First, some context.
A couple of years ago, I was encouraged to Google "People of Walmart." As you might imagine, I was immediately enthralled by the pictures of nearly naked, poorly shaven folk meandering up and down the aisles of the superstore.
Let me pause here to assure you that I don't believe such people exist. Surely it is impossible for one's toe nails to grow that long or curl so artistically (and I thought the gold nail polish an unnecessary embellishment). However, I am not as well traveled as I should be and invite you to share your experiences in the comments section below.
Which brings us to last night. The day gig is kicking my ass. For real. I determine that in order to make the voo doo that I do happen, I'll need to to work the weekend.
Fine. I mean, I'm pissed, but fine.
I think, grocery shop after work. That way you can grind all weekend without interruption.
I pull up to my crib, and groceries in hand, I hear from my neighbor's second floor window, "Yo."
To which I respond, "Whatchoowant?"
"Glory killed another ground hog."
Relax white people, I live in the ghetto and these kinds of exchanges are indications of affectionate normalcy.
I haul the groceries in the house and the voice from next door is suddenly behind me.
"I'm going out back to find it," he says, brimming with excitement. He, my neighbor, is one of four boys who live next door. He's the eleven-year old one.
"Do what you gotta do," I say and put the groceries away. It's not like I want to go looking for a ground hog carcass in the dark.
From the backyard I hear, "Where's the shovel? I think I see its head under the rose bush."
"Never mind, I found it!"
I'm already planning the aftermath of this event: wine, comfy PJs, wine, wine, wine.
"Can you help me? It's too heavy."
Why is this my life?
I way the pros and cons of leaving this shit until tomorrow or next year and discard them. Last time I punked out and left a dead ground hog unattended I seriously regretted it because maggots.
Outside I go. The dog follows. I grab the shovel and scoop up the ground hog, masterfully suppressing the urge to gag. I've had experience with this sort of thing, you understand.
It was too dark to photograph the actual ground hog. This is a pic of Glory's second victim, which is why
his face has been blurred out. Need to protect its privacy. Does it need a pair of panties, do you think?
From a window next door, my neighbor, the eight-year old one, hurls shame upon my dog. "Glory, you're a murderer! A criminal! You're going to jail!" Etc.
I, shovel and ground hog in hand, make my way to the cement wall that separates my backyard from an industrial area, aka the ground hog graveyard.
Eleven-year old neighbor pledges to hold the flash light and help me avoid the piles of dog poop. He fails miserably at this task.
I make it to the wall and assess its ten-foot height.
A hush falls over the crowd as Dey gets into her stance. A ground hog toss of this magnitude has never been attempted at night. So much could go wrong.
We're in new territory here, Bob. The chance that she might not clear the wall and that the carcass could fall backwards and roll onto her foot, as it did during last summer's catapult event, is huge.
And she makes it! The crowd goes wild!
The crowd is actually saying, "You stepped in poop. I told you to move."
I make my way back to my house, put the shovel down, turn on the hose and attempt to wash the poop off my sneakers. It's fresh and thus thoroughly crammed into the sneaker's grooves, so this does not work.
I toe one shoe off, transferring poop from the heel of one shoe to the toe of the other. Then I use my BARE FOOT to toe the other sneaker off, unknowingly and disgustingly schmearing dog shit on my big toe.
"You have poop on your foot."
"Leave my presence, child."
Sweating like a pig, catapulting ground hogs is, in fact, a total workout, and since one toe has shit adorning it like some kind of low-fat spread, I must Igor my way up the stairs and into the kitchen. Keep in mind that I need a pedicure like you wouldn't believe. I mean, I definitely need some sort of sanitizing foot mask now, but I've neglected my feet for so long, I could grind pepper corns with these bitches. So when I say pedicure, I really mean, PEDIFUCKINGCURE. As such, I, understandably, fear for the health and well being of my hardwood floors, but dare not break my hop-step stride to see if my feet have scored the boards.
Scalding water, Ultra Palmolive Oxy Power Degreaser dish washing liquid and the sprayer get the poop off my shoes. A similar treatment restores my toe to its NORMAL shitless state.
(The kitchen sink appears to be poop free, but I have plans for a serious bleaching followed by a liberal dose of ammonia. I'm aware that this process will likely blow me and my house up, but I think it's worth it.)
Seeing the light at the end of the tunnel, I enact my aftermath plan, replete with threadbare white T-shirt.
There's no wine. Without wine, wine and wine, the whole aftermath plan falls apart.
Despite my post-workout exhaustion, I decide to go to the alcohol store. As is. I reach for the flip flops that live in my foyer (more like a random two feet of space) and put them on. As I close the door behind me, I notice that an athletic flip flop is on my left foot and and an evening flip flop, bedazzled for more formal events, is on my right.
I determine that I've gone too far to turn back and forge ahead, braless and wearing pants no one would mistake for out-of-the-house wear.
In the bright lights of the wine store, I notice that my T-shirt is quite diaphanous and that my toe nails, while they don't curl about the soles of my shoes, are unfortunately jagged. As I walk, my feet, profoundly calloused, make a loud shoosh shoosh noise as they rub against my unmatched pair of flip flops. Like sand paper against drywall. I get my bottles of wine and pause to reach beneath my PJ bottoms and scratch one ass cheek. I'm convinced that none of the store patrons notice any of this.
Back at home, I'm finally able to think clearly...
...And determine that all that stands between any of us and becoming a person of Walmart is one dead ground hog. You've been warned.