldn't push her luck.
Kitty-corner from my home is a city police officer. He informs me that they go absolutely insane when I call. I once asked him a few months ago if they ever called his department to file a complaint or request that I be locked up (again).
He smiled and whispered, "All of the time, Chico, all of the time."
I reacted in surprise. No cop has ever come to my home with a warning to stop hassling the white-collar idiots at town hall.
"This in on the Q-T," he smirked, "Lots of cops get those yellow stickers, too..."
In "Tank Girl," her nemesis is the evil director of water and power.
As you know, I live in a little suburb of Madison, Wisconsin, and we also have a small department of town services, who at one time posted a bounty for the capture of my home water useage monitor.
The latest tale of woe is with the "garbage police." We have just switched over to an automated system of pick-up that requires two containers--one for garbage, the other for recycleables--which are designed to be grabbed by the truck's cherry-picker arm.
If your plastic bins are not positioned "just so," you get a yellow warning sticker stuck to the lid of you can. The clown who does our labeling has a heavy hand, and actually bends in the lid when affixing the sticker.
I received yet another sticker today, this one for placing the bins too close to each other, despite the fact they were twenty feet apart. I called the garbage police, and asked for Commisioner Trash. They asked for my name, and I answered "Batman." You don't get put on hold much that way.
I got some county pencil pusher who received her job through patronage. She informed me that it was very difficult for the driver to get in and out of the new trucks, and that only the most grievous cases received stickers. She reiterated their policy of "four feet of clearance" and I asked if twenty feet was adequate. I also added it was the same harlequin who caves in my lid.
After another three minutes of practiced drivel, I interrupted her. I informed her that I am a very humorless man when jerked around. Despite knowing the three people she calls 'boss' personally, and by their first names, I was now retired. This change in my working status gives me ample time to screw around with do-nothing city servants and greedy attorneys who need to make regular monthly boat payments.
Finally, I am so frustrated with her crappy yellow stickers and my proud ownership of a Ford F-150, that I was completely comfortable with the idea of packing up my unclaimed garbage and depositing it at her desk--for the length of the rather short tenure that the desk would in fact still be "hers." After that period, my truck would be delivering the trash to her home.
She asked if I minded being put on hold. Obviously, the real decision maker had just stepped into the room.
In about 30 seconds I was informed that the trash and recycleables would be picked up tomorrow morning. Without me giving my name, the civil servant also asked if their water meter was available to be picked up. I told her she was lucky enough to get the trash, and she shouldn't push her luck.
Kitty-corner from my home is a city police officer. He informs me that they go absolutely insane when I call. I once asked him a few months ago if they ever called his department to file a complaint or request that I be locked up (again).
He smiled and whispered, "All of the time, Chico, all of the time."
I reacted in surprise. No cop has ever come to my home with a warning to stop hassling the white-collar idiots at town hall.
"This in on the Q-T," he smirked, "Lots of cops get those yellow stickers, too..."
