Okay, imagine this. I’m outside on a warm fall evening. It’s dark outside. So dark because there are no stars from the pollutants in the air. I’ve just eaten eggs for dinner (for breakfast I had a Lean Cuisine) and now I’m spending my moment in life outside, with a dog on a leash, circling around him getting ready for him to shit. Without fail, he does shit. I reach into my pocket and pull out a plastic bag. I look at the bag and know that if this was a Disney film it would be screaming for me not to do what I did. What I did was sick. I picked up dog shit with a bag then threw it away like it meant nothing to me. I am a cruel human being.
I would hate to be a bag. That’s got to be an awful life. I guess that’s why God made bags non-living items. He didn’t give them eyes, or ears, or butts, or hearts. That’s what you need to be considered living by my standards. Fuck you trees. You’re always wasting your time GROUNDING MY ROOTS!!! into the ground to help you remain stable. You eyeless, earless, buttless non-beings. Trees do have hearts though and I’ll give them that much. They only ever fall on bad guys which is like the ultimate sacrifice a tree can give. They’re like marines, only taller.
(A true American Hero, Colonel Sweet Chestnut whose real life mission was the basis behind the film “Saving Private Pine”)
After I tossed away that bag full of shit (it wasn’t actually full of shit, there was plenty more room for more shit and possibly more items like batteries or carrots) I wondered where that bag had come from. Well, I know it was Target, but I mean before that. It must have come from a factory. That’s where all items come, except babies. I learned that this morning. I have never seen one of these bag factories, but until now, I have never really opened my eyes in search of one.
Chances are, I’ve met someone who knows someone who has a brother who knows someone who had sex with someone who works at a bag factory. That same person also saw an alligator in a New York sewer, got high on LSD and microwaved a baby, and was the physician who got the gerbil out of Richard Gere’s butt. I’m not going to sit here and make fun of people who work in the less than lucrative position known as “bag maker.” I’m not that high on my horse to be able to judge what other people do to feed their children/addictions. I would like to instead send out an apology.
(Mr. Ed, a horse who used all of his Hollywood fortune on drugs to get high. That’s where the term “high horse” comes from according to my thought process)
To those of you who are reading this that work in bag factories or know someone who does, please accept my apology for treating your hard work so poorly. You slaved away in that hot oval-shaped room for hours trying to perfect a plastic bag for my use. All I did with that bag was put a gallon of milk in it for a few minutes, then toss the bag onto the ground, and when it was finally selected by my hand it was used to pick up dog shit with. Your hard work ended up with a piece of dog poop at its center and ultimately placed in a dumpster with a couch poking out of it. It’s not fair that your hard work was treated this way. It would be no different from if Van Gogh finished “Starry Night” and I proceeded to urinate on it. Making plastic bags is your art and I’ve stripped you of that.
I don’t know what the exact process of plastic bag making is. I can only assume that it precisely takes precise precision. You need a steady hand and a strong heart to take on this job. It’s a job that I could never do. Not because I feel I’m above small menial tasks, but because I lack the courage that one must have in order to properly design these bags. The bags need to be strong, smooth, and even. It needs to be able to support heavy items. They need to be airtight to teach children a lesson in oxygen and where you cannot get it from.
Plastic bags have gotten a lot of notoriety from such films as “American Beauty” and several starring Robert DeNiro where he suffocates a traitor with one. But remember, plastic bags are not living creatures. The brave men (women are entirely too clumsy to build a bag properly) who are the Gods of these bags need the credit that is long overdue.
(A stock photo of a clumsy waitress spilling Justin Bieber’s brother’s lunch)
The next time you waste a plastic bag on something stupid like carrying your lunch or if you’re poor, carrying your books to school, take time to salute the factory where the bag came from. You can always find out exactly where if you put the bag over your head and look long enough at the inside. Trust me on this.
(Ricky Fitz is not mysterious or sexy. He’s a creep)