One of the civilized things about San Francisco is you don't have to race your trashcan to the curb at the asscrack of dawn.

We have bins for garbage, recycling and plant trimmings. You put it in whenever. The trucks come around twice a week and they've all got big jangling collections of keys that get them into the lower part of the apartment building to pull out the bins.

Its like having house elves.

One of the civilized things about San Francisco is you don't have to race your trashcan to the curb at the asscrack of dawn.

My first reaction to this was, "Yeah, you can just roll it down the hill...."

My first reaction to this was, "Yeah, you can just roll it down the hill...."

One way or another, it's probably ending up in the bay.

One way or another, it's probably ending up in the bay.

Nuh uh! Nanobots turn it into fragrant fluff and deliver it to the Build-A-Bear franchise.

Dude. If they had enough time to lean down and put a freaking orange sticker on the bins, they couldda picked up the freaking bins and emptied them.

On the farm we divided up our trash thusly:

• Stuff that we can burn.
• Stuff we can feed to the cats.
• Stuff we can add to the cow manure to be spread over the fields.
• Stuff we haul to the junkyard.

Still, I was happy to see that my parents now recycle.

Still, I was happy to see that my parents now recycle.

But then what do the cats eat?

Dude. If they had enough time to lean down and put a freaking orange sticker on the bins, they couldda picked up the freaking bins and emptied them.

This was also pointed out to the nice fucks at WM. "It probably took him longer to *write the note* than it would've to *do his job*!"

Father of the Year Award Moment:

Taking a snow shovel into your daughter's room, scooping a shovelful off the floor and saying "Go get me the trash can, okay?"

She's cleaning now.

I wish I could speak like that to any person that had failed logic and directed it towards me, MM.

So here's the story on one of these cases, on which IDF and me battling one-on-one in an absurd theater. If I had said what I would really like to said in that situation, I'd found myself in army court in no time.

Scene: another guarding duty, one of my lasts. I got one of the better posts (where I can read, joy!). And suddenly, there's an inspection - the first I had in this kind of duty. Well, I'm kind of disciplined soldier, so all of it will go well, right? Oh look, a flying pig!

One of the mandatory equipment is a canteen. Now, my darling, I'm talking about a kind of canteen that perhaps was relatively new around 1970, and as far as I know, wasn't cleaned since then. It's going on the belt, in case we'll have to make a run (and "towards where?" is an interesting question, giving that I was serving in a base in the middle of freaking Tel Aviv. "The mall" is the closest answer, trust me). So in a case of "drink from it or die", I'd probably prefer the last. Still, instructions says it has to be full. So I'm filling it, just like the rest of the girls, just above half way through - it's not like we don't have other shit to carry, including an M-16 which leaves our legs filled with blue and black marks, due to proportion issues. Since the canteen is such an ick factor, I, of course, carry a water bottle of liter and a half with me to the post and two books.

And under these conditions I was found disobedient. An officer and his unbelievably stupid sock puppet came, and went by my gear, one by one, and found the canteen not fully filled.

Then the play begun. For about 20 minutes I was questioned with the same question over and over again: "why isn't your canteen filled to its end?". After answering it 5 times, it didn't help, and I had no idea what answer they're after. The officer stopped asking after 8 times, when he saw my answer doesn't change (I think I said something about that I don't drink from it, and I have three times the amount of water at my side, there, where they could see), and went talking with my officer that pretty much said the same. But for sock puppet it wasn't enough. For another 15 minutes, he kept asking me that question, enjoying every little moment of his station over me with a satisfied grin on his face. At some point I stopped answering, not having any other words to understand what's not to be understand.

That's the famous canteen story, which at my house became a phrase: no matter what's the situation, a very irrelevant "but why isn't your canteen full?" can slip into the conversation.