Moments ago, I returned from running an errand in the neighborhood. I was musing to myself about the proliferating dog poop scene in my apartment building’s yard spaces, trying to not get all bent out of shape about it (one of our neighbors is temporarily fostering a pair of sweet little granny lap dogs; since they already have one dog, the three together are a challenge for them to manage when they head out to do some business).
As I was carrying a load of laundry downstairs, thinking of dog turds, I got a whiff of something really awful, much like raw sewage or a rotting carcass. I actually spoke aloud: “What is that smell?”
I got down to the entry to the laundry room, and heard a noise near to where I smelled the stench. I saw a person, standing near a starcase that leads to the upper deck on our building. At first, I shrugged and went to open the laundry room. Then I put two and two together. I looked a bit more closely, and had the traumatizing experience of seeing some homeless person wiping their ass after having just taking a huge, steaming dump in my yard, fifteen feet from my dining room window.
My inner Republican erupted: I immediately started yelling, “GET THE FUCK OUTTA MY YARD! GET THE FUCK OUT NOW! STAY OUT! DON’T COME BACK!” and walked right up to the wretched asshole, pointing, waving my arms, and shouting. The prick (no, make that the PRICK WHO SHIT IN MY FUCKING YARD) was so rattled by my angry rantings that he repeatedly failed to pull his pants up, while mumbling pathetically about “when he gets paid” and other sad things.
He finally made his shambling way down the street, a sad specimen indeed; meanwhile I had the exquisite pleasure of picking his smeary, steaming, still-warm dump up between sheets of newspaper and conveying it to the dumpster. Naturally, while engaged in this deeply fulfilling act of service to humanity, I noticed a secret dog-poop cache: at least one pooch has found the same spot as inviting a latrine as the-fuckwad-who-took-a-dump-in-my-yard, and yet, unaccountably, failed to inform their peeps of the event!
It should be noted that last summer I repeatedly chased junkies and teenagers looking for a spot to blow some spliff off the property as well.
And now, a selection of snappy comments:
1) Hey you kids, stay outta my yard!
2) Mike, I was in complete sympathy with you until you used the phrase “teenagers looking for a spot to blow some spliff.”
3. Mike, I thought that you of all people would be nicer to FORMER CO-WORKER. (Inside joke there, folks – name removed with apologies to the, er, smeared party)
As it happens, I did actually shout “Hey you kids, stay outta my yard!” at the afore mentioned dooby-questing teenagers as they embarrasedly slouched away. I even shook my fist in the air. With a big grin on my face, no less.
And I swear, even if it was NAME REMOVED, I’da done the same thing.