The Refusenik

Yesterday a lot of people around the globe did a lot things that I don’t give a shit about.

As a confirmed misanthrope of independent means, I always try to choose when, where  and how to engage with the outside world — a world that, generally speaking, is full of pushy, noisy, self-involved, deceptive, greedy, often ridiculous, little assholes who are typically a pain-in-the-tush to deal with.

Misanthropes with money, as a rule, unless they are old and frail, don’t have to deal with the annoying chaos, the irrelevant stupidities that the hoi polloi deem so fucking crucial.

Misanthropes, in fact, are the true  refuseniks: they agree to disagree, with everyone, about everything.

Alas this disagreeable quality falls apart and withers, when confronted with the rigid schedules and rules for getting rid of garbage in the fair city of Yonkers, NY.

In effect, to get rid of common household refuse, one must comply with the terms and conditions of the garbage schedule that you see pictured above.

Refuse to submit to these unAmerican assaults on misanthropic freedom at your own peril.

And so, dear readers and pehaps fellow misanthropes, it is with a heavy heart that I must confess today that I, too, must throw in the towel, raise the white flag of surrender, and succumb — between now and a week from Thursday, when I return to Florida, the beloved land of unfettered garbage — to the lesser, secondary meaning of refusenik, the one that most misanthropes don’t care to talk about unless they must.

I’m compelled to grovel at the feet of the town of Yonkers and do this ignoble dastardly thing — if I want to sell my late mother’s house, and pocket a goodly sum that will permit me to resume my misanthropic ways, elsewhere, in perpetuity.

So, don’t cry for me, America: today, I may seem to have turned into a subservient, pathetic garbola refusenik, but tomorrow the world will again belong to me!


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