That Guy: Dog-Walker-Tard

I’ve commemorated the stupidity of our fellow human Earth-occupants several times here.  I call him “That Guy” in my characteristically un-PC way.  My last one was in 2014, and probably my most epic.  All of them are paeans to That Guy, as in, “Don’t be that guy.”

That Guy is a living, breathing cautionary tale to the rest of us.  That Guy warns us that all of us could be acting stupid at any given moment.  I’ve been relatively free of That Guy lately, except for That Large, Hairy, Breathing Guy on the Metrobus.  However, my ongoing non-military suburban existence is introducing me to a whole new rainbow of twatwaffles.

My little chunk of suburbalyptic hell is apparently where all the dog owners in the DC Metro region live.  Here’s a sampling of these poor animals’ owners:

Mr. Shit Abandoner: This fuckmonkey takes the time and effort to carry the little bags made for dog shit, stop when the pooch backs one out, picks it up, ties it closed, and then leaves it.  WTF?  Do you not realize that plastic bag is now pollution, more so than the steaming dump Rover is proud of?  You went all that way, but weren’t up to the task of carrying it home?  Pussy.

Mr. Sidewalk Monopolizer: The Monopolizer likes to play sidewalk chicken with you and uses his pet as his co-tard proxy to force you to walk through the muddy mess of someone’s attempt at a lawn.  I realize you probably are avoiding that dog tracking mud into your house, but now I’m tracking it into mine.  Maybe you’d like me to march up and down your face in my painful, pinchy-ass dress shoes I’m forced to wear now.

Mr. I-Don’t-Care-And-Neither-Should-You: This dingleberry has the best pet in the world and wants to share it with you.  I can smell the rancid bum-taint odor of the poor dog upwind and a block away.  Up close, the world’s friendliest canine wants to lick, sniff, and ‘get to know’ me.  I pity the poor dog, because his fuckwhistle of an owner thinks everyone ought to be overjoyed by his undisciplined, smelly dog’s love.

Mr. Phantom Pile: The Phantom Pile is rarely seen, but is typically evidenced by fly-buzzing, moist piles of shit left anonymously on your lawn.  This asshole can’t even evolve into Mr. Abandoner, because he’s way too good to actually touch shit.  Catch one in the act, and you can have some fun, like this summary from last summer when my friend and neighbor was away from the house:

Mr. Phantom Pile: *pointedly ignores his dog, a quiver with the effort to push out a turd the size of a newborn human*

Rants: *springs into action, grabs a Hefty bag, power-walks across the street* “Hi there.”

Mr. PP: “…uh, hi?”

Rants: “Here.  Use this.”

Mr. PP: “But…”

Rants: “My neighbor and I like our lawns.  A lot.  Here.  Use… this.  Now.”

Mr. PP: *gingerly takes the Hefty with two fingers* *dog grins in pride*

Rants: “Go ahead.  I’ve got all fucking day.  I’ll wait.”

Mr. PP: *collects his prize, knots bag, and attempts to return it to me*

Rants: “Got a trash can at home?”

Mr. PP: “But…”

Rants: “You can carry that bag home, or go home in it.”

My neighbor was grateful for my twitchy, hyper-focused vigilance that I blame the Army for.  In other good news, mysterious turds and the Phantom Pile have not been seen around our block since.