The other day at work, I was taking out the garbage—because, let’s face it, I’m not above it. Though, if you never took the garbage out, you’d eventually find yourself beneath it. Anyway, since I’m not Bruce Lee, Bruce Wayne, or even Bruce Almighty, I decided to use one of those sliding doors in the back to throw it out. Unfortunately, there was already a hefty pile of, well, Hefty trash bags back there. And since I’m not aspiring to be an Olympic discus thrower, I had to move some of it out of the way first.
After completing that task, I managed to hit the back of my head on the dumpster. Just swell—I thought—not only am I at risk for a concussion, but now rabies might be on the table too. My work’s dumpster is like a five-star restaurant for raccoons. I know this because I moonlight as a maître d’ there on weekends. Once, a nice family of opossums even wanted a table for dinner.
Now, I know some people would disagree, but I kind of like opossums. Not only are they immune to rabies (unlike raccoons), but they also have opposable thumbs. When I asked that family of opossums if they enjoyed their meal at my work’s dumpster, they gave me a thumbs up. That’s more than I’ve ever gotten from my work—they didn’t even offer me a bandage for my now-swollen head.
Another great thing about opossums is that when they feel threatened, they play dead. I should’ve played opossum after hitting my head. Maybe then I could’ve gotten a settlement and wouldn’t have to moonlight as a maître d’ at a dumpster. Most of the customers that come here are grouches—Oscar the Grouch, to be precise. But they find themselves in good company because I can be somewhat like the great Groucho Marx.