My own pet peeve is the fact that the checkbooks supplied by my bank have the wrong proportion of deposit slips to blank checks. I run out of deposit slips long before I run out of checks.
A bank clerk shrugged when I asked him if something could be done to change the proportion. "Just tear up the extra checks and start on the next pad," he said. "It's the same thing as the proportion between shaving cream and propellant."
"What do you mean?" I asked.
"It's just not practical to put in exactly the amount of gas needed to expel that precise quantity of shaving cream," he explained. "They have to put in some surplus gas, so that when the customer gets to the end of the shaving cream he will be reassured that the can is really empty."
I gave the bank clerk's response a lot of study before I figured out what he meant. I think he was suggesting that if I'd buy a case of shaving cream and pay for it by check, one can at a time, I could bring my supply of checks and deposit slips into better balance.
With that perplexing problem solved, perhaps we can now turn our attention to more important imbalances - things like the packages of hot dogs and hot dog rolls my wife brings home. If there are eight dogs, there will be 10 rolls. Or perhaps 12 rolls and seven dogs. Or six rolls and 10 dogs.
What we need, no doubt, is a government agency that can make a study of the situation and tell us whether we have built up a surplus of billions of rolls or a shortage of billions of hot dogs. Properly handled, this could provide gainful employment for at least 10,000 people.
I should also mention one other problem I have encountered in the War on Waste. When a new carrier took over the newspaper route that serves our area, he began putting a heavy rubber band around our Washington Post each morning to keep it from being scattered to the winds. I began saving the rubber bands of course.
I saved them with great diligence in a can that had once held a pound of coffee. When the can was full, I planned to give the rubber bands back to the carrier.
You know what happened, of course. Just as I topped off the coffee can, the carrier stopped using rubber bands.
I hate to think about throwing them away. Perhaps Mrs. Snesrud would take them off my hands. Or maybe I should apply for a newspaper route.