The Poop Deck

Happy Monday, folks. I'm going to try and make this quick, which you've heard before, but this time I mean it. I have to get this puppy whipped out during lunch because I'll never get to it tonight.

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Put on Your Shit Kickers and Kick Some Shit

Let me set the scene for you. It was a nice late summer day and I was out mowing the lawn. I'm sure the birds were chirping and I'm sure there was a pleasant breeze in the air. I finished the job, put the lawn mower away and was probably getting dinner ready. That's when I noticed something malodorous in the air. Often the cats don't bury their most disgusting turds and the stench will waft up from the basement, but this was different. That's when I noticed the (ahem) trail I left throughout the house. Eggscelent.

You probably already know that I don't own a dog. I have no aspirations of owning a dog and like other people's dogs as long as they don't interfere with what I'm trying to do. When someone's dog shits on my lawn I get annoyed. Yes, dogs have to shit somewhere and it's a shame they can't use a toilet, but I don't have a dog partly because I don't want to be bothered with walking one. If you don't want to be bothered, then don't have one, or fence your yard. However you want to deal with the dog's business is your business, but it shouldn't be my business and it certainly shouldn't be embedded in my wool rug.

I got my sneakers and house all cleaned up and was over it. Then, maybe a month later I was out raking the lawn and wouldn't you know I stepped in either the same pile twice or two separate piles, and both shoes had dog shit all up in their treads. I left them in the basement and reverted back to my old, worn out sneakers. My plan was to stall it out until we had some snow, then I could shovel a few times in them and they'd be as good as new.

Last night as the snow fell I decided it was time. I went out, scraped the car, and drove to Price Chopper to do some shopping while the melted snow permeated the shit particles. Maybe I'd leave a trail in the store, maybe not but that wasn't my concern. I figured once I got home I could traipse around the yard a bit and it would work the rest of the turdage out. It didn't.

This morning we had a bunch more snow and the car was going to need scraping. I threw on my enshitted sneakers, scraped the car, shoveled the end of the driveway, dug the shit out with a stick, walked around the driveway and shoveled some more. I was no longer leaving brown stains in the snow, so I thought I was good. I got all the way to work, sloshed through the messy parking lot and had been working up a storm when I could no longer ignore the stench. There was still shit on my sneakers!

Fortunately I had an extra two pair of business sneakers at my desk. I opted for the pair with the paint on it over the pair that's a little too small, and placed the offending sneakers in a plastic bag. I'll probably have to shovel the end of the driveway again tonight, which I can only hope will do the trick. If not, I'll take a stiff brush to them, douse them in bleach, then throw them in a fire. That has to work.

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Ain't Got My Sea Legs

Thursday night I was sound asleep, that much I know. From there I can only speculate, but here's what I think happened...

I awoke at some predawn hour with both legs still fast asleep. Apparently my groggy mind misread the lack of sensation as cold feet, and I climbed out of bed to find some socks. Well, if you've ever tried to walk with both legs asleep, you'll know it's not easy. Then if you're barely awake yourself it's really a difficult task. I think I staggered over to the dresser trying to balance myself on top of two phantom legs, found and applied a pair of socks, and stumbled back to bed. I say I think I did, because I'm not 100% sure.

You see, until it's time to get up I don't get out of bed for anything. Gunfire outside my bedroom? As long as they don't come in, I'm fine with it. My bladder about to explode at the next slightest flinch? I can hold it for 6 more hours. The house on fire? The fire station is just down the road. I'm certainly not going to get up because my feet are a little chilly. But if it was a dream, it sure was a good one because it felt real to me.

At this point there's no way to determine whether it was real or not, short of some sort of Total Recall machine (which I think actually put memories into your head, not dug them out). I guess we'll never know.

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And I'm out.

Over and Out,
Old Coot