So there I was this afternoon, digging around in a completely-dwindled pile of plastic grocery bags back in the kitchen closet. The pile amounted to two bags, so maybe it was not a pile any longer.
I was fixing to scoop the poop from our exceedingly fecund cats’ necessary box, as clearly instructed to by my lovely wife via the damned telephone. I must learn to be quicker in ending my calls.
The first bag, naturally, had a hole in it, so I placed it in the trash.
The second bag was… Well, it was too good for the use its’ predecessors had been chosen for. I think I’ll stick it in a drawer someplace and haul it out to show my niece and nephew when they hit late puberty and are seeking proof that they really do have it harder than anyone else ever did.
“Yep,” I’ll mumble through gummy chops, spittle coursing through my stubble. “See this bag?”