A tramp has enough problems walking down the street unhindered by slow-moving pensioners, pygmy children on steroids, crapulous monkeys with spiky hair talking birds, breasts and beavers, beat-obsessed webbed-footed dance freaks with no head for melody, ghouls in more chains than ever burdened the black man, pink-headed pig-squealers, rent-boys, Medusae caught in their own reflections, two-legged sanitary towels, and a vast progeny of Gargantua scoffing Big Mac McFlurrys, without blundering into a field of dog faeces.
Not just a little drop, a Poodle plop, but a shit worthy of Cerberus and his litter eaten, digested and re-shat by Satan himself across the entire span of the sidewalk, wall to kerb. It had already claimed scores of victims but as I was rather preoccupied with my inner diatribe I realised only when it squished up between my toes.
The resulting hop-skip-stagger resembled St Vitus' Dance in its complexity and fervour, and also for the amusement it provided for the surrounding locals, although at least I did not topple over and encumber my entire person with excrement.
As I stood there with a sole caked in brown bowelmuck, a quotation from the Marquis de Sade came to mind. Thus:
'What the devil is a woman's tongue for if not to wipe assholes? I frankly cannot think of any other use to put it to.'
After pondering that this might be of use in the cleaning of my foot, I enquired for assistance from the local populace. Keen not to appear misogynistic I extended my invitation to all regardless of race, age or gender.
Alas I could not even find a passing household animal on which to wipe away my troubles.
2008-02-18 @ 09:19