Long Lost Mummy of Nefertiti Found in Smoog's Apartment
01.03.2007
I'm sure you've all seen news stories about some poor shmuck who was found dead in his home after a 7-ft stack of old newspapers tipped and fell on top of him. Once the stench alerted the neighbours, authorities would break in to the premises, only to discover that every square inch of the place was piled and stacked and buried under decades' worth of magazines, broken radios, junk mail, dolls, dead pets, tupperware, signposts, spaghetti strainers, nail clippers, placemats, billing statements, t-shirts, and motorcycle engines. Those poor sad souls stricken with this particular compulsion are overcome with paralysing fear at the thought of making a wrong decision, of discarding something that could one day turn out to be invaluable, of letting go.
I wish I could say I had that problem.
If I had that particular problem and, say, a health inspector were to drop by suddenly for a visit, I might actually be able to garner at least superficial sympathy for the presence of a broken chair, 2 large (and one exploded) televisions (one with a built-in tape-munching VCR), one mini stereo system still flashing the day the music died, about 250 cassette tapes of music that make me ever thankful the music finally did die, one bundle buggy that buggied its last bundle when it imploded while attempting to transport a month's worth of groceries down a flight of stairs, 2 keyboards encrusted with an archeologically interesting but otherwise disgusting mixture of melted cheese, cigarette ash, graham crumbs, and snicker doodles, one cracked monitor, a potentially still living but otherwise abandoned CPU, one seizure-ridden HP inkjet printer, 2 sets of bamboo blinds (rolled), 6 metres of high-end upholstery fabric (unrolled), 2 floor fans (one assembled but unfanning, one fanning but broken in 3 pieces), 4 variously disassembled digital headsets (like they could ever survive on my head), one set of computer speakers capable only of emitting an eardrum-splitting white noise, 2 arson-inducing toasters, one George Foreman Grill that lost its get-up-and-George, 3 handle-less pots, one catless cat condo, and 2 empty CD trees, both with an ominous lean.
No, I've not formed a perverted but abiding attachment to all things metallic. I'm not trying to MacGyver my way towards an atomic bomb using only a toner cartridge, 2 cathode ray tubes, and rubbing alcohol. I'm not some overgrown raccoon who is spellbound by the sight of crinkled tinfoil. I am, in fact, the result of environmental consciousness gone horribly, horribly awry.
Well, that and laziness.
I blame my parents. Both war babies, they instilled in me an ever-present guilt over discarding anything that could someday be recycled into a 3-course meal, country cottage, anti-tank missile, or air raid bunker. They managed to compound said guilt with nagging fear by becoming "people of the land", staunch environmentalists before environmentalism was even a word. I can't throw these ticking time bombs away - they contain unnameable icky things that will poison the neighbour's dog and make the Johnsons have babies with 5 heads. I must protect the community! I must preserve our resources! I must avoid climbing a flight of stairs while lugging a 40-pound metal box!
All right, yeah, sure, my parents are possibly not to blame for that last bit, but if you give me a minute to think something up, they will be.
This is why my home is ever more densely populated with the empty husks of crappy modern manufacturing. They will slowly eat away at my liveable living space to eventually trap me in the corner of my washroom. When the police finally break down my door, I will be found naked in the bathtub, wrapped in a shower curtain and subsisting on toothpaste, organic maxi pads and toilet water.
What it really comes down to is this - I am, contrary to popular belief, an eternal optimist. I'm still hoping for the day the machines all get together, self-assemble into a trash compactor, and dispose of themselves.
What? It could happen.
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