Chief egalitarian garbage taster

As a Halloween costume, one year during early grade school,

my father got the brilliant idea for this sole son to be dressed

uniquely sans rubbish qua putrid offal getup. Missus Shaner

(the talon clawed, shriveled relic of archaeopteryx dinosaur,

who taught fifth grade) gave me first prize, and subsequently

felt so convinced about authenticity of this kid being “white

trash”, she notified another classmate dressed as a janitor

to dispense with me in school dumpster. The receptacle sanitation

disposal company bequeathed altruistic dumpster vis a vis

to dive amidst maggoty muck (in addition to real rubbish

in the dumpster) the nearest landfill loaded with all kinds

of junk viz food scraps, recyclables, and soiled diapers.

Over a short span of time, the detritus commingled into

one brew of a despicable, fly haven, jiggling lifelike,

nursing putrescence re: teeming vibrantly with yum zuck

for a swamp thing, I seemed to be metamorphosing into

by some cruel hoax. Nothing prepared, neither sickened

nor violated senses of smell, sight, taste, and touch to

maximum factor tolerated of each odious blast, each

pestilential assault issued an appalling refrain sans:

The Idler Wheel Is Wiser than the Driver of the Screw

and Whipping Cords Will Serve You More than Ropes

Will Ever Do, before mine myopic bespectacled eyes

(smarting from constant comet drubbing irritants (which

glasses kiddie bifocals caked with smudge good as naught),

stayed shut while inundation of corrosive gaseous shaped

oxbow wreath wisps. Liberty vis a vis in sight envisioned

visibly threatened offshoots of tendril spikes; snaking sneakily,

sordidly slithering silently, yet straightaway as a scene from

some spooky sideshow or “haunted house”. This ugly slop

splashed upon mine formerly pristine academic uniform

appeared near identical to said grub the crabby lunch lady

served i.e. via lob stirring) splattered sundry speckles sans sundry

detritus found me writhing with nausea. Thee nasty

muck and mire found this formerly introverted boy trans

formed into a sponge bobbing squarely panting creature

from the black lagoon, whose sea legs set sought semi-

solid stated surface to stand upright amidst variegated

flotsam and jetsam. Dishabille appearance acquired a

fresh splattered coat of rancid slimy ham and bacon

covered arms (among other bit pieces of moldy clothes,

food and iconic library oddment ricocheting un predict

ably as the trash truck violently shook up and down all

night long en route on this highway to hell to Moyer’s

Dump, which toxic brew would be declared a Super

Fund Site and shuttered in the near future. Once Robert

Hall wardrobe affixed with a capitalone fancyfeast of

grateful dead road kill, kickstarter from some automotive

contraption, and plenti of fish heads (with thine square

pants trimmed with lovely bones), I felt indistinguishable

from regular riffraff riding shotgun. When the trucker

parked and stopped, the awful bin laden made ready to

empty contents within mountain of olfactory noxious

material. A thought occurred, that now might be the

golden (or rather gook steeped) opportunity to extricate

myself from this morass of mish mashed, linkedin kind

dulled juggernaut, icky first class bric a brac.