Baboon Pirates

Scribbles and Scrawls from an unrepentant swashbuckling primate.

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Location: Texas, United States

Monday, October 30, 2006

The Flaming Shit Sack

Doggypoo delenda est!

I think I'm gonna do something shamefully immature either tonight or tomorrow night. I can't believe it's come to this, but my personal sense of honor dictates that I take a stand, and my personal sense of humor insists that I do it in a way that'll amuse me.

Let me start at the beginning...

I went out shopping yesterday afternoon, stocking up on another week's worth of supplies. Upon my return to the house, I was greeted in the most slobbery manner by my neighbor's dog, 'Muttface'.

Now, Muttface is some sort of boxer/pit bull mix, with perhaps a bit of retriever on the side. She's an ugly, ugly dog. If you took the worst qualities of all the above dogs, she's got them. However, in spite of her breeding and hideous looks, she's the sweetest dog imaginable. When she wags her tail her whole body gyrates, such is her joy at seeing a new crotch to sniff.

I spend a few moments petting Muttface and letting her know what a perfectly ugly dog she is. Muttface doesn't care, she just wants to lick my face and get her belly rubbed. We pass on the face licking (Muttface eats a lot of poo), but after the belly is dutifully rubbed, she's off to sniff new things and I need to unload the truck.

I'm gathering up my purchases, when a whiff of something really foul catches my attention. I spin about, and sure enough Muttface is in full squat, grunting out a steamer on *MY* front lawn.

Dammit. That's some foul, reeky dogpoo. When she's recycling the excreta of the half-dozen neighborhood dogs, you know it's gotta carry a unique aroma. I make a mental note to go scrape it up after I get the groceries put away, and lock up the truck's doors.

Meanwhile, Muttface has finished her business, and goes into that exuberant post-crap doggie dance, the one where they kick up the grass around their just-extruded buttloaf.

I head into the house, put up the groceries, then head for the bathroom to take a leak. Then, down the hall to the bedroom, where I fire up computer to check email.

About the time I sit down, I catch a whiff of... no, it can't be. I've got to be having some kind of mental flashback to the awful smell of Muttface's dogpoop. Besides, she was in the middle of the yard. No way could I have stepped in any dogpoo on the sidewalk...

Sniff sniff... Ew. Still stanky. Time for the shoe check. Right shoe OK... Left shoe... COMPLETELY COVERED IN DOGSHIT!! DAMMIT!! Muttface must've launched a fresh turd onto the sidewalk doing her doggie dance, and I didn't notice it.

Realization dawns on me. I've been all over the got-damned house. Tracked poo on the marble tile in the entryway. On the living room carpet, on the bathroom fuzzy-rugs, on the oriental runner in the hallway!!!

Shpxvat Hfryrff cvrpr bs fuvg cbkl ubhaq! V bhtugn chyy bhg lbhe jbeguyrff yvire ol ernpuvat hc lbhe nffubyr naq tenoovat nubyq bs vg! V'yy obvy vg va zbynffrf naq srrq vg gb lbh orsber phggvat bss lbhe urnq naq zbhgvat vg ba zl Sbeq! TBQSHPXVATQNZZVG!!!

Closer inspection revealed a surprising lack of poo-tracks. I'd stepped in fallen leaves on the way into the house, which had adhered to the fresh dogturd, making a barrier between poo and carpet.

I'm afraid my favorite Rockport boat shoes are a complete write-off, since you can't get all the poo out of the siped sole, and the leather's tainted too.

If I'd have had to drag out the steam cleaner and the mop, Muttface might've gotten a special anti-freeze milkshake last night. It's unfair to blame the dog, though. She's just doing what dogs "doo".

I do, however, blame my neighbors. You're supposed to keep your dogs under control, and at the very least, make sure they crap on your yard and not your neighbor's yard.

So, I'm thinking that tonight or tomorrow night, after a 25 year hiatus, the flaming shitsack is going to make an encore appearance. I'll gather up all the dogturds on my yard, put 'em in a paper sack, then sneak over to their front porch, set it alight, then ring the doorbell and run.

A person's first reaction on seeing a small fire on their front porch is usually to stomp it out, thereby coating their shoe sole in warmed-over dog turds. Maybe I'll put a few lamp-oil soaked rags in the bag to make sure it takes a few more stomps than usual. Then, I can blame it on the hoodlums that live over the back fence.

Hmmm... On further reflection, I'm getting too old & pear-shaped to ring doorbells and run. This calls for a time-delay ignition system... A lit cigarette wired to a firework fuse, that'll do it. The screaming of the roman candle going off will work better than a doorbell! Plus, they all know that I don't smoke, so they really won't ever suspect me! Bwahahahaaaa!!!

Wish me luck...