tall grass turd rescue

and the enduring power of a nickname

When you're a man with short dogs, letting your grass grow tall makes turd capture much easier.

Their cigarillo sized turds get fall as normal. But instead of turning into a three coiled steemer, their tips meet the tree like grass and get caught up. The rest of the trud follows gravity. There they exist as turdy little stalagmites with the consistency of cookie dough.

To the uninitiated in the fine art of shoe preservation through fecal responsibility, these little brown and blood-streaked-foot-bombs can be hard to see. They’re pretty darn easy to mistake as a larger twig or a misshapen spruce cone. If missed, the consequences could be tragic.

I know a man who stepped in dog shit on his way to school in the third grade. He was given the nickname of ‘stinky’. It’s been forty years and we still call him that. Kids are cruel. Adults? We’re worse.

Poor old Stinky… At least he didn’t lose his shorts while swimming in May. Tiny is a large man. He hit his growth spurt early and was six foot three by the eighth grade. Sadly for Tiny and his bathing suit malfunction, his growth was uneven, hence his name.

Poor Tiny has never been able to get into and stay into a relationship. Sure, he’s had a few, but they were short, insignificant and pretty darn thin and floppy. If you look at his timeline on socials, finding a girl in a shot with him is about as easy as finding a button on a fur coat.

So, without ensuring waist band quality of swim shorts, I’m picking up the poo. It’s my way of contributing to mental health through the reduction of opportunities for damaging nick names. Should people stop being so mean?

Oh god no. That’s what reasonable people would do.

Where’s the fun in that?

We remarkable fools have different ideas.

First, when you can’t call people names, then everyone is a cop. What’s worse, we’re living in a time where everyone has a camera. With people policing each other’s language and cameras everywhere, Orwell’s likely rolling over in his grave due to all of the gleefully compliant snitches out there.

Policing nicknames will only catch the very few. Most will get away.

Defunding the police is one idea, the next?

Just have fewer laws. Less rules give cops less reason to ‘talk to people’ and find problems.

So no policing nicknames unless it’s to make the nickname worse.

We understand that every single human will get a nickname they hate.

You shouldn’t actually enjoy your nickname at first.

It needs to sound mean and ideally a bit degrading. If it’s too cool or likable, the nickname doesn’t do it’s job. The nickname is there to help with humility. The Clapper may now run a fortune 500 company these days, but everyone remembers how many others were prompted to ‘go see the doctor’ the summer we graduated from school.

The dude was a one man standing ovation…

But this post was never supposed to be about nicknames. And it certainly wasn’t supposed to be about the passage of venereal disease within a high school community. Nope, this was supposed to be about the glory of picking up turds in tall grass.

Here’s the deal, when they are coiled steamers, it’s more difficult to pick up multiple poos in one bag.

My small dogs have five shits between them on a typical walk. With coiled steamers, I can generally pick up two or three without getting my hands muddy. When the turds fall like logs in the tall grass, I can pick up all the poo with just one bag.

I like being economical.

I like being good to the planet by using less plastic.

Most of all?

I like keeping the poo off of my fingers.

You pal,

Co-co Puddin’ Palms