Man starts out disliking the automatic trashcan. The sensor seems unreliable, and the lid closes too soon. On Uses 1-5, he waves his hand like an impotent magician, and for both Uses 3 and 5, the automatic lid closes while he’s still spooning expired pasta into it. On Use 5, the dangling strings of pasta form a distinct and mocking tongue sticking out of the can.
Uses 6-15 are largely resigned. He can’t argue his roommates into returning the thing, and he can’t can it to recognize a wave of his hand. Uses 7-9 and 12 require him to pry the lid open manually. Use 14 is accidental, as his hip brushes too close as he passes the can and it opens for no greater reason than to share its odors.
For uses 16-18, he makes the sign of the cross over the lid. The trashcan is stolidly secular and refuses to open. It does not laugh at his exorcism jokes.
Uses 19-23 are all accidental openings when he walks to close to it. Use 24-26 feature him trying to dangle his arm over the sensor in the lid as he would while walking, hoping this will open it. This never works.
Use 27 is when he walks too close to it and, again, it opens for no reason other than to taunt him.
During Use 28, it closes on his fingers. He is chastised for punching the automatic trash can “in its smug face.”
Uses 29-31 are the worst, as his roommates explicitly show him how to move your hand to make it open. Use 32 takes him ten minutes of hand-waving. He is not catching on.
Use 33 features him walking too close and it opening automatically. He tosses in a half-eaten banana on principle. Herein, he derives an idea.
Uses 34-400 feature him walking with his hip jutting out near the trashcan. The stupid thing opens every time.