Every time I spot a piece of litter on the ground, I blame it on the little red-headed girl who bullied her way into the neighborhood.
And let me tell ya, I see a LOT of litter.
Like, every...single... day.
And many a time, the trash has a picture of that little girl on it...
It was several years ago when the corporate meanies razed a beautiful Victorian home around the corner and replaced it with a Wendy's fast food franchise.
We neighbors ranted and raved at civic meetings, swearing that the demolition of the historic structure was an abomination and that we'd eat raw beef before we'd let that smiling red-headed corporate symbol plant roots in our little corner of the world.
But, alas, despite our wringing of hands, the Wendy's people - and their very well-dressed layers - won.
And before you knew it, where a glorious home stood for a hundred years sprung a boxy, single-story building that was shiny but utterly putrid.
I felt powerless to stop Wendy's arrival, but vowed to do my part by never stepping foot into the place.
But have no fear, America, business is BOOMING.
Seems like every time I pass by the place, there is a snakelike line of vehicles at the take-out window. The customers love to sit in their cars, yell their burger preference into a speaker and wheel on over to pick up their Wendy booty. (It's estimated that the majority of customers - 57 percent - at hamburger fast food joints can't bear the thoughts of actually walking in to grab a bite to eat and instead use the drive-thru window.)
Then - or so it seems - the whole gang throws their Wendy's wrappers out their car window and onto the ground.
I see it every morning when I go for a walk. A wrapper here, a cup there, a napkin everywhere.
Of course, it's not only Wendy's litter I see.
Yeah, even though the nearest Mickey D's is miles away, news and garbage travel fast.
So I'm sorry, little Wendy, for picking on you.
It's just that I knew you'd have a real impact on my surroundings, and not in a good way. I have no bias against your famous Frosty or your Jr. Bacon Cheeseburger, but I do have a problem with picking up the remnants that your customers love to toss away like confetti.
In the ultimate NIMBY (Not In My Back Yard) mentality, I would have preferred it if you opened up elsewhere, like next to your franchise owner's suburban five-bedroom, three bath colonial.
Today, pardon me for saying so, was the last straw.
Curses to you, little red-headed girl, and all the calories, crassness and rubbish that you represent.