Labor Day, 2019, and the only real work I have to do today is walk the d-o-g in the early-morning f-o-g and the only work he has to do is push out the shit for me to find in the Pampas grass in front of the building across the street from the house where I live with the girls and all the other animals.
He did his business, well and copiously, and the walk continued, because you just never know, you know.
It was down at the end of the street, past where the Pampas grass turns to landscaping bark and it’s hard to tell if what you’re seeing is what you’re looking for, that I bent to examine a brown cylinder that shit, I must have missed yesterday, and the brown cylinder moved, and I saw its little antennae.
From which, I don’t know, I thought of our resident president, like, which is he, turd or slug? Slug or turd?
He’s a slurg, one of the girls suggested, and I thought, yeah, a slurg in a fog of pompous gas in front of a white building where he lives and does his business, copiously and well.