what, you don't?

when i was a wee little cubefarmprole-to-be boy, in my little sea-faring town, homer and marge would take me and bart out for seafood every now and then. a fate worse than death, that smell, the eyes, i hated, HATED it. but we all got lobsters, as they about gave those things away growing up. nice of the parents, but i haven't looked at a lobster since the eyes stared back at me that one time when i was in the eighth grade, so help me. my brother took it off my plate, when he was done with his, plucked the eyes off and went to town on the thing. i'm too busy naming the thing in my mind, wondering if he gave it up peacefully or with a struggle all the while butter is dripping down my parents' and brother's faces.

one of the staples of sea-faring town restaurants are refrigerated dumpster-like buildings. they're bigger than your typical r.v., and they hold the garbage. as marge explained to me, you cannot well just throw out seafood trash, it would draw vermin for miles and stink the town up, so they enclose and refrigerate it. (i think it's even a law back home, but don't quote me.) pure brilliance, i thought. and i never forgot that.

mancat came over a few days ago, went to get something out of my fridge, and started chipping away. 'still refrigerating garbage, i see.' 'clearly. what do YOU do with your garbage. duh.' [throwing an indignant look and rolling my eyes.] 'i throw it out.' 'well i don't have vermin.' 'neither do i.' 'yeah, not sure why. i'm telling you. it's the only way to go. airtight, and when i get enough, i take it out. i'm not going to waste a bag on a wrapper.' 'oh and where do you put the food in your fridge?' 'my food and my food trash co-exist peacefully.' 'you're insane.' 'insane without bugs.'