The Recyclist

[dropcap]R[/dropcap]ecycle everything. Because if you don’t, God will kill you. And if by chance God is busy, and can’t kill you, He’ll deputize your wife to do it.

She’s probably already been sworn in.

However, if you’re married, you probably already recycle. If you aren’t sure whether you’re married, try this: go into your laundry room for a peek. See it? An overflowing plastic tub of beer cans, Land’s End catalogs, and ketchup bottles.

You, my friend, have a wife.

Look, I know recycling is good for the environment. But to be quite honest, it feels unnatural to save all that trash. It’s an affront to the way I was raised.

I didn’t grow up recycling. I’d never even heard the term until my buddy’s daddy used it. We’d drink Coca-Cola all day until our kidneys pickled.

His daddy would make a joke. “We recycle Coke in this household, boys. It ain’t cheap. Use the bathroom down the hall.”

I never drank Coke at my buddy’s again.

My mother, however, did recycle one thing. Hand-me-down clothes. Once per year, I inherited a garbage bag full of foul-smelling vestments from my older cousin Ernie. After a good washing, they still smelled bad. I’m convinced Ernie rode bareback in the goat rodeo wearing those blue jeans.

Eventually, when Ernie’s (my) old clothes were about to disintegrate from several decades of use, I passed them on to my sister. Boy’s clothes. Sometimes, people at church would plug their noses and tell Mother how cute her two fetid-smelling boys looked.

Mother would smile and say, “Thanks, we recycle.”

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