My Shitty

Ever see a canine crap camped on the concrete and think to yourself that we could punish this perpetrator post-haste if we had a DNA sample of all the dogs in the neighborhood? This is no longer a dream in the Israeli town of Petah Tikva. The mayor, having put up with all the shit he could handle, did just that. A doggy DNA base was established.

Now, uncollected doodies can be traced directly to the offending asshole of he, she, or it, in the case of neutered pets, that extruded them. The fine that is then levied is enough to cover the cost of the analysis, plus hopefully a bit of profit for the city.

The city of New York suffered a similar problem which they addressed by instituting a plainclothes canine task force under the Department of
Sanitation. The fine for ignoring your dogs dumplings is $250.00, but
unfortunately the 35 agents assigned to this task force issue an average of
less than two citations each per month. Perhaps a system similar to that in
effect in Petah Tikva is overdue for the big apple.

There is one dog poop hero in NYC and her name is Giovanna Gould. This defender of the walkways stoops to clear the sidewalks of not only her own dog’s poo but also that of the neglected poo of stranger’s dogs. When the poo is frozen to the sidewalk she says she has to give it a good kick to break it loose. I say this woman deserves a medal of some sort.

Former president Harry S. Truman is remembered for his remark, “The buck stops here.” Hopefully, though, Giovanna remembers another of Harry’s homespun quotes:

“Never kick a fresh turd on a hot day!”

Poop Report

Around third grade or so I became best friends with three brothers. In fact, we still talk, twenty years later. The oldest was my age, and we were about two years older than the younger two, who were only a year apart. I was closest with the oldest brother, as we were in the same grade and so on. We had a good poo relationship as well. We were always judging each others’ worth by the size of the logs we left behind, and there was always a running competition of who could let the best rippers loose in class going on.

The summer day that this story occurred don was no different than any other: We played ball, rode bikes, hung out in our fort, and etc. On this day it seemed that my buddy had put on a pair of one of his younger brothers’ tightie whities by accident. He was probably in a rush to get outside and play ball. (Actually, this was proved and stated later on.)

We were hanging out down the street a bit at another friend’s house when the holy brown bell of gastronomic urgency rang.

“Oh man, I gotta go back home,” he’d said.

“OK. Are you in trouble?” I asked. I figured he had just realized he forgot to do some chore for his mom or dad.

“No, I really got to crap. Bad.”

Laughing a bit, I said, “OK, I’ll walk down with you and see what your brothers are up to.” We started to make the walk back to his house, and I noticed that he was thoroughly uncomfortable. I could only imagine the pain he was struggling through.

After making it more than half way back to his house, it happened; he said the magic words – six words that anyone would hate to speak:

“I’m not going to make it.”

They were followed by confirmation when he said, “Oh no.” He crapped his pants right then and there, a hot stinky mess that had the consistency of loose pudding.

”Great,” you may be thinking, “Another ‘he couldn’t make it and crapped his pants story.’” If you are thinking this, then you are partially correct. It is, but there’s a small twist. The tightie whities he was wearing, the ones that had belonged to his younger brother, were so tight around the legs and bottom that the path of least resistance for what now filled them was out the top. Crap was dripping down from the waistline – what a sight.

I didn’t know what to think or say at first, so we both stood there while he just let it all go. It was terrible. The shock of seeing poop coming out the top of his underpants had me at a loss for words, so the first thing to come out of my mouth was, “What is that?”

“Its poop,” he replied. “Oh no. Awww crap. I’m wearing my brother’s underwear, too. This sucks.”

“You better go, man,” I said, and those were the last words said between us that day. I walked with him the rest of the way as he hung his head in shame and waddled beside me, poop dripping down the back of his shorts and onto the sidewalk. I went home, he cleaned up, and he didn’t left the house the rest of the day.

Poop Report

This story takes place during the same summer as my previous story (around third grade), with the same friend. I guess it could almost be considered poop redemption, as it was me who was the victim of the poop fairy this time. It was a humid Wisconsin summer day, thick air and hot sun beating the ground. We were playing frisbee this time, as compared to the usual game of catch with a baseball. A little insight to the surrounding conditions…my buddy’s dad was a truck driver and did most of his work for the local vegetable plant. They always had lots of fresh peas and corn around, not too good of a thing for the kids, as vegetables were not always favored. Also, their two dogs, a golden retriever and black lab, ate much of the veggies, and there was never a shortage of big ole steaming piles of rank corn poop in the yard. It could be amusing at times. “Oh damn, look at that one. It’s huge!”…poke with a stick…”Aww, it’s full of corn!” Tee hee.

Boy I miss being a kid; I could go around poking poop with a stick, which I can’t do anymore. If I did, people would give that look as if to say, “Really guy? You’re poking the poo with a stick?” Or, “Did he eat your keys?”

Anyways, back to it. Needless to say we all stepped in the crap way to many times. And boy did those dogs go. We had a blast just tossing the frisbee back and forth, with the normal I-can-throw-it-faster, or I-can-catch-it-cooler than you attitude, the frisbee hit the ground from time to time.

One the day in question, I tossed the frisbee to my friend and he totally biffed an under-the-leg catch. It rolled off a little, he retrieved it, picked it up, and tossed it right back. SPLAT! I caught it with both my hands and felt something strange. It took my brain what seemed like the longest second ever to figure out what had just happened. As I spit the strange substance out of my mouth that had entered, it all came together. Looking at my hand, I realized the substance was dog shit.

At that point the terrible smell seemed to slap me across the face, and I began to gag uncontrollably. And yes, there was corn in the poo.

I immediately ran across the yard to where the hose was, gagging the whole way (with buddy boy in the background, laughing his ass off). I turned the water on and inserted the nozzle into my mouth, then sprayed it all over my face and hands. The smell was unbelievably rank – I’m fortunate enough not to remember a taste, if there was one.

By this time I was practically in tears. The emotions one experiences from having dog shit in one’s mouth and all over one’s face and hand are a set of emotions like no other. Not love, heartbreak, sorrow, or anger can describe them. What the hell was he thinking!? It landed in shit! Don’t throw it back; get a stick pick it up, and then rinse it off.

My friend was concerned later into the ordeal as I was yelling and rinsing and yelling and rinsing, but at first he laughed his ass off. I do the same now to telling the story, but it took almost twenty years. To
this day, I still don’t eat corn. I especially hate creamed corn. And yes, I have been teased about it in the past – my roommates would leave a can of creamed corn somewhere in my room to find. I hang my head to the thought at times…I can actually say “I have” when someone else says “Eat shit”.

Poop Report

This story takes place during the same summer as my previous story (around third grade), with the same friend. I guess it could almost be considered poop redemption, as it was me who was the victim of the poop fairy this time. It was a humid Wisconsin summer day, thick air and hot sun beating the ground. We were playing frisbee this time, as compared to the usual game of catch with a baseball. A little insight to the surrounding conditions…my buddy’s dad was a truck driver and did most of his work for the local vegetable plant. They always had lots of fresh peas and corn around, not too good of a thing for the kids, as vegetables were not always favored. Also, their two dogs, a golden retriever and black lab, ate much of the veggies, and there was never a shortage of big ole steaming piles of rank corn poop in the yard. It could be amusing at times. “Oh damn, look at that one. It’s huge!”…poke with a stick…”Aww, it’s full of corn!” Tee hee.

Boy I miss being a kid; I could go around poking poop with a stick, which I can’t do anymore. If I did, people would give that look as if to say, “Really guy? You’re poking the poo with a stick?” Or, “Did he eat your keys?”

Anyways, back to it. Needless to say we all stepped in the crap way to many times. And boy did those dogs go. We had a blast just tossing the frisbee back and forth, with the normal I-can-throw-it-faster, or I-can-catch-it-cooler than you attitude, the frisbee hit the ground from time to time.

One the day in question, I tossed the frisbee to my friend and he totally biffed an under-the-leg catch. It rolled off a little, he retrieved it, picked it up, and tossed it right back. SPLAT! I caught it with both my hands and felt something strange. It took my brain what seemed like the longest second ever to figure out what had just happened. As I spit the strange substance out of my mouth that had entered, it all came together. Looking at my hand, I realized the substance was dog shit.

At that point the terrible smell seemed to slap me across the face, and I began to gag uncontrollably. And yes, there was corn in the poo.

I immediately ran across the yard to where the hose was, gagging the whole way (with buddy boy in the background, laughing his ass off). I turned the water on and inserted the nozzle into my mouth, then sprayed it all over my face and hands. The smell was unbelievably rank – I’m fortunate enough not to remember a taste, if there was one.

By this time I was practically in tears. The emotions one experiences from having dog shit in one’s mouth and all over one’s face and hand are a set of emotions like no other. Not love, heartbreak, sorrow, or anger can describe them. What the hell was he thinking!? It landed in shit! Don’t throw it back; get a stick pick it up, and then rinse it off.

My friend was concerned later into the ordeal as I was yelling and rinsing and yelling and rinsing, but at first he laughed his ass off. I do the same now to telling the story, but it took almost twenty years. To
this day, I still don’t eat corn. I especially hate creamed corn. And yes, I have been teased about it in the past – my roommates would leave a can of creamed corn somewhere in my room to find. I hang my head to the thought at times…I can actually say “I have” when someone else says “Eat shit”.

Poop Report

Mine is a poop-related occupational hazard story. For 26 years I worked for the phone company. I worked both residential and business accounts, installation and repair. The residential work had one really bad occupational hazard: dog poop.

Many dog owners did not pick up after their dogs. When I went to the homes of these people — owners who didn’t clean up after Fido too well — I sometimes felt like I was picking my way through a mine field to get back to the phone pole. It was worse was when I stepped in something and didn’t see it.

If the poop got it in that area of my shoe between the sole and the heel, and I climbed a pole afterward, well.. guess what? I found out when I climbed back down. Every rung on that side of the pole would have a chunk of crap on it, and there I would be, climbing down, having to grab it with my hand. Thankfully this only happened to me a few times, but the experience left a memorable impression, nonetheless.

Poop Report