There was this one time a few years back that I had to go to the dump to dispose of some various large material. Our dump is more of a transfer station with a big warehouse where everything is disposed of, compacted by giant bulldozers and then loaded onto other trucks to take to a nearby landfill in a separate county.

This particular visit it had been rainy for a few days, and I guess I must’ve gotten there right after the transfer trucks picked up all the refuse. Except for the floor, it was covered in a slippery stink-filled film. I carefully threw my truckload in, making sure that I didn’t fall, though I did slip a bit. It took some time to do so, so I came up with this little ditty. “Trash juice, trash juice, oh bring back my trash juice to me, to me!”

I did my work, shuffled my shoes and got into the car. Next stop was the grocery store. I’m fumbling around in the cheese aisle, and I guess I was still singing my song at a quiet mumble. Well, this old blue haired lady must’ve heard me. She turned around and recoiled “what are you singing!” In that way where it seemed like her whole life was built around cleanliness and my recitation was an affront to everything that she stood for.

Well, I got a good laugh out of that reaction, still do. Moral of the story is that singing to yourself does not necessarily negate other people thinking you’re a crazy person.