Chief Garbage Taster As Fifth Grade Halloween Gag

at Henry Kline Boyer Elementary School As a Halloween costume, one year during early grade school, my father got the brilliant idea for his sole son to be dressed with one of a kind getup. Missus Shaner (the talon clawed, shriveled relic of a dinosaur, who taught fifth grade) gave me first prize, and subsequently felt so convinced about authenticity of this kid being “privileged white trash”, she notified another kid dressed as a janitor to dispense with me in the school dumpster. The sanitation disposal company drove me (and subsequently dumped yours truly among the real rubbish in the dumpster) to nearest landfill loaded with all kinds of junk such as food scraps, recyclables, and soiled diapers. Over a short span of time, the detritus commingled into one noxious brew of a despicable fly haven, whereby jiggling lifelike maggots, jumpstarted, lunched, and nursed putrescence re: reeking and teeming vibrantly with yum zuck for a swamp thing, I seemed to be metamorphosed into sewer rat as if by some cruel hoax. Nothing prepared, neither sickened nor violated senses of smell, sight, taste, and touch to the maximum factor intolerant of odoriferous odious stench. Each pestilential assault issued an appalling refrain courtesy Fiona Apple's: The Idler Wheel Is Wiser than the Driver of the Screw and Whipping Cords Will Serve You More than Ropes Will Ever Do. Before mine myopic bespectacled eyes (smarting from constant comet drubbing irritants (which glasses – rather bifocals – caked with smudge good as naught), stayed wide shut from inundation of said corrosive gaseous shaped oxbow lake comprising wreath like wisps. Liberty vis a vis in sight envisioned visibly threatened offshoots of tendril spikes; snaking sneakily, sordidly slithering silently, yet straightaway as a scene from some spooky sideshow or “haunted house”. This ugly slop splashed upon mine formerly pristine academic uniform appeared near identical to the grub hub (the lunch lady served) splattered sundry speckles sans sundry detritus, which found me writhing with nausea. Thee nasty muck and mire found this formerly introverted boy transformed into a sponge bobbing squarely panting creature from the black lagoon, whose skinny sea legs sought semi-solid surface to stand upright position amidst variegated flotsam and jetsam. Dishabille appearance acquired a fresh splattered coat of rancid slimy green eggs and ham with bacon covered gangly arms (among other bit pieces of moldy clothes, food and iconic library oddment) ricocheted unpredictably as trash truck violently shook up and down all night long en route on this highway to hell found me thunderstruck (before being buried alive in Moyer’s Dump), which toxic brew would be declared a Super Fund Site and shuttered in the near future. Once Robert Hall wardrobe affixed with a capitalone fancyfeast of grateful dead road kill, kickstarter from some automotive contraption, and plenti of fish heads (with thine square pants trimmed with lovely bones), I felt indistinguishable from regular riffraff riding shotgun. When random trucker parked and stopped, the awful bin laden made ready to empty contents within the mountain of olfactory noxious material. A thought occurred, that now might be the golden (or rather gook steeped) opportunity to extricate myself from morass of mish mashed, spud nicked linkedin kindled juggernaut, icky first class bric a brac.