Garbage Disposal Quotes

Gosh, it was nice talking to you, but I’ve got a lot of things I’d rather be doing. Like sticking my hand in the garbage disposal.

she committed suicide by putting her extremities down the garbage disposal-first one arm and then, kind of miraculously if you think about it, the other arm.

Samuel thought how his father married to his mother was like a spoon married to a garbage disposal.

My memory, sir, is like a garbage disposal.

There is a Senate and a Congress who carry on endless sessions discussing garbage disposal and outhouse inspection, the only two questions over which they have jurisdiction.

There ARE people who won't customarily eat an entire row of cookies, or hear food calling their name from other rooms, or who don't grind up food in the garbage disposal for fear of eating it, or get it back out of the garbage so they could eat it. Of course, my binge eating was just a cover-up for the larger issue: Trying to fill the emptiness

When have I ever given him the impression that I was okay with him just stopping by whenever he wanted to use my body as an organic garbage disposal?

You create more space in your life when you turn your excess baggage to garbage.

The number of hours women devote to housework has not changed since 1930, despite all the advances. All the vacuum cleaners, washer-dryers, trash compactors, garbage disposals, wash-and-wear fabrics … Why does it still take as long to clean the house as it did in 1930?

Lake Powell: storage pond, silt trap, evaporation tank and garbage dispose-all, a 180-mile-long incipient sewage lagoon.

Sometimes I feel like I'm playing at being an adult, like I'm constantly looking around, waiting for a real adult to tell me what to do if my garbage disposal starts making a weird sound or if I should be putting more money in my Roth IRA. I am just...I feel like a complete mess.

After all,how long could it take to fix a garbage disposal? He could have built her a freaking new one by now. With his teeth.

Don't insert your hand inside a wolf's mouth - or a lion's, bear's, alligator's or crocodile's mouth, or in a lawn mower, garbage disposal, snowblower or blender - because, if you do, you're not going to have that hand for much longer! Don't believe me? Ask my good friend Captain Hook how he got his name! - Tyr

Don't "pole-vault over mouse truds" - by the time you've discussed the many options available to you, the problem itself could have been long behind you had you simply disposed of those rodent droppings with a simple tissue and dumped them into the garbage!

when he gets back to the house, every damn snack in the cupboards and the fridge is going into the trash. Then he thinks, Make it the garbage disposal. Too easy to weaken and fish stuff out of the trash.

A mental disease has swept the planet: banalization. Everyone is hypnotized by production and comfort -- sewage system, elevator, bathroom, washing machine. This state of affairs, which arose out of a struggle against poverty, overshoots its ultimate goal -- the liberation of humanity from material cares -- and becomes an obsessive image hanging over the present. Between love and a garbage disposal, young people of all countries have made their choice and prefer the garbage disposal. A complete and sudden change of spirit has become essential, by bringing to light forgotten desires and creating entirely new ones. And by an intensive propaganda in favor of these desires. Gilles Ivain (aka Ivan Chtcheglov)

All were dissected or decapitated or sexually assaulted after death. He cut leg meat from two of his victims into a macaroni casserole he prepared and ate. Kemper bludgeoned his mother with a hammer as she slept. He sawed off her head, had sex with her corpse, and carved out her larynx and shoved it down the garbage disposal.

I once went on a date with a guy who chewed with his mouth open. It was like sitting across from a garbage disposal.

She runs the entire meal down the garbage disposal and goes hungry, a hunger more wonderful than any meal.

If I weren't so tired, I'd shove trust and issue down the garbage disposal and let it run all day.

A mental disease has swept the planet: banalization. Everyone is hypnotized by production and conveniences — sewage systems, elevators, bathrooms, washing machines. This state of affairs, arising out of a struggle against poverty, has overshot its ultimate goal — the liberation of humanity from material cares — and become an omnipresent obsessive image. Presented with the alternative of love or a garbage disposal unit, young people of all countries have chosen the garbage disposal unit.

We're growing boys," Jeremy said, putting his arm around her shoulders. "You're all garbage disposals, I swear," she said, chuckling and patting his stomach. Though, really, you couldn't have this many guys living under one roof and not go through the chow. "You're one of the worst and yet you're so lean. It's really not fair." Hugging her in against his side, Jeremy winked. "It takes a lot of calories to be this awesome, Becca." Nick gave Jeremy a playful shove as everyone chuckled. 'Or to be such a big pain in the ass.

Depression is like … when you don’t have any scissors to cut that thick plastic safety tie off the new scissors that you just bought because you couldn’t find your scissors. And then you just say, “Fuck it,” and try everything else in the world to get the scissors to open, but all you have are plastic butter knives and they aren’t doing anything, so you stand in the kitchen holding scissors that you can’t use because you can’t find scissors and then you get frustrated and throw the scissors in the garbage disposal and sleep on the couch for a week. And that’s what depression is like.

What advances?” Malcolm said irritably. “The number of hours women devote to housework has not changed since 1930, despite all the advances. All the vacuum cleaners, washer-dryers, trash compactors, garbage disposals, wash-and-wear fabrics … Why does it still take as long to clean the house as it did in 1930?

Nonetheless, death images came to him: dead frog plastered to the turnpike like a grisly stamp; Daddy’s broken watch lying on top of a box of junk to be thrown out; gravestones with a dead person under every one; dead jay by the telephone pole; the cold junk Mommy scraped off the plates and down the dark maw of the garbage disposal.

my phone starts to buzz on the counter, shaking like an epileptic in a fit.I pick it up,glance at the number and then move over to the sink. “Turner?” Blair guesses,and I nod as I turn on the water and drop the phone into the drain on the left – the one with the garbage disposal. A second later, I flick the switch and a horrible grinding,screeching sound emanates from down below.

This was killing me to ask, and I knew I didn’t even want the answer. “How long?” “Dad, BT might be days away. I figure I’ve got a week or two at the tops.” And there it was, my heart was wrenching in my chest. It felt like my rib cage was crushing in on itself like I had a working garbage disposal in there. We were coming full circle to that time in my office the night he had been scratched going

Oh, the world appears to work smoothly enough, like a toy town where the only business is the constant shifting of goods and wastes. If that were all, how easy to live - buy your food, put out the garbage. But the toys and models and dolls and the world's looks are treacherous. They teach children it will be easy. The real problem of consumption and disposal are nothing like what children are led to suspect.

If I care about the people I work with, why tempt them to make a lousy choice? So I dumped the entire bucket of sweets into a garbage can in my office. Many foods are better off in the trash than in your stomach. The next time you receive unhealthy food as a gift, subtly dispose of it later. When you get a free dessert or candy with a meal, leave it behind. If the item is clearly bad for your health, don’t feel guilty. You are not wasting food. You may be saving lives.

He had a gray face. As his sullen eyes, sunken into the shallow holes formed from years of suffering stared at me, from behind the dark lenses, I could feel myself being penetrated. Not in my pussy - though it was wet, stirred by the violent tension - I was being penetrated by his gaze. The gray faced one was fucking me with his mind, and the feeling of abject violation was grotesque. Despite my arousal, I could not deal with the unwanted intrusion on my personhood. I smiled, and gently led him by hand into the kitchen. The wallpaper was floral, in varying shades of orange and light brown. I gently guided one of his hands, to the moist slit between my legs, and I could feel his glee as it slid inside. And at that moment, I hit the switch. His other hand was completely shredded to bits of bone and flesh by the garbage disposal, spurting blood like a broken pipeline, an unstoppable wave of red. He died with 2 fingers inside me.

Dear patient (first name, last name)! You are presently located in our experimental state hospital. The measures taken to save your life were drastic, extremely drastic (circle one). Our finest surgeons, availing themselves of the very latest achievements of modern medicine, performed one, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight, nine, ten operations (circle one) on you. They were forced, acting wholly in your interest to replace certain parts of your organism with parts obtained from other persons, in strict accordance with Federal Law (Rev. Stat. Comm. 1-989/0-001/89/1). The notice you are now reading was thoughtfully prepared in order to help you make the best possible adjustment to these new if somewhat unexpected circumstances in your life, which, we hasten to remind you, we have saved. Although it was found necessary to remove your arms, legs, spine, skill, lungs, stomach, kidneys, liver, other (circle one or more), rest assured that these mortal remains were disposed of in a manner fully in keeping with the dictates of your religion; they were, with the proper ritual, interred, embalmed, mummified, buried at sea, cremated with the ashes scattered in the wind—preserved in an urn—thrown in the garbage (circle one). The new form in which you will henceforth lead a happy and healthy existence may possibly occasion you some surprise, but we promise that in time you will become, as indeed all our dear patients do, quite accustomed to it We have supplemented your organism with the very best, the best, perfectly functional, adequate, the only available (circle one) organs at our disposal, and they are fully guaranteed to last a year, six months, three months, three weeks, six days (circle one).

Hence that state of mind at once gloomy and euphoric which one associates with carrying out the rubbish; and the way we see the men who go by emptying the bins into their pulping truck not just as emissaries for the chthonic world, gravediggers of the inanimate, Charons of a beyond of greasy paper and rusty tin, but as angels too, as indispensable mediators between ourselves and the heaven of ideas in which we undeservedly soar (or imagine we soar) and which can exist only in so far as we are not overwhelmed by the waste which every act of living incessantly produces (even the act of thinking: these thoughts of mine that you are reading being all that been salvaged from the scores of sheets of paper now crumpled up in the bin), heralds of a possible salvation beyond the destruction inherent in all production and consumption, liberators from the weight of time’s detritus, ponderous dark angels of lightness and clarity.

The law isn’t supposed to be about unspoken excuses and behind-the-scenes calculations. The beauty of the system is that judges and juries are allowed to consider only what is seen and heard in open court. In between the white lines of this arena, it’s all supposed to make sense. This is where we all get to be equal again. In the defendant’s chair, rich and poor ride the same roller coaster, face the same music. Case has to match case. Sentence should match sentence. But they don’t match anymore. They probably never did, and probably it was never even close. But at least there was the illusion of it. What’s happened now, in this new era of settlements and non prosecutions is that the state has formally surrendered to its own excuses. It has decided just to punt from the start and take the money which doesn’t become really wrong until it turns around the next day and decides to double down on the less-defended, flooring it all the way to trial against a welfare mom or some joker who sold a brick of dope in the projects. Repeat the same process a few million times, and that’s how the jails in American get the population they have. Even if every single person they sent to jail were guilty, the system would still be an epic fail—it’s the jurisprudential version of Pravda, where the facts int he paper might have all been true on any given day, but the lie was all in what was not said. That’s what nobody gets, that the two approaches to justice may individually make a kind of sense. but side by side they’re a dystopia, here common city courts become factories for turning poor people into prisoners, while federal prosecutors on the white-collar beat turn into overpriced garbage men, who behind closed doors quietly dispose of the sins of the rich for a fee. And it’s evolved this way over time and for a thousand reasons, so that almost nobody is aware of the whole picture, the two worlds so separate that they’re barely visible to each other. The usual political descriptors like “unfairness” and “injustice” don’t really apply. it’s more like a breakdown into madness.

Prisons are racism incarnate. As Michelle Alexander points out, they constitute the new Jim Crow. But also much more, as the lynchpins of the prison-industrial complex, they represent the increasing profitability of punishment. They represent the increasingly global strategy of dealing with populations of people of color and immigrant populations from the countries of the Global South as surplus populations, as disposable populations. Put them all in a vast garbage bin, add some sophisticated electronic technology to control them, and let them languish there. And in the meantime, create the ideological illusion that the surrounding society is safer and more free because the dangerous Black people and Latinos, and the Native Americans, and the dangerous Asians and the dangerous White people, and of course the dangerous Muslims, are locked up! And in the meantime, corporations profit and poor communities suffer! Public education suffers! Public education suffers because it is not profitable according to corporate measures. Public health care suffers. If punishment can be profitable, then certainly health care should be profitable, too. This is absolutely outrageous! It is outrageous. It is also outrageous that the state of Israel uses the carceral technologies developed in relation to US prisons not only to control the more than eight thousand Palestinian political prisoners in Israel but also to control the broader Palestinian population. These carceral technologies, for example, the separation wall, which reminds us of the US-Mexico border wall, and other carceral technologies are the material constructs of Israeli apartheid. G4S, the organization, the corporation G4S, which profits from the incarceration and the torturing of Palestinian prisoners, has a subsidiary called G4S Secure Solutions, which was formerly known as Wackenhut. And just recently a subsidiary of that just have one more page of notes corporation, GEO Group, which is a private prison company, attempted to claim naming rights at Florida Atlantic University by donating something like $6 million, right? And, the students rose up. They said that our football stadium will not bear the name of a private prison corporation! And the students won. The students won; the name came down from the marquee.

Everything thrown away in Cairo, every soiled rag, old newspaper, or hunk of stale bread, began an unseen journey from the moment it was thrown in the trash. The Zabbaleen were a community made up mainly of Coptic Christians who eked out a meager existence collecting and disposing of the city’s waste. They generally performed this service for free, making a living through recycling. Invisible to mostCairenes, they lived on vast garbage dumps on the city fringe. Researching a story, Alex visited one of their settlements.

The number of hours women devote to housework has not changed since 1930, despite all the advances. All the vacuum cleaners, washer-dryers, trash compactors, garbage disposals, wash-and-wear fabrics . . . Why does it still take as long to clean the house as it did in 1930?

rover, or garbage disposal is. Analogies and metaphors that incorporate simple household and backyard items help illuminate content (for example, “Your brain's hippocampus works a bit like a surge protector to limit the risk of overload

Once the process of tidying is under way, many of my clients remark that they have lost weight or that they have firmed up their tummies. It’s a very strange phenomenon, but when we reduce what we own and essentially “detox” our house, it has a detox effect on our bodies as well. When we discard everything in one go, which sometimes means disposing of forty garbage bags of stuff in one day, our bodies may respond in a way that resembles a short fast. We may get a bout of diarrhea or break out in pimples. There is nothing wrong with this. Our bodies are just getting rid of toxins that have built up over the years, and they will be back to normal, or in fact in even better shape, within a day or two. One of my clients cleared out a closet and shed that she had neglected for ten years. Immediately after, she had a strong bout of diarrhea after which she felt much lighter. I know it sounds like false advertising to claim that you can lose weight by tidying or that it will make your skin clearer, but it is not necessarily untrue.

That’s so wonderful.” Then she stepped back and turned her attention to Duncan. “You’d better treat my baby sister like the treasure that she is.” “Aye. I plan to.” “And on that note,” Elizabeth said, “it’s time to put things to rights around here. Aidan and Roarke, if you wouldn’t mind loading Neil onto the elevator, I’ll ride down with you. I’d rather not haul him out through the lobby.” She pulled a cell phone out of a small evening bag. “I’ll arrange for members of our pack to meet us at ground level.” Roarke nodded. “We can do that. Come on, Aidan. Let’s dispose of this unwanted garbage.” He walked over to Neil, who had begun to stir. “He won’t be happy when he comes to, so we need him out of here before

David smiled tightly. In the last three days, he’d replaced missing bricks in the chimney, fixed a dripping bathroom faucet, installed a ceiling fan in the den, painted the garage, removed a stump from the backyard, took apart and cleaned and reassembled the lawn mower, put up Dora the Explorer wallpaper in Anna’s room, replaced a sputtering garbage disposal, changed the oil in the Escalade, and reread a dog-eared copy of Ice Station Zebra. So yeah. He’d stayed busy around the house. David rocked heel to toe. “Oh, you know. The usual.” “Right.” Jeff tossed back the rest of the beer. “Well, you know, it’ll pick up.

Then what’s the answer?” “Get rid of the thintelligent ones. Take them out of power.” “But then we’d lose all the advances—” “What advances?” Malcolm said irritably. “The number of hours women devote to housework has not changed since 1930, despite all the advances. All the vacuum cleaners, washer-dryers, trash compactors, garbage disposals, wash-and-wear fabrics … Why does it still take as long to clean the house as it did in 1930?” Ellie said nothing.

The number of hours women devote to housework has not changed since 1930, despite all the advances. All the vacuum cleaners, washer-dryers, trash compactors, garbage disposals, wash-and-wear fabrics… Why does it still take as long to clean the house as it did in 1930?

The light indicating the bathroom is occupied clicks off and the fabulous Gigi Fandone saunters back to stage side. A heavy smell follows her. It's a smell much like the trenches in the zoo, but worse. It's a smell much like Detroit's septic system, but worse. It's a smell much like a diaper disposal truck, but worse.

My brain is constantly generating garbage, not to be picked up on Monday and Thursday mornings, but to be disposed of the moment it is produced.

If you think you're garbage, don't throw yourself on the public place.

She’s normally a garbage disposal because she went so many years without getting anything she should. It’s a miracle she’s okay as a supe given how undernourished she was.

Pat, you remember I told you about it. I must have gotten too drunk and passed out. I don’t know what happened, but I must have killed him, because when I woke up the next morning, there was blood dripping from his mouth, and his ribs and chest were sunken and looked crushed. There was blood, and marks all over his chest, and my forearms were sore, swollen, and bruised. I already told you how I went back to the mall and bought the suitcase to get him back to Grandma’s. I stored him in the fruit cellar until my family left and Grandma was out of the house. I knew the cool air of the fruit cellar would slow the decomposition of the body and keep it from rotting until I could get to it,” Dahmer remembered. “After this killing, I felt that my conscience was severed. I had tried so hard to forget about the first one back in Bath, but I couldn’t do it. What was the point? I remember feeling that my path was set. I made a conscious decision to give in to this overwhelming, ambiguous, and extreme compulsion. I laid him on the basement floor over the drain. “I severed the flesh from his body with a knife and placed it in plastic garbage bags. I remember being so excited that I masturbated several times while smashing up the bones and disposing of the body. His was the first head I kept. I boiled it in a solution of water and Soilex, then I used straight bleach on it, wrapped it in a blanket, and kept it in the fruit cellar. I remember that I returned to masturbate with it about a week later and noted that the bleach had broken down the bone structure, causing it to become very brittle, so I smashed it up with the sledgehammer and threw it in the trash.” Dahmer sat there and stared into space as if he were reliving his experience.

Dahmer then cut the flesh off. He started by stripping the flesh from the arms and biceps, then the chest, and worked his way down to the feet. He sliced all the strips of flesh into small pieces and placed them into approximately three bags. He was careful not to place too much in each bag, about twenty-five pounds worth each. In the beginning, he then wrapped the skeleton in a sheet and pounded it into small parts with a sledgehammer, placing the upper torso in one bag and the lower in another. However, after he hit upon the idea of dissolving his victims in the muriatic acid, he simply dropped the dismembered skeletal remains into the industrial drum he had purchased. There, the acid would do its work. This was his usual pattern. “I normally used five double-wrapped garbage bags to dispose of a single body.

It was November of 1987. I remember because it was nine years after the first one.” Dahmer hung his head as he continued. “It was the day before Thanksgiving. I met him at Club 219. I already told Pat about it. He was really nice looking and we both got drunk; I took him to the hotel and gave him the mixture of sleeping pills and rum, but I don’t remember anything after that. I swear. When I woke up, he was dead. There were bruises all over his face and chest. My arms were all sore, and black and blue. I must have beaten him to death in an alcoholic blackout or else I gave him too much of the sleeping potion, I don’t know. All I know is that he was dead. “The story about the suitcase is true. I put him in the fruit cellar in Grandma’s basement and waited for my family to leave after the holiday. It all came back to me quickly. Just like when I was a kid. I severed the flesh from the bones and inspected the inside viscera. It was sexually exciting and I masturbated several times while disposing of the body. I placed the severed flesh and bones into several double-wrapped plastic bags and dropped them into the trash barrels behind Grandma’s house. It was so easy. The garbage men came and took all the evidence away: nothing was ever said, no one ever knew. I had gotten away with murder for the second time.

Dahmer described his knife as a special one he had purchased at a cutlery shop in the downtown mall just for this purpose. He discovered through trial and error at Grandma’s that a good knife was mandatory for the job. It was a six-inch serrated blade with a black plastic contoured handle, and he kept it razor sharp. He placed the body in the bathtub, letting the blood flow down the drain as he severed the flesh from the corpse. He cut the flesh into small pieces and flushed them down the toilet. He told me that the skeletal remains were the most difficult to dispose of, so in preparation for his next kill, he purchased a large plastic garbage pail. “I cut the cartilage and tendons at the joint and pulled the bones apart, placing them in the container. Then I covered them with several gallons of muriatic acid. That’s what’s in those boxes you asked about,” Dahmer said. He explained that after a few days in the acid, the human remains became like a mush and he could easily flush it down the toilet. This eliminated placing the discarded body in the trash and lessened his chances of discovery. “I knew now that I was in it till the end, and this one was so sexually satisfying that I began to feel remorse that it was over so soon. It seemed a shame to get rid of the whole body, so I decided to keep his head.

In his interactions with the men he was training, Stillman didn’t bother to distinguish between the two. “Big or small, champ or bum, I treat ’em all the same—bad,” he once said, in what Budd Schulberg described as his “garbage disposal voice.” “If you treat them like humans, they’ll eat you alive.

The public-health officer is like the garbage disposal,” she said. “Whatever issue can’t be filed into someone else’s box or slot winds up in the health officer’s.

This is the kind of dumb shit I notice, that a bitch the circumference of my forearm took two bites out of a low-fat cheese enchilada and carelessly wasted the remaining 200 calories and three unused Weight Watchers points down the garbage disposal in the community kitchen.

If a child garbage collector dies, how many good articles will be written about him? If a worthless king or a worthless head of state dies, papers will not be enough to write good things about them!

Yogurt is good for you. And it’s just one spoon,” Sharpcot had replied, but this stack summoned a billion voices, all of them saying in a chorus, “Just one spoon.” From kids’ lunches and store shelves and desk drawers and airline meal packs, in every country of the world: Canada and the United States and Nicaragua and Uruguay and Argentina and Ireland and Burkina Faso and Russia and Papua New Guinea and New Zealand and very probably the Antarctic. Where wasn’t there disposable cutlery? Plastic spoons in endless demand, in endless supply, from factory floors where they are manufactured and packaged in boxes of 10 or 20 or 100 or 1000 or individually in clear wrap, boxed on skids and trucked to trains freighting them to port cities and onto giant container ships plying the seas to international ports to intercity transport trucks to retail delivery docks for grocery stores and retail chains, supplying restaurants and homes, consumers moving them from shelf to cart to bag to car to house, where they are stuck in the lunches of the children of polluting parents, or used once each at a birthday party to serve ice cream to four-year-olds where only some are used but who knows which? So used and unused go together in the trash, or every day one crammed into a hipster’s backpack to eat instant pudding at his software job in an open-concept walkup in a gentrified neighbourhood, or handed out from food trucks by the harbour, or set in a paper cup at a Costco table for customers to sample just one bite of this exotic new flavour, and so they go into trash bins and dumpsters and garbage trucks and finally vast landfill sites or maybe just tossed from the window of a moving car or thrown over the rail of a cruise ship to sink in the ocean deep.

Together, they placed Trigger in a case all its own, clearing out the gold records that hung there. (“Gold records are bullshit,” Pete said, throwing them behind them in a pile. They clattered as they fell—not the sound of metal against metal, but the sound of garbage against garbage. “Disposable. Not even real gold. Just some cheap shit vinyl they spray-paint.”)

Sometimes I feel like I’m playing at being an adult, like I’m constantly looking around, waiting for a real adult to tell me what to do if my garbage disposal starts making a weird sound or if I should be putting more money in my Roth IRA. I am just . . . I feel like a complete mess.

It sucks, because seeing all your belongings like that makes you feel disposable. Like garbage. Then you get to your new home, which isn’t really a home, but just some house you’ll eventually be taken from all over again, and everything you own smells like plastic garbage

Flush your Fitbit down the toilet (actually don’t—use the garbage disposal).

And if you want my opinion, he totally owes you a coffee. His stupid hair and clothes just sucked it right up. How rude.” His words and the smirk on his face make me smile in spite of myself. “Also, I like your word for it much better. From now on, garbage disposals will be known as angry sinks.

If your circle of friends is circling the drain, you need to get out of the sink and turn on the garbage disposal.

Arabs & Garbage" Strange is the Arab story with garbage! Who told them who taught them to toss garbage randomly wherever and however they please? When will the Arabs understand that placing garbage in its right place will solve half of their environmental and societal problems? And the other half of their problems will be solved, too, as soon as they stop tossing out their human gems forcing out their most talented and qualified human capital to serve foreigners in foreign lands? When will the Arabs stop getting rid of their best minds, replacing them with foreign garbage they glorify simply because the foreign individuals have white skin and blue eyes and claim to possess skills and expertise the Arabs can’t survive without… When will the Arabs understand that placing garbage in its right place -be it the garbage that govern their countries or the foreign garbage they import – will solve all their problems? [Original poem published in Arabic on February 20, 2024 at ahewar.org]

the crude disposal of my mother’s family belongings felt like another kick in the gut, like the things we valued were little more than garbage.

You only got involved with the Yak if you were balls-in-the-garbage-disposal desperate.

this can also be done with an Allen wrench used under the garbage disposal to turn the grinder. Reach in with a tool and not your hand to remove the penny. I found a long spoon and a knife make great garbage disposal tweezers. And don’t forget that most garbage disposals have a reset switch on the bottom. If you turn it on and hear a hum, it is stuck. If you turn it on and don’t hear a hum, look for the reset switch on the bottom and

What advances?” Malcolm said irritably. “The number of hours women devote to housework has not changed since 1930, despite all the advances. All the vacuum cleaners, washer-dryers, trash compactors, garbage disposals, wash-and-wear fabrics … Why does it still take as long to clean the house as it did in 1930?” Ellie said nothing. “Because there haven’t been any advances,” Malcolm said. “Not really. Thirty thousand years ago; when men were doing cave paintings at Lascaux, they worked twenty hours a week to provide themselves with food and shelter and clothing. The rest of the time, they could play, or sleep, or do whatever they wanted. And they lived in a natural world, with clean air, clean water, beautiful trees and sunsets. Think about it. Twenty hours a week. Thirty thousand years ago.

Imagine you have a kitchen sink in your brain. The faucet drips serotonin into the sink, where it sits, waiting to be used by your brain to help keep things steady—your mood, libido, energy, anxiety control, pain control, concentration, sleep and appetite, to name a few. The sink also has a garbage disposal that grinds up the serotonin and recycles some of the parts back up to the faucet to make more serotonin. Some of the key ingredients for making and regulating serotonin are Zinc, Inositol, Vitamin B6, Folate and a form of tryptophan called 5HTP. If you don’t have enough of these key ingredients, your serotonin production goes down, or your faucet drips much more slowly than your garbage disposal is grinding. That will cause a drop in your serotonin levels. I will talk later about ways to increase the rate of your serotonin production or “turn the faucet up higher” by getting more of the key ingredients to your brain. The other way to manipulate serotonin levels is by putting a stopper in your garbage disposal with a type of medication called an SSRI-selective serotonin reuptake inhibitor. No,

The waste disposal firm will send us the crap and filth from Minneapolis, Denver, and other big cities and will bless us with an Everest of garbage on five thousand acres of our most beautiful land situated near some of our most sacred places and not far from Wounded Knee.

The cause of the dispute was an apartment toilet that also served as a garbage disposal for an upstairs tenant. A trapdoor on the ceiling above the commode would occasionally open, and trash would suddenly descend chutelike.

Even a dog that was part garbage disposal could get poisoned by chocolate, macadamia nuts, grapes, onions, or garlic.

The children in those Roman Catholic Homes were treated as though they – we – were subhuman. We are Untermensch. We were like Jews and Gypsies in a Nazi Concentration Camp in Nazi Germany. As sub humans, we don’t matter, and like the Jews and Gypsies and other Untermensch in Nazi Concentration Camps, when we did the world a favour and died, our remains were nothing but excrement and garbage to be disposed of accordingly.

I am just an old garbage bag full of blood patiently waiting for death to rescue me, but sometimes when I tell people that, their immediate response is HOW CAN YOU BE SAD, YOU’RE HILARIOUS!!!!! and then for five seconds I’m like, “This person who has never met me before is correct. I’m so funny I should stop thinking life is a trash can.” But five seconds after that, some human roadkill yells at the grocery store bagger or pulls his scrotum out on the train, and I get the insatiable urge to peel my skin off like the layers of an onion and jam my thumbs into my eye sockets, just hoping that I’ll disappear down the garbage disposal of human existence straight into hell.

But then we’d lose all the advances—” “What advances?” Malcolm said irritably. “The number of hours women devote to housework has not changed since 1930, despite all the advances. All the vacuum cleaners, washer-dryers, trash compactors, garbage disposals, wash-and-wear fabrics … Why does it still take as long to clean the house as it did in 1930?

In brief snatches of conversation, I overlaid their names with Buddy, because they were as disposable as the used condoms I wrapped in toilet paper and threw in the wicker garbage basket beside my bed.

And wasn’t that what these girls were to him? Human garbage? Disposable pieces of flesh and bone? Just here for him to consume and then throw out when he’s finished.

HOUSEHOLD MAINTENANCE I’ve written the following list to help you with the maintenance tasks that will have the most impact on the longevity of your belongings. Every day Act fast to clean up spills on furniture or clothing. Update software as needed to avoid getting hacked. Every week Vacuum, dust, and clean the house and furniture. Condition regularly worn shoes. Clean clothes as necessary. Clean out the dishwasher filter. Every month Descale the coffee maker (see this page). Condition regularly used leather bags and shoes worn less often. Fix any garments in the mending pile. Every three months Oil wood cutting boards and spoons. Put frozen vinegar cubes in the garbage disposal. Check the smoke alarms. Check the water softener (if you have one). Every six months Deep clean the house. Turn and vacuum the mattress. Launder the pillows and duvet. Polish wood furniture. Deep clean the fridge. Clean the refrigerator coils. Put petroleum jelly on the fridge seals. Run the cleaning cycle of the dishwasher and washing machine. Inspect the gutters. Every year Take stock of the items in your life (see Chapter 8). Have any leather jackets professionally cleaned. Get the knives sharpened. Clean the filter in the kitchen hood fan. Check the grouting around the tiles in the kitchen and bathroom. Flush the hot-water system and have the boiler serviced. Inspect the roof and exterior of your home (best done in spring/summer). Fix any loose fixings or screws. Clean and consider repainting/resealing the exterior woodwork. Every two years Have a professional deep clean of your upholstery and carpets.

I get it. Who wants to contribute more to the buildup of the world's "trash mountains" than necessary?... The undeniable fact is that every object in your home already exists. The resources have already been pulled out of the earth and manufactured into something. If you can't recycle it, presumably it's never going to become usable raw materials again... It is already taking up space... namely inside your home. If you send it to the landfill, it will be taking up an equal amount of space in a location...designated for disposal and...to protect the public well-being. Let your regret about how much you have to throw away reinforce your determination not to buy so much in the future.

I’d managed to repair my garbage disposal and replace the tank assembly in my toilet by browsing the almighty Google and ignoring all my girly squeamishness at the ick factor of both.

SLASH What was your first sexual experience? BOBBY When I stuck my arm down a garbage disposal. PAT That wasn't a garbage disposal. BOBBY Who was it?

Home Cooking: The Comforts of Old Family Favorites." Easy. Baked macaroni and cheese with crunchy bread crumbs on top; simple mashed potatoes with no garlic and lots of cream and butter; meatloaf with sage and a sweet tomato sauce topping. Not that I experienced these things in my house growing up, but these are the foods everyone thinks of as old family favorites, only improved. If nothing else, my job is to create a dreamlike state for readers in which they feel that everything will be all right if only they find just the right recipe to bring their kids back to the table, seduce their husbands into loving them again, making their friends and neighbors envious. I'm tapping my keyboard, thinking, what else?, when it hits me like a soft thud in the chest. I want to write about my family's favorites, the strange foods that comforted us in tense moments around the dinner table. Mom's Midwestern "hot dish": layers of browned hamburger, canned vegetable soup, canned sliced potatoes, topped with canned cream of mushroom soup. I haven't tasted it in years. Her lime Jell-O salad with cottage cheese, walnuts, and canned pineapple, her potato salad with French dressing instead of mayo. I have a craving, too, for Dad's grilling marinade. "Shecret Shauce" he called it in those rare moments of levity when he'd perform the one culinary task he was willing to do. I'd lean shyly against the counter and watch as he poured ingredients into a rectangular cake pan. Vegetable oil, soy sauce, garlic powder, salt and pepper, and then he'd finish it off with the secret ingredient: a can of fruit cocktail. Somehow the sweetness of the syrup was perfect against the salty soy and the biting garlic. Everything he cooked on the grill, save hamburgers and hot dogs, first bathed in this marinade overnight in the refrigerator. Rump roasts, pork chops, chicken legs all seemed more exotic this way, and dinner guests raved at Dad's genius on the grill. They were never the wiser to the secret of his sauce because the fruit bits had been safely washed into the garbage disposal.

issue. Glass has four times the environmental footprint of plastic.8 So swapping out a single disposable plastic drink bottle for a disposable glass drink bottle will only serve to increase your environmental impact. Glass recycling still faces many hurdles and is not as simple as the ‘infinitely recyclable’ tag line it comes with.  Glass breaks easily in garbage trucks and is frequently dumped in landfill because broken glass is not sorted for recycling.

A mental disease has swept the planet: banalization the state of affairs, arising out of a struggle against poverty, has overshot its ultimate goal--the liberation of man from material cares--and has become an obsessive image hanging over the present. Offered the choice of love or a garbage disposal, young people of all countries have chosen the garbage disposal.

Another issue I often see with Bees (and Crickets for that matter) is the fear of disposing of items incorrectly. Again, this comes from perfectionism. I have had more clients than I can count obsess over the best place to recycle old electronics or torn and soiled used clothing. Everything from empty boxes to fabric scraps can be a huge stumbling block when they focus on the “right” and “perfect” way to dispose of something. Sometimes, the garbage really is the best option. It’s sad and wasteful, but holding onto garbage because you are afraid to put it in a landfill isn’t a long-term option.

Humanity has eyes that are sharp enough to see the poor who collect garbage from the dumps, but humanity does not have enough heart to help them!

He said that every day without a fail when he commuted on the packed buses he saw city garbage trucks leaving on their rounds several at a time. Shin-ae understands what her husband is saying. She wonders how many souls a day are loaded into those garbage trucks and then disposed of. (Cho 2006: 16)

I feel like my heart’s been through the garbage disposal while still attached to my body, and I’m looking down at this mangled thing that’s barely beating where the love of my life used to live, and all I can think about is calling him because he loves me but I can’t call him because everything is so fucked up. I am fucked up. I love him in a way that’s unravelled me, it’s undone me at the seams of myself, and everything that’s pouring out of me is ugly and awful, maybe because I let out all my good for him?

I had my lunch with Marlon in a modest room in the hospital where we were filming on Fourteenth Street. He was sitting on one hospital bed, I was sitting on the other. He was asking me questions: Where am I from? How long have I been an actor? And he was eating chicken cacciatore with his hands. His hands were full of red sauce. So was his face. And that’s all I could think about the whole time. Whatever his words were, my conscious mind was fixated by the stain-covered sight in front of me. He was talking—gobble, gobble, gobble, gobble—and I was just mesmerized. What was he going to do with the chicken? I hoped he wasn’t going to tell me to throw it in the garbage for him. He disposed of it somehow without getting up. He looked at me in a quizzical way, as if to ask, what are you thinking about? I was wondering, what is he going to do with his hands? Should I get him a napkin? Before I could, he spread both his hands across the white hospital bed and smeared the sheets with red sauce, without even thinking about it, and he kept on talking. And I thought, Is that how movie stars act? You can do anything.