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Never Move Anything If You Ever Want To See It Again
Where are the goddamn garbage bags?
I moved everything out of the basement stairwell for the guys who are parading through my home telling me that everything is broken and they don’t accept credit cards.
The garbage bags were hanging from a coat hook in a plastic bag (yes, the bags were in a bag, but it was a different kind of bag, which is like a witness protection program for bags).
I have this vague memory of thinking, “Well, the garbage bags should be closer to the trash can anyway. That just makes sense. So I’ll put them somewhere closer to the trash can.”
And then they disappeared from the face of the planet.
Maybe that’s what happened to Jimmy Hoffa. They had his body in one place for a while, and then they thought, “Well, we should move him someplace that makes more sense, like a cemetery,” and then they just forgot where they put him.
I could’ve sworn that I put the trash bags behind the trash can. They’re a smallish gray roll of bags. There’s not even that many left (well, now there’s zero left) so tucking them behind the trash can in the kitchen was completely doable and space-saving. Efficient. Brilliant.
