Can the trashcan openings be made smaller to limit what people can throw in?

I am a trashcan. I sit at the corner of the park, right under the big oak tree, collecting what humans call “trash.” But lately, I’ve overheard an argument: some humans say my opening, my “mouth,” is too big. They want to shrink it so people can only throw in small things. Like snack wrappers. Like coffee cups. Not a whole bag of household waste. Not—heaven forbid—a full pizza box that’s still greasy.

Can my opening be made smaller? Sure. My design is not a law of nature. You could weld a metal plate with a narrow slot over my current grin, and suddenly I’d only accept items the size of a human fist or smaller. On the surface, that sounds tidy. No more bulging eyes when someone shoves a broken umbrella or a Styrofoam cooler into me. But I have a deeper confession, one no trashcan has ever dared to utter:

Smaller openings don’t stop people from throwing in forbidden things. They just make the act angrier.

I remember the day a man tried to stuff a bicycle tire into me. My opening was standard—about twelve inches wide. He squeezed and groaned, and the tire fit, but it scraped my metal lips. Now, with a smaller opening, that same man wouldn’t leave the tire neatly inside. He’d force it sideways, pop the slot, or—even worse—just drop the tire next to me, let it rot in the sun. “Bad trashcan,” he’d mutter, as if I rejected him.

The human planners whisper about hygiene and recyclability. They say a small slot prevents people from tossing dangerous items, like needles or batteries. I’ve swallowed many needles. They hurt my plastic stomach, but I digest them anyway. What hurts more is the logic that blames me for human carelessness. A smaller opening would only inconvenience the polite stranger who wants to toss an empty milk carton. The determined vandal? He will always find a way: stomp the carton flat, break the slot, or—most creatively—set me on fire.

So, can the opening be made smaller? Yes. Should it? Only if you want to turn me from a humble servant into a chastity belt for rubbish. I am meant to absorb the full chaos of your day: the banana peel, the old newspaper, the forgotten toy. If you shrink my mouth, you shrink my purpose. Please, do not hide behind my redesign. The trash isn’t the problem. The hands that throw it are. I can only eat what is offered. Teach those hands better, and even a standard-sized opening will seem small enough.