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| Rubbish James Garbagetruck is my best friend. Well, in way. As far as rats go, he's definitely my best bud. Technically, the-guy-who's-arm-on-which-Rubbish-is-often-(always)-attached is my best friend, but he's always crouching and hiding behind things and throwing his voice. I've adjusted my feelings and emotions appropriately, even though my therapist might not think so. |
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| There he is. Jeffrey Cramberts, but we call him Meff. Sometimes Left. My dad called him Smiley. He wears that helmet to avoid bumping his head on the cabinets, from when he stands up. Legend has it that he "made" Rubbish out of fun-fur, felt, and an old sock, but I don't believe it for a second. Rubbish was born to a sweet old rat-mom like every other red-blooded American rodent. Meffrey might tell big fat ones, but he is one hell of a Triangle Player, which is actually one of the prerequisites if you're applying for my Official Friendship. |
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| But back to the guts of this post: Every year Rubbish goes over Santa's head (under it actually), and sends me what he refers to as: THE MOST IMPORTANT PIECE OF MAIL I'LL RECEIVE ALL YEAR. |
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| His Christmas List. Although I'm 100% down with his last request (and his fifth request), not to mention his first request, as well as his sixth request (Rubbish uses (and desperately needs) odor eaters as his mattress (because he STINKS - in smell and at Parcheesi)), he's out of his mind if he thinks I'm gonna get him a "classic" red handkerchief. The last red handkerchief I gave him, he used as a picnic blanket and didn't even invite me to the picnic. As for the Travelers Checks, we'll see. And slippers? I already scored vintage German Bunny slippers, who are female and have top notch personalities. I'm hoping to set them up with my sneakers. |
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| Here are the Bunny Slippers, so you know I'm not fronting. Amazing, right? I might have to give these gals some false eyelashes before I introduce them to my Sneakers (for a couple of BUMS they have insanely high standards), but I think they're very attractive as they are. |
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| And for those just tuning in, my Sneakers are big, old, cranky, anthropomorphic, rapping Chuck Taylor knock-offs. A couple of grade-A doo-doo steppin' SLOBS. I should have thrown them over a telephone wire a long time ago, but they're still locked into their record deal (with me) and I'm not letting them out of it until I get the last 16 albums on their contract. True, they haven't written a song (or rapped) for what seems like 12 years, but I know the Creativity Sprite is gonna come around and inspire them to drop the next knowledge we've all been waiting on. Everyone who like GOOD RAP knows that there has been no real rhymes written since Nice & Smooth dropped their last brainteaser. |
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| The real question is, what's Rubbish gonna get me? Last year he got me "vintage" oatmeal with dead, dried up maggots in it, the year before he got me the cigar that he's smoking in this picture, and the year before that he got me a sweaty handful of YELLOW SKITTLES, which I let him eat, because he knows I'm not really down with yellow-flavor when it comes to candy. The year before that he gave me his business card, and the year before that he gave me an empty Poland Spring bottle. |
