Fifteen minutes ago, the doorbell rings: it’s Ash, one of the neighborhood kids, alerting me to a mess in front of our townhouse. Somebody has dropped a half-empty five-pound tub of Miracle Whip onto the sidewalk. The container is not damaged, but the lid is off and there are fat globs of pseudo-mayonnaise all over the pavement.
When I’m done discarding the container, scraping up the goo, and hosing down the sidewalk, I see something in the grass by the edge of the walk. It’s a half-eaten crust of bread. Like somebody was walking along in the sunshine, and was making himself a ham-on-white right there, outside, when he happened to drop this big industrial-sized tub of sandwich spread.
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