Maybe's ass

It's on.

See, we have these two large black plastic garbage bins on wheels out in back of our house, where all the residents of the four apartments as may live here at any given time dump their refuse. Garbage pick up is Monday morning, so Sunday night, those two big bins, usually overflowing with trash, have to be wheeled out to the back alley. Then sometime on Monday, or thereafter, the empty bins have to be recovered and wheeled back. It's maybe thirty yards either way. It's not a hard chore, but it can be an onerous one.

SuperFiancee is rather annoyed that the other people who live in the building with us have never evinced any interest whatsoever in sharing this chore with us. So she has laid down the law: we'll take the trash out every Sunday, as we live in the biggest apartment and have the largest family and easily generate the most garbage. But, SuperFiancee has declared, we will not bring the empty cans back in. Somebody else in the building needs to step up to that.

So, out in the alley they sit.

We were discussing this last night, talking about why, perhaps, the lazy cunts in the other two inhabited apartments don't seem to comprehend their communal duties.

"Well," I said, "maybe..."

"Maybe's ASS," SuperFiancee retorted. "They need to get the news. I will haul our garbage out to the alley my damnself, one bag at a time, every time we need to take it out, before I will have us be the trash can bitches for the entire house."

Maybe's ass.

I can't help it. The phrase just cracked me up. I chortled over it for ten minutes.

Maybe's ass.

You don't mess with SuperFiancee when she's set her mind to something.