The Elegance of the Poop Bag

Have you ever wondered what it would be like if humans wore underpants even if they didn't have a groin? Like the Ken doll I had while I was a kid. He had flesh-colored underpants pressed into his plastic, John Boehner-colored flesh, and even as a young girl I knew that that dude didn't have anything going on downstairs. I mean, he had fake underpants going on, and a pair of some pretty gay loafers. But that's not really "going on," that's plain old weiner-shielding, 20th century style (today the wiener-shielding is done by Facebook and the citizens voting for Mayor of New York City). I can't really connect the dots fully right now, as I am, once again, fully plastered, but it seems to me that wearing underpants when you don't have a groin is sort of like filling up a dog poop bag with dog poop, then leaving the dog poop bag full of dog poop on the side of the trail/sidewalk/walking-space. So you make the effort to be a good person, but for what? To be an even worse person than you knew there could be. There is no groin. 

I get angry a lot -- that's why I keep renewing my driver's license -- but this full poop bag-leaving is one of those special anger-inducing instances that makes me want to poop my pants and leave them in the crawlspace of whoever left that bag. Especially if I see one of those loaded bags lying along a path that is purposefully dotted with trash cans every 100 yards or so in order that people don't have to get their stupid little fanny packs all stinky. 

I'll talk about this some other time, but Levi and I chat a lot about what kind of a dictator I would be (it's obvious I would be a dictator). Let's just say there would be a lot of public executions after which bodies would be bagged up neatly, then deposited into the nearest trash can.