I am doing another travel weekend, so in place of an original blog on Monday, here's a reprise of an old one. It's spring and the fishermen are out on the Mayo Bridge, so it still holds.
If I were a Playboy bunny...
Yeah, as if that's ever going to happen. But we all have fantasies, right? So. If I were a Playboy bunny, the first "turnoff" I would list would be: slobs.
Little offends me more than a jerk who tosses trash carelessly, expecting others to clean up after him. Or her. Go ahead, napalm my nationality, goad me about my girth or malign my mother ... nothing will make me go ballistic quite like a fast-food wrapper in the street.
Unfortunately, I never get the chance to confront the slobs around me. I see only the evidence of their arrogant carelessness: beer cans littering the deck of our apartment's pool, dog poop and chicken bones to dodge when I take my walk, clumps of fishing line that entangle my feet on the Mayo Bridge.
Those last are the most infuriating, because I'm not the only one entangled. At least I have hands and opposable thumbs. Birds, turtles and other wildlife don't; twice I have seen some poor Canada goose hobbled by the fishermen's trash, slowly starving.
The transgression transcends nationality, too. Islanders, who should most understand the fragility of their environment, continue to litter their own beaches with plastic that kills.
Among my habits both here and in the islands is cutting up plastic yokes for cans or bottles so that they won't entrap wildlife if they escape proper disposal methods. Most of my visitors get it, but I have had the occasional doofus who looks at me as if I'm crazy and says, "Aaah, that won't make a difference. You're nuts."
No, it's not me. It's you, slob. Shape up or get off my planet, please.
If I were a Playboy bunny...
Yeah, as if that's ever going to happen. But we all have fantasies, right? So. If I were a Playboy bunny, the first "turnoff" I would list would be: slobs.
Little offends me more than a jerk who tosses trash carelessly, expecting others to clean up after him. Or her. Go ahead, napalm my nationality, goad me about my girth or malign my mother ... nothing will make me go ballistic quite like a fast-food wrapper in the street.
Unfortunately, I never get the chance to confront the slobs around me. I see only the evidence of their arrogant carelessness: beer cans littering the deck of our apartment's pool, dog poop and chicken bones to dodge when I take my walk, clumps of fishing line that entangle my feet on the Mayo Bridge.
Those last are the most infuriating, because I'm not the only one entangled. At least I have hands and opposable thumbs. Birds, turtles and other wildlife don't; twice I have seen some poor Canada goose hobbled by the fishermen's trash, slowly starving.
The transgression transcends nationality, too. Islanders, who should most understand the fragility of their environment, continue to litter their own beaches with plastic that kills.
Among my habits both here and in the islands is cutting up plastic yokes for cans or bottles so that they won't entrap wildlife if they escape proper disposal methods. Most of my visitors get it, but I have had the occasional doofus who looks at me as if I'm crazy and says, "Aaah, that won't make a difference. You're nuts."
No, it's not me. It's you, slob. Shape up or get off my planet, please.
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