The Tale of the Dregs: A Saga of Tiny Annoyances

By: Mr. Genaro, Retired and Surly

I'm peeved. Not by anything huge, no sir. It's those itty-bitty, teeny-tiny details that start piling up like crumbs on the couch. First, you don't care, but after a while, it's enough to make you scream like a cat in a rainstorm.

Take the soda, for example. Someone leaves the bottle out — barely closed — because, of course, it's just the last dregs. Dregs! Why can't anyone be bothered to twist the cap and put it away? So, there I am, pouring myself into a flat, lukewarm disappointment. No fizz, no flavor, just sadness in a glass. And for what? All because someone didn't have the decency to handle those pitiful leftovers.

Then comes the sandwich. You open the fridge, and it's the land of dregs. A dab of margarine here, a sliver of cheese there, a strip of ham thinner than a politician's promise. Together, it's not enough to make a decent bite. And don't even get me started on the family dregs: the youngest kid who's always the last to get any attention because, hey, by the time the parents reach the caboose, they're too tired to care. So the poor kid acts out, loud as a foghorn, just to get noticed.

Now, if we're talking drinks — coffee, hot chocolate, tea — the dregs hit even harder. That last sip of coffee, where the grounds settle like mud at the bottom of the cup, turning it bitter enough to make your teeth cry. Or the hot chocolate where the powder clumps together, creating little floating islands of regret. Tea? Oh, don't even. Those little leaves and twigs always find their way into your mouth, and you're stuck fishing them out while trying to look like you're enjoying yourself.

And what about the dregs in the kettle? You can't drink it, it's full of limescale. Or the dregs of rice at the bottom of the pot, which somehow always burn. And when, by some miracle, you do find usable rice, guess what? Someone's already stashed it away for the zombie that stumbles home at 3 AM. And there it sits, mocking you, like, "Look at me! I'm here, but not for you. Ha ha ha!" It'll sit there until it grows a nice coat of mold and ruins everything else around it.

And don't even mention the dregs of toilet paper. It's that last square, mocking you from the roll, like it could even pretend to help. Useless.

But let's take it outside the house. The dregs are everywhere. That last drop of gas that won't even start a lawnmower. Or at parties, where collecting the dregs of wine makes you look desperate, and scraping together food scraps turns you into a starving scavenger. Not to mention collecting cigarette butts — people start looking at you like you're one puff away from rehab.

So, I ask: what good are the dregs? They seem to be nothing but a waste of space and time. But then again... maybe, just maybe, there's some use for them after all. Like that last piece of aluminum foil. How many times has that saved you when you ran out? Or those leftover bits of food that somehow come together for a killer breakfast scramble. Even the dregs of gas — they remind you to slow down, take a breath, and coast for a minute.

So, yeah, dregs might have their place in the grand scheme of things. But don't get me wrong: I still hate 'em. For now...