A few weeks back, not too many, I purchased a 24-can pack of soda (pop). It's not something I do often because I know that if I have it I'll drink it. As fate will have it, since obviously my own will power has nothing to do with it, such a purchase never lasts as long as I convince myself it will.
"Wow, 24 cans for $6.00. Hmm... that will last me a month or more," says I to self. Myself agrees with me and quick as a flash the package is in my cart, to the registers, and out the door.
Then, it sits there next to the table for a few days as I school myself to ignore it in preparation for stretching the life of the unopened box, and extending the time frame where there will still be unopened cans. A month I said, and any mature adult can stick to such plans.
It is a good thing that I don't have to claim to be a mature adult. I won't even have to explain why. Sure, the box got opened too soon, and the drinks got drunk too quickly, and less than two weeks later there was only one can in the box. I reached for it, grabbed it, and then let out a cry of anguish. I know, I know, some of you would have let out a blue streak, but I didn't. It was more along the lines of "Ahhhcckk!"
Now that ack sound is reserved for one can being sticky from having somehow sprung a leak. Or at least in the past such an ack would have sufficed for a can in that condition. In this case I should have used half an ack, as in "Ahck!" for there was only half a can in the box. Yes, the top half of the can was there, but the bottom was missing.
A bit on the strange side of things I'd say. Should I return it to the store, or call the producer and threaten a large settlement lawsuit for having upset my mental balance? Ah the money sounds good. So I went for the money.
Yep, at $6.00 each can of drink cost me $.25 (not counting the sales tax) plus the CA CRV $.05 fee to make me take the empties to the recycle center to get a nickel back. I went for the big money. I wanted that nickle back. So I took it to the recycle place and they refused my nickel because the half can was not a can and therefore could only be scrap metal at about $.01 a pound (or pretty near to that price.)
They wouldn't accept my plea that the can obviously was worth the nickel because it had never been opened. The tab was still flat, the hole still sealed. It even bore the CA CRV enstamped to indicate it is worth a nickel. Drat, I shouldn't have gone for the quick money I should have asked the store for a refund and then offered the can on ebay since the missing edge did sort of kind of look a bit like a religious icon facing an Elvis icon, and used that for proof of its existence, to sue the producer for millions of dollars. I guess I feared that officially they would discover I was housing a newly discovered metal eating termite.
Instead I stealthily slid the partial can over the bottom of another can and held up one red can top and said "One." With sleight of foot I bumped the basket to make it sound like I dropped in the red can, and with sleight of hand I flipped it and showed the attendant a black can and said, "Two." With more sleight of foot I banged the basket in a tumble while dropping the can in, and it swirled away into the mass of other cans. Then I said, "ten cents, please."
I slipped my new dime into my pocket, walked back to my truck and drove the return 38 miles, changed one flat tire, and got home in time to pop a cork for dinner.