What? Three blog posts in one day? I know! I've had ample time to sit and reflect today on account of only working three hours on Friday and having nothing else urgent to do.
I was reminiscing today about my old stomping ground West Hollywood while I took a short walk down the street (of our new neighborhood). I took note that there wasn't ample trash or excrement littering literally every vacant nook and cranny along the sidewalk. It made me realize that for being considered such "clean" people the gays are really terribly messy. Well, the young ones who frequent Santa Monica Blvd. anyway.
It also brought back my crowning memory of West Hollywood. To put it lightly: Having already been mostly moved in to the new place I went back to the West Hollywood apartment to do some laundry (on account of having no laundry facilities at our new house). While I was filling the first of the three washing machines in the apartment laundry I happened to get a really nice whiff of something foul. Not like dog shit or even baby shit foul. By comparison that would have been nice. This was steady protein diet, apple martini, menthol cigarette, huge load in the rectum kind of foul.
I stood bewildered, checking both of my shoes, wondering where the hell I could have stepped in this kind of thing when I noticed that in the 30 inch space between the washing machine I was loading and the adjacent wall there was a huge pile of dookie. An enormous human dookie. Now, I hate to make a bad story worse but right through the center of this Guinness worthy dook were four very distinct finger scoop marks. Like the assailant had realized his horrendous mistake of crapping on the laundry room floor between a concrete wall and a Dadson washing machine at 2am and having his conscience get the better of him he grabbed a fistfull of his own excrement and then tried to place it in the laundry room trash can!! Again, hate to make an even worse story unreadable but it wasn't one of those open top Rubbermaid kind of trashcans. It was one of the domed top metal trashcans with the 10 by 10 inch self-closing springed flap. To make matters worse, it wasn't high quality either and the spring on this thing could probably have been used in place of the leaf springs in an old Cadillac so you had to fight with the flap in order to get anything inside of it.
Imagine the dismay of the poor poopoo offender when he went to shove a portion of smelly, steaming gay goodtime reminder into the trashcan and he was met with the springed resistance of five men behind a small chromed aluminum door. Needless to say, not much of it ended up in the trash can. I think at this point the guy must have just pulled his pants up and exited the building to endure a chaffed and stinky walk home.
Having rather witnessed the stoning of an innocent young girl I grabbed my wet soapy clothes, shoved them back in my bag and went home.
Now, you might think this to just be a one off occurrence. Oh no. This was my third direct experience with the feces of a complete stranger in a place I shouldn't have found it. First time was in the sunken stairwell leading to the parking garage of our apartment and the second was in the same spot behind a bush that Oni (my dog) likes to poo. In either of these cases I would have dismissed them as being a crap left by a homeless person had it not been for the wrapper from an expensive coffee shop pastry and a gay bar coaster used in place of toilette paper.
I still don't hate the gays and think for the most part they're all good people. I believe the world needs them but I'll be damned if I ever move to one of their neighborhoods again.
Leave a comment