Salty Rants

Scooby Dooby Doggy Doo Doo

It's the first day of spring; the sun is shining, the birds are chirping, and it's been months since I last left my apartment. I was forced to go into hiding after that experience at the fast-food place, but it's a long story, I don't think you have the time to listen.

"But I want to know!" you shriek, smacking your fist against your open palm.

My eyelashes flutter and I lift my head. I slowly walk over to the edge of the sidewalk, gazing off into the distance, namely, at the gigantic billboard advertisement for low-sodium salt. I sigh; a light breeze picks up, blowing my curls into my face, and into my mouth. I sputter and wheeze for about a century before I swivel around and smirk at you.

"You might what to sit your ass down for this one, mate." I toss my head towards the gum-encrusted sidewalk, and you immediately do as you're told.

As I was saying, I didn't know that the author of that brain-frying fanfiction named Kings and Dracula wasn't actually as new as he had claimed. After some thorough research, after the fiasco, I discovered that not only did he have a follower base of over two thousand twelve-year-old girls, but that he was also a psychopath. 

You roll your eyes and scoff, thinking that I'm hyperbolizing. I'm not. It said so on his Wattpad profile:

"Bae: I'm so glad you're not crazy like my last boyfriend.

Me: Nah, babe, dw. 

Me, internally: I'm worse. :)"

The alarm for a #5 virus attack went off too late, so how was I supposed to know that he would react so badly to a milkshake bath? 

The hellfire began with nasty PMs, then came the offensive comments on my work—the situation progressively worsened until I started getting followed (in real life) by gaggles of tweens with contoured faces and bad taste in music. The persecution was never-ending, I turned to the police for help, but even they were too scared to step in. I was on my own. 

So I did what any sane person who values their life would do—I locked myself in my apartment, disabled all my social media accounts, and turned off the internet. Don't tell me how I survived, but somehow, maybe thanks to my guardian angel, I did. The butt-hurt messages and death threats have long ceased to come my way; just in time, too. I had almost forgotten how the outside world looked like. 

I still get nightmares sometimes.

Anyway, now, after stranding you in the middle of nowhere, I walk down the streets whistling a light-hearted tune, with a book tucked underneath my clean-shaven armpit and my backpack full of junk food. My intention is to spend the whole day reading at the park—earlier this morning I found a dusty old erotica about pigeons just lying around, and knew that it was time for me to re-read it for the tenth time.

So after riding the bus—and dousing myself in hand sanitizer once I get off—I reach the park and walk through the golden gates. I lift my arms in the air and inhale the fresh smell of blossoming flowers, pizza, and...poop. I inhale, the acrid smell making my face scrunch up like a raisin. Instantly, I begin to search for the source of the smell until I realize, with great disdain, that it's coming...from me. 

The world stops for a moment as this information sinks in. 

I couldn't have shit myself. I'm still too young for that to happen. My heart racing, my palms sweating, I rush deeper into the park and throw myself against a tree. No, not with the intention of doing the dirty with it—you nasty fuck—but to solve the mystery of the smelly poopy as soon as possible.

Slowly, I lift my right foot in the air. I look at the sole of my boot—nothing. Dread ties my stomach into painful knots as I lower my foot and lift the other, the big reveal approaching me at the speed of an impregnated snail. 

My eyes make contact with the sole, and there it is; the biggest, smelliest, flattest piece of dog shit I have ever seen in my life. I want to scream, I want to shout, I want to rip my shoe off and throw it at someone. 

At the person responsible for this: the dog owner. 

Because I don't blame the dog. Dogs aren't human beings. They behave on instinct, they have an intelligence that is different to ours. When their intestines scream, "Release the torrent!" the dog is going stop in his tracks, squat, and take a dump. It doesn't care about whether it's on a sidewalk, on a patch of grass, on a monument—if it gotta go, it's gonna go, there's nothing to it. Does it care that other dogs are watching it? Hell no! It's the call of nature, motherfuckers!

Once, as I was heading over to an ice-cream place, I saw a woman with her dog on a leash cross the road. Halfway through, nature must've called her dog, because it squatted down IN THE MIDDLE OF THE ROAD, and decided to take a dump, right there and then. It didn't even give a bother. The place wasn't deserted, cars passed through their pretty frequently, so the lady literally had to drag her dog (mind you, it was squatting the whole way) onto the sidewalk and to safety. There, it did its doody. 

If nature calls you, a human being who doesn't socialize with other members of the same species by licking one other's asses, do you just pull down your pants and take a shit? Or would you prefer to hold it in until you get home, find a public bathroom, an isolated bush, or explode and die (if you do the first option, then you're nasty and can't come within a 10-mile radius of me)?

So what is the sensible thing to do when your dog finishes releasing the Kraken onto the sidewalk? 

Here are your options:

a) Continue walking as if nothing happened.

b) Get down on all fours and lap it up. Share the meal with your dog!

c) Pull out a plastic baggy from your purse, pick up the poop, and throw it in the bin.

If you do a) then congratulations, you're an inconsiderate asshole and deserve a thousand euro fine! Do you have any idea how annoying it is to have to walk through a minefield of poop just to get from point A to B? I'm practically becoming Quasimodo by keeping my eyes to the ground, ensuring that I don't step in poop, spit, and any other suspicious-looking spots, all because of you. Because you are disgusting and can't spend two seconds cleaning up after your dog. That's why I don't feel bad when certain dog owners complain about their pets dragging their asses around the house. You deserve that and more. 

"Fine, I won't let Scruffy poop on the sidewalk anymore. Is it okay if he does it on the grass?"

I grab the poop-filled baggy from a random passerby and slap the moron's face with it.

No! Don't try and get out of doing the right thing and cleaning after your dog! Dog poop IS NOT cow poop! It is NOT a fertilizer! It actually does the complete opposite of helping plants and grass! Dog poop contains nitrogen. This chemical, in small quantities, actually helps plants grow. Dogs are carnivores, and as a result, their excrements contain ALOT of nitrogen, which can cause a "burning" effect, effectively, killing the grass. Nobody likes to see dead spots on their lawn, and most certainly would not be amused to go for a picnic in the park, spread their blanket on the grass, take a seat, and feel something warm and wet underneath their butt!

"Ugh! You're just being overdramatic, Dora. The rain will wash it away." 

I swing the baggy in a broad arc and hit the other side of their face with it. It explodes, covering them with dog poop. As the person stands there, a look of pure horror on their face, I look down at their Labrador, who, in that moment, decides to K.O them by pissing on their expensive-looking shoes. 

Once it's done, it shakes its leg and winks. I wink back, glare at its owner (who by now looks like he's about to have an aneurysm) and walk away, dragging my foot against the grass.

 Although I have made yet another two-legged enemy, I have made a four-legged friend. And that's all that counts. 

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Is there something that you're itching to complain about, but have the good sense not to do so on a public forum? I can do it for you! Feel free to PM me with the topic you want me to rant about, and I won't think twice before adding it here. I'll be waiting!