Shit Happens

(FYI, this post requires the use of a bad word or two)

Miss Jackson is a cute dog and I'd say relatively polite. She likes tennis balls, swimming and taking dumps in people's yards.



The other day we took her and the hound for a walk. Miss J got so excited she dumped in our yard before we even left. So off we went, walkin' and talkin'. Sunshine was shining, cool breeze was breezing. Miss Jackson took her 2nd #2 in some nice person's yard. Not to be gross, but Miss J's poop sequels are always soft, sloppy affairs. It's like picking up toxic mashed potatoes. We always bring Kroger bags for this dirty work. I didn't realize I brought one with a giant hole. So you can guess what happened when I wrapped my hand around her pile of steampunk.

SHIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIT.

All over my hand. So I tried to wipe it off in the grass but the grass was dead. So all it did was push it around my fingers and hand. Green mashed potatoes were all over my hand and I didn't know what to do. So I ran across the street with the poop hanging out the bottom of the bag. I saw a blue newspaper bag with those advertisements that nobody keeps. I shoved that shit inside and felt proud. Like I put a fire out. Then Leah said, "Brad, what if that's somebody's paper?" I assured it wasn't as I looked down and saw the headline NEW YORK TIMES.

SHIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIT.

I smeared dog shit all over my neighbor's NY Times. The paper he or she probably only gets on the weekends. I imagined the ritual. The anticipation of walking down the driveway with a fresh coffee anxious to find out what Bloomberg did this week. I literally shit on that ritual.

I ran over to Leah, who by this time was abandoning me. "I'll just meet you at home, Brad," she said practically running way. I was all, I DON'T KNOW WHAT TO DO. And she was all, I DON'T KNOW YOU. So I ran back to the paper thinking it may not be that bad. Maybe it somehow didn't get on the actual paper.

It did. Sloppy taters were headline news.

So I took the paper and threw it in the guy's trash. And then caught up with my turncoat wife. When we got home I jumped in the car and drove around to all the area gas stations and drive thrus. Nobody sells the NY Times. Eventually I found it at Barnes and Noble. They didn't have any blue newspaper bags. Just big bags with their lousy name on it. So when that neighbor found his NY Times on his porch in a Barnes and Noble bag he must've been awfully confused.

If you're reading this blog, neighbor....my bad. I shouldn't have smeared dog shit on your New York Times. That was regrettable.