Trash Man
- 3 years ago
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THE TRASH MAN free porn video
Monday is trash day. The trash man comes early, often before dawn. It is a noisy and aggressive process - emptying the bins. The trash man makes no effort to soften his intrusion into our early morning quietude, so my wife and I usually go on and get up.
We've had a long and contentious relationship with the trash man. It's been the same guy for as long as we've lived here. He is a grump and the more we strived to get into his good graces, the more he seemed to dislike us. It's been thoroughly disheartening because we think we're pretty likable.
Here in California, the whole waste management is a big deal - sorting trash from recycling and compostables, etc. It's an involved process that starts with the consumer. My wife's far more environmentally conscious than I am, so she strives to adhere to the complicated and often subtle standards of what goes in which bin, etc. And so she has become far more frustrated than I when the trash man decides, for some reason, to NOT empty one of our bins on some random Monday.
One summer years ago we went three weeks without the trash man emptying our recycling bin. He took the trash and the compost, but for some reason he'd objected to taking our recyclables. My wife was irate. She called the waste management folks after he'd gone off and left us with a full bin the first time and been told there was something in the bin which wasn't recyclable. So she went out there and sorted through it - item by item. She found something way down at the bottom which, sure enough, shouldn't have been in there ... but how the trash man knew that that one item was in there at the bottom of the bin is beyond me.
But he refused to empty our recycling bin TWICE MORE after the first time and after my wife had sorted through it. So my wife was legit furious. She went on crusade. She made phone calls, filed complaints, wrote nasty emails. It was tense around our house for that month and not only because the recyclables were piling up in our garage.
On the third Monday of that summer month several years ago, my wife was up well before dawn and watching for the trash man. When he climbed down outta his truck and opened the lid of our recycling bin to evidently scrutinize the contents, my wife charged outta the front door like she'd been fired from a cannon. She rolled-up on him and unloaded a pent-up, invective-filled tirade that had me wincing from my vantage point on the front porch.
The trash man was dumbstruck. Overawed. He actually flinched and took several steps backwards and put his hands-up placatingly.
Funny thing was that my wife was still wearing what she'd worn to bed - which was a threadbare tank top and nude-colored underwear. She was barefoot and without a bra, her hair still mussed from sleep and wadded up in a tangled bun piled lopsidedly on her head. As she ranted and raved, her sagging 50year old breasts, unsupported by a bra, wobbled and swung pendulously - the nipples stiff and hard in the early morning chill. And with the nude-colored underwear and how the hem of the tank top barely covered her butt she looked as though she were naked from the waist down.
I'm not sure what the trash man thought. Here's this furious, half-naked middle-aged woman screaming at him, etc ... but he scurried up into the cab of his garbage truck and emptied our recycling bin while my wife stood there in the drive, hands on her hips, glaring at him.
We've had less trouble with the trash man since, but he's still oddly persnickety.
We've had a long and contentious relationship with the trash man. It's been the same guy for as long as we've lived here. He is a grump and the more we strived to get into his good graces, the more he seemed to dislike us. It's been thoroughly disheartening because we think we're pretty likable.
Here in California, the whole waste management is a big deal - sorting trash from recycling and compostables, etc. It's an involved process that starts with the consumer. My wife's far more environmentally conscious than I am, so she strives to adhere to the complicated and often subtle standards of what goes in which bin, etc. And so she has become far more frustrated than I when the trash man decides, for some reason, to NOT empty one of our bins on some random Monday.
One summer years ago we went three weeks without the trash man emptying our recycling bin. He took the trash and the compost, but for some reason he'd objected to taking our recyclables. My wife was irate. She called the waste management folks after he'd gone off and left us with a full bin the first time and been told there was something in the bin which wasn't recyclable. So she went out there and sorted through it - item by item. She found something way down at the bottom which, sure enough, shouldn't have been in there ... but how the trash man knew that that one item was in there at the bottom of the bin is beyond me.
But he refused to empty our recycling bin TWICE MORE after the first time and after my wife had sorted through it. So my wife was legit furious. She went on crusade. She made phone calls, filed complaints, wrote nasty emails. It was tense around our house for that month and not only because the recyclables were piling up in our garage.
On the third Monday of that summer month several years ago, my wife was up well before dawn and watching for the trash man. When he climbed down outta his truck and opened the lid of our recycling bin to evidently scrutinize the contents, my wife charged outta the front door like she'd been fired from a cannon. She rolled-up on him and unloaded a pent-up, invective-filled tirade that had me wincing from my vantage point on the front porch.
The trash man was dumbstruck. Overawed. He actually flinched and took several steps backwards and put his hands-up placatingly.
Funny thing was that my wife was still wearing what she'd worn to bed - which was a threadbare tank top and nude-colored underwear. She was barefoot and without a bra, her hair still mussed from sleep and wadded up in a tangled bun piled lopsidedly on her head. As she ranted and raved, her sagging 50year old breasts, unsupported by a bra, wobbled and swung pendulously - the nipples stiff and hard in the early morning chill. And with the nude-colored underwear and how the hem of the tank top barely covered her butt she looked as though she were naked from the waist down.
I'm not sure what the trash man thought. Here's this furious, half-naked middle-aged woman screaming at him, etc ... but he scurried up into the cab of his garbage truck and emptied our recycling bin while my wife stood there in the drive, hands on her hips, glaring at him.
We've had less trouble with the trash man since, but he's still oddly persnickety.
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