<human>: Can you give me the gist of the text in a nutshell?

So my family has an atrocious way of dealing with all things culinary. All of it.

The house is pretty big, so when people go off on their way with dishes... Sometimes those dishes don't get back all that quickly to the kitchen. I myself have to deal with 3 flights of stairs to get to a sink. **I can't have it piling up in my room** 2 plates max. Who really wants to be so gross as to make multiple trips to get dirty dishes from one level of the house to wash them?

I'll tell you who. People that I'm related to by blood.

I had found this double bagged 80liter garbage bag by the stairs FULL OF DIRTY CUPS, CUTLERY and PLATES/BOWLS. I'm talking 30 plates a handful of glass, cups and all that. Just sitting there waiting for one of the guys to haul it down. It was a good 40 lbs of it.

3 months of dishes. 3 months. Yes, we've got a looooot of dishes. It's weird don't ask. The family can't grasp the concept of a set.

My dad would be the one to either hand scrub them or cart them in the dishwasher. Who the fuck wants another human being to deal with that after working 10 hours in a lumber yard? Not me. I was furious.

So I did what comes to me naturally. I brought it downstairs to the garage, found a heavy object, and wailed on that garbage bag till every single one of those dishes were not dishes any more. I fed that bag blow after blow, reducing the evil contents from their form and function.

I found serenity then.

Still waiting for either Mom(who'll rage the fuck out of me) or Dad(who'll sigh and tell me I can't do things like that at my age) to find out.
<bot>: Someone in my family wanted my labour working father to get back home and deal with their months of hoarded food vessels. I took the task with closed fist and shielded eyes.