You ought to see the pile of beer cans in my basement. I figure that if I'm going to drink my life away, I may as well be compensated in some way. I've heard of people starting bank accounts and putting their kids through college. I've heard of people going on European vacations, solely on cans. There's a real future in this.

I put the cardboard twelve-pack boxes and empty milk jugs and half read newspapers in the bin and out to the curb every Wednesday for all of the neighbors to see. I'm a real do-gooder. They ought to see the pile of beer cans in my basement. If they did, they probably wouldn't let their kids over to play with my daughter. They'd probably cross the street with their dogs when I come strolling down. Oh, but they're all mine. Twenty cents to the ounce. Pure profit. No loss, other than a few shitty mornings on the job, but you sweat that out in the first couple of hours.

When I first embarked on this business endeavor, I took my first load down to the scrap metal yard. You should have seen the look on the weigher's face. Two whole trash bags of beer and Mountain Dew cans, as hobos were dragging air conditioners and copper piping down the street. "You're going to break my scale with that massive amount of that aluminum man," he joked. "OK, so what's the tally there George Carlin." He handed me a ticket and told me to take it to the clerk. $22.85. Twenty two eighty five... Twenty two eighty five! Woo hoo! God damn. Wait until I come in next time with a whole fucking truck load. I quit soda, so I knew that I would have to up my beer intake. I took my $22.85, went directly to the liquor store and bought a thirty pack of Busch Light. You ought to see the pile of beer cans in my basement now.

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