Today I ran into Sarah (who used to own the kid's hair salon) and her two kids (the one she and her husband had plus the one she sold the business to acquire). She was getting some coffee and getting ready to take the chillin' to the Wiggles show in Baltimore. Kirin, the 3 year-old didn't believe I knew all about the Wiggles. I told him that I was the 5th Wiggle, the black shirted Wiggle. "Lance," the black Wiggle. He wasn't buying it.
Anyway, I went for a walk. On my way home I saw this dude running. You know the type. Too many muscles, overly hair-phobic, short. Perfect form but choppy little short-dude steps. You know the type, about a 4 on the Mope Scale and about an 8 on the Insecurity Scale.
You know, like the picture. He was even wearing the red shorts. Anyway, I could see him but he couldn't see me. I'm just walking, drinking my coffee and watching this dude work his bod. I'm laughing on the inside. He turns a corner and pulls up. An injury? He stops and does that sort of jog in place thing for a second and looks back then he looked at his shoe. Then he starts wiping his foot in the grass in that unmistakable motion that can only mean one thing.Ha! He stepped in dog shit! Now, that's funny as hell!
So, I'm walking in his direction and he finally notices me. You know what he did? Here's the payoff. He starts this exaggerated stretching thing with his arms all on his hips and bending his torso.
Coolassic!
I mean it's dog shit. We've all stepped in dog shit. It's almost sentimental. And you know what? We're all gonna step in dog shit again...especially if we travel to France.
See how Ray handles dog shit below:
