To The Poor Bastard Shitter

It’s funny sometimes what it takes to constitute an insult to me. I have weathered innumerous taunts, hazings and abandonments in my life. All of these, with few exceptions, have been taken in stride and are quickly forgotten. On the other hand I have been known to carry a few with me. Be sure that that heroin-shooting, hepatitis-B contaminated, homeless motherfucker that left that rancid, Hormel Chili looking  turd  on my door step will taste my steel before this month is out.

Now granted, we picked this joint out for the low cost and surrounding neighborhood. I’m no elitist, I know what it is to be broke. But this was too much. There it sat, as large as life, staring at me with its brown, deformed, corn-kernel eye. Next to it of course was the obvious means of clean- up: a shit stained napkin of the McDonald’s table-dispenser variety. When I finally began to come to terms with this clear personal reproach, I could see the fellow’s thought process. I could walk in his shoes, as Atticus Finch taught me. I imagine it went something like “I’m high, it’s late, no one will let me shit in their toilet because I smell terrible and have dementia. Wait a minute… here’s a convenient, seldom-used, dark doorway to an apartment not even I would live in. Ah, and a tall dumpster to shield the view of a casual late night passer- by. Capital!” and with that he dropped his stained, cargo-pocketed trousers, and squatted quick as lightning like a bearded neanderthal, defecating on my front stoop.

I would have pitied him, but then, inevitably, the smell of that unspeakable brown pile met my nostrils. As tears welled in my eyes and bile began to coat the back of my throat, I knew, by God, that this was the manner of affront that I would not soon forget. May the Lord God guide me to his cardboard box dwelling so that following an asparagus dinner, I might urinate on his drunken, passed-out carcass. I will follow him to the shelter, where I will volunteer to ladle soup, patiently biding my time until revenge is ripe. When his glistening, grateful eyes meet mine as I pour the soup, little will he know that the chowder is a delicate mix of cigarette butts, crushed glass shards and the little kitten he used to carry around. Then I will sleep like the innocent and victorious. Or maybe I’ll just let Russ sweep it up with the rest of all that bullshit that doesn’t make it in the dumpster. See? It’s losing it’s smell already.

~ by maxdanforth on October 1, 2009.