Stale bread

It's been ten days since my last confession. So I thought I'd better make some contribution to keep the creative (or not so creative) juice flowing.

The office at work smells like dog shit. Some goose (insult, not literal explanation) walked a honking pile of dog shit into the foyer of the bar and without noticing I managed to wander through it and then into the office. Ergo, the office smells like shit, more-so than usual.

I love dogs.

I hate owners. Especially owners who live in the city, whose houses probably reek like a pet-having, apartment-living freak den, and who think that it's alright to leave their dog's waste where it falls. Well let me tell you, kind readers, if where it falls happens to be in my vacinity, I will find a way to return the favour.

I think I'm going to start carrying around the little turd baggies, just on the off chance that I witness some prick shiftily checking over both shoulders to ensure that nobody saw the cheeky deposit their little "Poopsikins" made at the First National Footpath Bank.

Let this be a warning to any one of you fortuitous jack-offs who luckily stumbles upon this haphazardly compiled blog: I will follow you, dog-dooky laden baggie in tow, and find out where you live. Then I will make it my life's purpose to ensure that your bare hands, feet and face come into contact with your own dog's shit.

You can rest assured... There will be squishing, and it will be GLORIOUS!