Inconsequential Garbage Man Nonsense For “Bags”
Sashaying, (or should I say, sacheting?) back, Rumps is eerily quiet. Not a solitary belch marks my return. ”TRAADAAAAAAA!” I shout, twirling around the ‘exercise’ pole for maximum impact. Voluminous orange polyethylene billowing; his enchanting, porcine eyes feasting on me. “Damn!” My finger bleeding from an embedded cocktail umbrella. Thats when I spot her. My saboteur and potential garbage man thief I think, seeing th...