Friday, October 19, 2012


I need some help from the people of America. I’ve got this thing with dog crap. I can’t stand it. Can’t stand the look. Can’t stand the smell. Can’t stand the IDEA of it. The mere suspicion that a dog may crap in my house or the thought of stepping in a pile of the stuff, and permanently ruining a pair of sneakers is almost enough to make me a shut in like that guy on October Road. It’s true, he’s pale, but in his house there is no dog shit, just a quirky, perky pizza girl. I could do that. Actually, it isn’t just dogs. Don’t care much for cat crap either, but cats are at least deranged enough to hide it in a box in the closet where you can’t see it for the most part. Suburban geese are another offender; grazing (and shitting) peacefully there on the golf courses and soccer fields that are our favorite places to go these days. If geese can learn how to get from Texas to Wisconsin they had ought to be able to find a patch of bushes or a pond to crap in. Nice quiet place to crap, a pond, and if no one’s watching your face, or listening, no one’s the wiser. But I digress.

Now I’ve been sort of a blue collar guy most of my life. I’ve worked as a plumber where I developed a crack habit. Ahahahahahahahahahaha. Sorry. What I meant to say is that I’m no stranger to human waste. It isn’t my favorite thing, but I can cope. I’ve worked in the livestock sector…… animal husbandry you know, and I don’t mind being ankle deep in bullshit. It can be really bad, but hey… they’re cows for crying out loud. We’re going to kill and eat them. They get some slack for that. And, I’ve worked in beef slaughter. I’ve waded in blood over my boot tops and entrails so deep that I couldn’t touch the floor. Didn’t like it, but babies have to eat and you DO get used to it. So WHAT is this thing with dog crap?

Also, I failed to mention that I either am, or have been the father of four children who, at one time or other, pooped their breeches, requiring someone (usually me) to clean them up. Perhaps it was more than once. I suppose I have PPTD. (Post Poop Trauma Disorder) I‘ve always suspected that they could’ve used the toilet YEARS sooner but just resisted so they could watch my face as I de-pooped them. They’ll get theirs though. In a couple of years they’ll be changing me. “But honey, Daddy LIKES the hot chili and the pea nuts”. I’ve got it all planned out.

So in the end, I guess that’s what it is: a delayed reaction to babies. It’s horrible. I can barely sleep. All night long I keep hearing the voices. I can’t really be sure what they say, but it seems like “it’s YOUR turn” and “daddy? Can we have a puppy?”

And that’s what an average guy thinks

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