Garbage Nazis and other Bastards I have known.


More Waste Containers

More Waste Containers (Photo credit: Stiwwe)

The ultimate result of shielding men from their own stupidity is to fill the world with fools.

I recently urged people to be gentle with those seemingly kind old chaps you see buzzing around garbage bins like blue-arsed flies and referred not to tramps looking for sustenance, but to the resident bin-carer.  After a couple of unpleasant incidents with the incumbent garbage nazi in the precinct I had lately moved into, my former advice to be gentle with these creatures changed to be very aware of them. Self-appointed old bin bastards (OBB) are invariably fussy despots, the obsessed roadwork controllers, if you like, of apartment precincts.

Tim is of scant build, 67 kilos would pull him up, 78 years of age and about 167 cm, snowy hair becoming the focus when trims are delayed. His mien was that of a comfortably off retiree, back-room boffin was my first thought, proving close to the mark. Polite but distant, inclined to the discourteous, a surprise to find this effete private gent was the garbage Nazi. We tentatively tested each other with unimportant talk but his rude and annoying trait of cutting me off mid-sentence quickly became a put-off. I attributed his ignorance to a dearth of cerebral companionship.

What seemed a valid complaint was his frustration at residents using all eight bins simultaneously when filling a couple at a time would be energy-conscious by halving the number of hydraulic lifts resulting in less diesel stench. The bins stay on the footpath and are pulled to the kerb on collection days. After lining them up one collection morning and feeling unwell, he afforded me great honor by asking me to pull them back from the kerb after clearing. I gladly did this, but created unrest and suspicion in him by turning four bins away from use and projecting the others 30 cm or so to make them automatic choice. I had spent a little time in advertising, and by applying thought, had inadvertently become a garbage Nazi’s enemy.

He’d had a few heart scares of late, the most recent a day before and was pensive about body movements, fearing each one his last. A few days later I was going into town for supplies and offered to do his shopping. His curious retort that he didn’t want my charity flummoxed me briefly as I hadn’t offered a loan. I had no idea he was in a financial rut and his false pride exposed what he really thought of me. To my great pain I ignored my trusty shit detector or prescience which was imploring me to be done with this churlish old man.

Feeling up to the 55 km round trip to town a few days later, he accepted my offer of a lift to attend a few chores. Working out a rough plan to facilitate our errands, he reacted “You’re just like Christa, afraid to walk a few feet.” An unrepentant control-freak, he asked of me when I suggested we load our supplies into the back seat,”What do you think the boots for?” Fumbling Les just couldn’t get it right, but my air-conditioning doesn’t reach the boot.

Christa is Tim’s Eurasian-looking comfort woman in her seventh decade who claims German heritage, won’t do messages for her friend but religiously calls on him pension fortnight, is later picked-up by her pimp or by an ill-mannered fiftyish, ignorant sow of a woman, possibly a fading escort tart. She would wait for her friend with the car idling swamping my ground-level flat with CO2. She wasn’t about to change her ways on impulse, so I explained what her carbon-monoxide was doing to the respiratory department.

” Well, if it worries you so much, you’ll just have to shut the door when I turn up.” “And you’d be a right royal first class cunt,” a voice within me felt obliged to respond. I denied her shock, horror and affront. Tim’s grandiosity to his ‘lady’ friend explained his rusted, unkempt, shit-box and the veracity of his comments of never having savings to draw on should an emergency arise.

He moved her, whatever that meant, into a nearby flat. Most likely, it meant paying the bond and two weeks rent and nothing more forth-came. She paid nil rent and was turfed out three months later. Her goods and chattels disappeared the same way they had arrived, by degree, in bits and pieces in the pimp’s car and in Tim’s clanking and disintegrating Celica, a house of cards assembled with bric-a-brac.

What he gets in return for the fiscal fawning is his concern of course, but these pampered, ignorant dregs do not return favours or help an ailing benefactor, and to suppose she would automatically respond in kind is so alien to her mind-thought as never having entered her ambit of thought. She is much like Maugham’s drab and conniving Mildred, an artless, rotten leech who returns her doddering backer little or nothing except heartache and despair, a fact he acknowledged when accepting my offer of help.

Despite his misplaced suspicion of me as a do-gooder who must be punished, I readily agreed to pay a couple of due accounts at the post office using cash drawn from his ATM account, the pin number of which he had written on spiral-bound stationary measuring 20 cm X 13 cm. Spiral-bound memo pads is stationary which I thought a relic of the past and to see it still in use interested me. A few days later, I found a hand-printed note in my letter-box sternly telling me to turn the TV down and it was written on the same size spiral-bound paper that the OBB had used on his note with the PIN number.

Tim’s flat is too far from mine to be irritated by electronic noises even on the quietest night, yet he passes my door to get to his car and once commented my tv was audible. Checked with adjacent tenant about this who assured me there was no justification to his bitching.

It Gets Couriouser And Couriouser.

Nearby lives an aging Botox ‘babe’ whose swollen ugly dial doesn’t auger well for her youth-wish. Called out to me on Wednesday late March, wanting a lift to town for Anglican communion, offering ‘petrol’ money. And that’s the last I’ve seen of the poodle ‘lady’ on a friendly, neighborly basis. Now, a special 58 km return trip would be cheap at $20, but I await still for any recompense and am avoided by her as though I am a carrier of the black death. Talking about bastards I have known….

An Australian working-class demographic.

You know you are a bogan when…..

1. You let your twelve-year-old daughter smoke at the dinner table in front of her kids.
2. Bikers back down from your mum.
3. You think loading the dishwasher means getting your wife drunk.
4. You’ve been married 3 times and still have the same in-laws.
5. Jim Beam, Jack Daniels and Johnny Walker makes your list of “Most Admired People.”
6. You’ve ever had to scratch out your sister’s name in a message that begins “For a good time call….”
7. You’ve ever worn a dress that is strapless with a bra that isn’t.
8. Every day someone comes to your door mistakenly thinking you’re having a garage sale.
9. You have a working television that sits on top of a non-working television.
10. You think the Nutcracker is something you did off the diving tower.
11. Your dog was desexed by court order.
12. Your 13 year old daughter and her husband wanted belly button piercing, and you said no and got them matching tattoos instead.
13. You mow your lawn and find a car.
14. Your tyres are worth more than your car.

Updated

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