It's all pigs on sticks down at the dump

There was a line to get into the town dump this morning, in a harmonic convergence* of factors that culminated in the complete shutting of 2 boxcar bins.  And though I left shortly afterward, I will embellish the story by saying that there was a bonfire, a human sacrifice, and the founding of Rosieland.

* I have decided to stop saying "perfect storm" and return to the more new-agey "harmonic convergence."

Exhibit A: the dump is open 5 hours a week.  One day, one opportunity.  Miss it at your own peril.

Exhibit B:  It's the haaawlidays which means
B1 - lots of trash
B2 - lots of weekends out of town

Exhibit C: It has snowed.  What this has to do with the convergence is that the entry way is not so very plowed, and there are additional people trying to get to the town sand pile, parked in front of said sand pile, stuck in said sandpile...

Exhibit D:  The man who works the dump broke his hip
He is the official dump worker.  There is another man there who I think is unofficial.  He fishes for deposit bottles in the glass bin with a sophisticated pole system, but most people just separate their deposits into a separate bag and hand them over.  The official man was recently voted a raise at Town Mee'in after it was revealed he worked for minimum wage and the town collectively gasped.

Other townsmen were there trying to keep order, but it was not clear whether they were elected, appointed, or just noble.  One said, "Do you suppose *** is turning over in his bed," (at the chaotic scene), and another replied, "I don't think he CAN."  Much tsking and shaking of heads.

The newspaper bin had already been closed and locked when I arrived.  These bins are indeed boxcar sized dumpsters, whose contents must be kept neatly stacked and baled in order to fit the town's refuse.  Clearly this had gone wrong.  Without constant maintenance, the newspaper pile becomes an avalanche.

The cardboard bin was bursting, and each citizen was trying to wedge their collapsed cereal boxes into whatever slot they could find, when we usually courteously collect them into another cardboard box.  It's like serving the ice cream in an edible bowl.  Within minutes, this too had closed.

The magazine bin began to accept newspaper (that is, there was nothing to stop it) and now magazines and newspaper were living together in sin, and the recycling company would probably reject the entire box.  There were no books in sight, but this was not a day to hunt so close to unrestrained newspaper.

Cars were lined up on both sides of the transfer lane, preventing the tight turnaround one usually does, so now we are backing up in a sort of reverse paraell parking over sand and snow and a thousand water bottle caps.

I have tried to make this sound exciting, because honestly that is all we've got going on here.  I even forgot to go to the gym today.  maybe tomorrow.  speaking of chaos.