I Will Destroy the People Living in My Trash

As some of you may know, I'm now at war with the people who live in my trash. This is nothing unexpected, nor is it anything new. For years the people living in my trash have been casually testing the boundaries and pushing the envelope; now they've finally pushes Rokwell T. Finger too far.

It started innocently enough. I found people living in my trash—this was around 1967—and was at first a little startled, alarmed, and even disturbed about it. Was it due to society's injustice or the imbalances in our distribution of wealth? Fortunately, soon after I turned Republican and realized the smarmy people live in my trash because they want to. This solved my immediate moral dilemma, but the fact was I still had people living in my trash and it wasn't too appealing a thought.

Over the years I've tried everything. I offered to get them a hotel room; drive them to the dump where there was a megalopolis of refuse to inhabit; I even fixed up my neighbor's trash with gift baskets and other tempting items, all to no avail. These people were particularly fond of my trash.

The '80s became a real trial, and for a while I thought I was winning the war—one of them even passed away, leaving only three men and a woman living in my garbage. But as the '80s progressed they only seemed to irritate me more, feathering their hair with my mousse and watching through the window as I watched such delightful television staples as "ALF," and "Cheers," and "We've Got it Maid." These bums were pushing me!

Through the '90s they mellowed out some, except for that harsh period where grunge was popular, where they seemed to multiply into dozens of trash-dwelling people. But when that was over with, they were back to the three men, though the woman disappeared, perhaps gone on to follow the Dead or become a biker's mama or some such counterculture schtick.

But last weekend we got off to a bad start for the new century as several items from my personal belongings turned up missing, including a pair of shoes, a camel tweed jacket, and a Kiss T-shirt that's particularly valuable to me now that it's a collector's item. On top of that, a new company has taken over the trash pickup and they refuse to pick up refuse while people dwell in it! And of course, the homeless aren't worried about it all, laughing it up like a Sunday brunch.

And yesterday morning, I spied on them while they slept and—wouldn't you know what one of them seems to have found? A camel tweed jacket! I'm not kidding, good people. All I await is evidence they have my prized Peter Criss T-shirt and I'm going to go apeshit on these vagrants. You watch. This will be an explosion and Rok Finger will come out untouched. After thirty-three years, I'd say we're due.

I have to go—one of them is peeing on my cat. I'll keep you updated.

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