Dung of the Day
Today’s “Dung of the Day” hails from 1031 Manhattan Avenue. Although it is not my general practice to give turds ‘titles’, I am going to make an exception for this extraordinary fecal find. Henceforth this melange of shit, toilet paper and a solitary toy soldier (all conveniently located near the bus stop for the B61 and B43!) is “Stay the Course”.
Miss Heather
Sullen Mutters of Revolt in Prospect Heights…
Filed under: Dog Shit
Thanks to Gawker, the “Dog Poop Brigade” has been brought to my attention. It looks like I need to make a fact-finding mission to Prospect Heights and FAST. In the meantime, I would love to see some pictures of the “big brown skidmark” on St. John’s Place— for research purposes, mind you.
Miss Heather
UPDATE 1/11/07, Early pm: I have posted a solicitation for dog shit pictures on the Brooklynian. I have yet to receive any feedback, but the day is still young. I’ll even generate a “Crap Map” if they give me enough material.
Also— I’d like to give a big shout of thanks to The Gowanus Lounge for publicizing my desire to have photographic evidence of the alleged “skidmark” on St. John’s Place.
Dung of the Day: Guttman Style
Today’s (admittedly FOUL) “Dung of the Day” hails near the recently-deceased Greenpoint Terminal Market. Be sure to click on the photo if you want to behold all the diarrific details. Enjoy!
Miss Heather
Readywrap Deluxe
Or: Miss Heather’s Birthday Comes a Day Early
Shortly after completing the previous post I received a call from my good buddy Rachael. This surprised me a bit because my birthday is tomorrow, not today. She told she was walking down Diamond Street on the way to work and had found something I must have. I asked her what it was— and honestly I thought what she told me next sounded too good to be true.
It wasn’t.

The man in this photo bears an uncanny resemblance to my husband, save the solitary (but important) fact that I know of no time when my husband has been duct-taped to a chair. Maybe this transpired when I wasn’t around, who knows? Even the khakis and undershirt are right on the mark. In fact, the only thing that is amiss are the empty White Castle boxes in the background. My husband eats all manner and variety of repulsive foodstuffs but even he thinks White Castle is disgusting.
I pointed out the likeness to my husband. He didn’t seem to derive the same amount of amusement from it that I did (and still do). Maybe this photo dredges up dark memories from his past? Regardless, I am going to email this photo to his mother just to see what happens. Hell, I’ll send it to my mother as well just for shits and giggles.
After getting these photos from my friend, I asked her where she found them. She said she found them on Diamond Street in a box with a pair of walkie talkies. When I went there I did find such a box —but what cracked my ass up was the label on it. It read “Readywrap Deluxe“. Very appropriate.
At this location I also found one of the most disgusting piles of bum shit I have ever seen. To my recollection, only this mountain of effluvia would (could?) qualify as being worse. On the other hand, the bits of apple peel in today’s specimen lend a substantial measure “added-value” to it… Hmmm…

Miss Heather
P.S.: This photo (and the others she gave me) were found across the street from a film studio. I suspect hope that’s where they came from.
UPDATE: I sent an email to my mother, my father and my husband’s parents with said “gimp” photo attached. It went as follows:
Looks like Sam is into some really weird stuff. I s’pose the wife is always the last to know…
H
I got two emails back from my mother. The first one was blank. I suspect she freaked out and hit the “send” button before writing anything. The second email, however, said this:
Say what???
I just about pissed my pants laughing. Thankfully my husband thought I was laughing at the television, which was belching “The Lawrence Welk Show” into our living room at the time. My mother is an intelligent person and I love her. The only reason she would fall for this ruse is:
- The man in the photo DOES look like my husband and
- I have dated enough degenerates and freaks that anything goes.
As it happened, my husband called his parents tonight and I spoke to to his mother. I told her to check her email, as she would find something “very interesting”. She told me she wouldn’t have email access ’til Tuesday, but that she would check it ASAP.
To be continued…
Buttplugs (in more ways than one)
This week I had the pleasure of going to the Post Office. Anyone truly in the know will tell you that going to the Greenpoint Post Office SUCKS. On any given visit you, the patron, can expect one (or more) of the following:
- A person who speaks no English whatsoever, but continues yelling at the Postal clerk anyway. These folks have the mistaken belief that 80+ decibels will enable the person on the recieving end to understand the salvos of Spanish/Russian/Polish/What-the-fuck being volleyed at them. It doesn’t.
- Someone who seeks to pick up a package without tendering ID and becomes outraged when he/she becomes aware that the rules do, indeed, apply to them too.
- A person trying to mail a package that might as well have “Fragile: anthrax inside” written on it. My favorite example of this phenomenon came right before last Christmas. I had to wait behind a woman who had brought in one of the sorriest-looking packages I have ever seen in my life. She had taken a mashed-up box, covered it with butcher paper AND THEN haphazardly wrapped it with duct tape. When confronted about this by an employee at the Post Office, this woman reverted to behavior #1 featured on this list.
This trip was no better, but it simply paled in comparision to the treasure trove I found on my way home (on Leonard Street).

Dog shit and plugs. Or if you prefer…

plugs and dog shit.
Call it whatever you want, it’s still a whole bunch of “what the fuck” if you ask me. A dude (talking on a cell phone) watched me as I took these pictures. I suppose my behavior struck him as being strange. And it probably is. But I suspect my eccentricities are nothing compared to the story behind this creation.
Miss Heather
Your Music Sucks
I was awakened at 6:00 a.m. New Year’s Day by music. Music from the Mark Bar, which (unfortunately) blights my block. Little Richard’s “Tutti Frutti”, to be exact.
I did not call the police (like the time they blared Elvis at 4:37 a.m.).
I do NOT like Elvis.
ANYTIME.
ANYWHERE.
(Buddy Holly is far superior.)
Waking up to Little Richard in the morning (literally or figuratively) makes my morning (and New Year) much more provocative. At least the night before would be interesting— I spent my New Year’s Eve watching the “Twilight Zone” marathon on the Sci Fi Channel. WOO HOO!
That said, here is today’s “Dung of the Day” from Franklin Street (between Huron and India Street). It says “Your Music Sucks.”

Miss Heather
Today’s Dung of the Day is being served…
I found this ready-to-serve plate ‘o’ poop next to the Key Food parking lot on Newel Street.

Mmmm! Just like mom used to make!
Miss Heather
King Dong
Filed under: Greenpoint Magic

Is that a banana in your pocket or are you just happy to see me?
SHIT! Freud would have a fucking field day with this one. Why didn’t the man who did this (and I can assure you only a man would do this) just wear a sign reading “Ask me about my castration anxiety” instead? He would have saved a lot of money on paint. Not that I am complaining mind you… I like it! I give it two enthusiastic thumbs dongs up.
I bet the United States Postal Service employee on this route derives a great deal of satisfaction from giving King Dong his daily priapism. (Or hand job.)
Miss Heather
Blitzen, The Polish Reindeer
Santa Claus doesn’t come to Greenpoint anymore. This task was delegated to middle management after Santa jack-knifed his sled on a pile of icy dog shit and borscht-laden vodka vomit on McGuinness Boulevard in 1998. He broke his coccyx and no amount of Viagra or Levitra could redress the injuries he sustained— much to Mrs. Claus’s dismay.
Sex in traction is not Mrs. Claus’s preferred means of action, if you now what I mean.
A heated exchanged followed (between Mr. and Mrs. Claus) and it was agreed that Santa’s solitary Polish reindeer, Blitzen*, would be responsible for servicing Greenpoint. Drunk with newfound Managerial power (and a shitload of vodka), he sub-contracted his duties out to the most plentiful (and cheap) labor force to be found in Greenpoint: RATS.

Looks like this one** didn’t make it. Too bad. The list of people who deserve dog (bum?) shit in their Christmas stockings only gets longer and longer nowadays…
Miss Heather
*His real name is “Blitzed”. Santa thought this name would not set a good example for children, therefore it was changed to “Blitzen”. “Blintz” was totally out of the question.
Disgruntled readers: send me angry missives deriding my stereotyping of Polish people to your heart’s contentment. I have a last name so Polish I might as well draw a slab of kielbasa instead of writing it out. Let me suffer in peace.
**From 261 Banker Street

















