The Perquisites of Poop
The pay sucks but there are many fringe benefits to being the Dog Shit Queen of Greenpoint. The hours are pretty good, as are the working conditions: Chateau de Ghetto has no dress code to speak of, there are no annoying co-workers to contend with and drinking on the job is perfectly acceptable— if not mandatory.
Last week I not only received turd-shaped cookies (with peanuts in them!) from my best friend Rachael, but the following gem made its way to my inbox.
I happened to get a glimpse of the attached scene going on in our backyard. The dialog I overheard is below.
Doo Doo Dan: Ma, I really donâ€™t think your broom can handle this one â€“ itâ€™s huge.
Commando Carl: I think I can lift it.
Moo Moo Ma: Carl, that thang is huge. I have never seen anything like it. Maybe we should call cousin Sam. I heard his wife Heather is an expert on this sort of thang.
Doo Doo Dan: I donâ€™t know. They are more familiar with Greenpoint. This suburban stuff is maybe a lot bigger. In all my trailer poop cleaning days I have never seen anything near this size. What could it have come from?
Commando Carl: Big foot? I did see a yellow mountain moving the other day â€“ perhaps Armageddon is comin.
Moo Moo Ma: Dan â€“ just get on the phone and call cousin Sam and letâ€™s see what Heather thinks about this.
Those Wall Street types can keep their six figure bonuses (and all the stress that goes with it). Just give me a fresh pile of shit (replete with dialogue) to ponder over my morning coffee and I’m happy as clam. It gives my life a sense of purpose.