I believe the matter is now laid to rest.

Now if you’ve got a few minutes, I’d like to relate how we got to this point.

I was doing laundry Sunday. Doing laundry is a pretty boring job. You don’t have to really think about it. You just walk around doing stuff and all the ol’ brain functions can kind of chill out. And that is what I was doing. Just walking up the hall, letting my eyes pass scenery information back to the skeleton crews manning motor functions and navigation, when a new kid in visual processing saw something that looked like three little bags by the door at the end of the hall. So he sent a call down to curiosity central and then the gang got something to check out.

Making my way to the end of the hall, I spot what looks for all the world like three poop baggies.

Which is just ridiculous, because I mean… who leaves poop by the door?

I gingerly lifted one of the bags to check its heft. A little gross, but I really can’t believe it’s poo. Hank’s a good guy and I kinda felt bad for slandering him in my head by just assuming that if something was placed by his door that looked like a sack o’crap it was a sack o’crap because he jus’ don’ givva fug.

Alas, dear readers, poop it was.

But then I remembered that he usually walks his dogs up front and the dumpster’s in the back and I know how it is when you’re trying to get the dogs back inside- you need to get the dogs inside now. So I can totally see dropping the bags by the door to take to the dumpster next time I head out.

Monday we get home and as soon as the back door swings open the smell hits us. No way. No no way.

Top of the stairs and turn around and? Three bags of poo that have been sitting there for what is now at least 24 hours.

He went to work and didn’t take the bags to the dumpster on the way to his car??? WTH?!

I got my dogs, got a garbage bag to do a little cleanup pass in the parking lot and I went ahead and took his bags with, pausing a moment to open the windows to air the place out. Surely that would send a message. I mean, if I left that in the hall and then saw that it wasn’t there anymore I’d either be wondering about what I’d be hearing from the landlords or mortified that someone else found it and cleared it up. Surely I would grasp the error of my ways and cease such vile practices. Surely!


Later that night, a lone sentry stood watch at the end of the hall. Where once three of his brethren stood tall, now this one brave mess was left to make sure that his master was left undisturbed. I started to get mad, but then remembered the whole front yard/back yard thing. This business was gross, but a man can make a mistake in judgment. Maybe he was running late that morning and rushed out the door, completely forgetting the three stinking baggies filled with stool. It could happen. Certainly they would be gone in the morning.

They weren’t.

His car was still in the lot, so I could see how perhaps he just hadn’t gone back outside yet. Besides, morning traffic is fun enough without getting spun up about dumb shit.


Back from a refreshing and enjoyable day at work capped only by the sheer pleasure of drivetime, mi mamacita and I topped that ever-creaking stair and lo!

We got to the apartment and I grabbed a pen and the trusty Zelda notebook (oh Triforce of Power, guide my pen so that it may reach its target without fail!) and wrote up a perfect screed letting him know that this was gross and bad and I’d tell mom if he did it again and made sure to curse more than would be polite (but not enough to have to wipe my spittle from the vellum) and it was great. I got out my gilding kit and embellished the margins with little angels brandishing swords and singing songs propelled with the righteous anger of the sinless downtrodden. I submitted this opus to my conscience and she held it aloft and gave a cry of “Fuck yeah!” and I tore the sheet from the notebook knowing that I held a sharp, piercing blade. I marched down the hall thusly armed.

The ghost of Martin Luther looked on with pride as I affixed my complaint to his door. “Are you sure that one is enough?” He stood stroking his chin and looking very critical. “If you really want to make an impression, you definitely have to put up more than one page. And nails really drive the point home better than tape. That’s my experience, anyhow.”

This door was so small, though. And so much of the Zelda notebook was given over to shopping lists and jotted down notes and, you know, notebooky stuff. I’d have to flip through the tome for god, like, seconds in order to get a blank page. As I weighed my dedication to the Lutheran cause, the specter pointed to the little soldier in black.

“Affix him to the door. That will surely send a message.”

If a picture is worth a thousand words, I wonder how many a bag of shit would fetch?


The evening went on and dinner was had and the man hisself hadn’t gotten home yet. The message stood waiting for his return.

J. asked if I was going to leave the note up and I thought about it for a sec and responded with a resolute “Yes.”

She saw the fire in my eyes and she was on board with another hearty “Fuck yeah!”

And to hell with that guy and it’s gross and who does that and rahrahrahrahrah. It was a fine time to be an angry person in our home, for any transgression would have been enough to grab a torch. We were having great fun ratcheting one another up until¬†we realized that having all those words on the door wouldn’t do much to limit drama.

I collected the note and started reading it and was quickly embarrassed. An hour or so removed from the situation and I was looking at one of those notes you see on passiveagressivenotes.com or whatever it’s called. It was still fun to think of unleashing a tirade like that, but what would the result be? A bunch of yelling and shit? Escalation and egos and really. Really.

I left the bag, though.

Of course we later found the bag back where it belonged, standing watch atop the kennel.

A quick internal conference and I gave him the night.


A new day dawned and that spiteful intruder stood his ground.

Leaving for work, I snatched the bastard, walked down the stairs, passed the dumpster, and left it on the hood of his car. Point made. Fuck him.

There were a few texts later. It’s funny how you can spot the texts of iPhone users. Something about the joy of typing on that keyboard lends itself to messages which exceed that baleful one four four.

Oh, the content. I won’t reprint it because there’s not much point. You know what kind of text you’d send someone if you suspected them of taping a bag of crap to your door and dropping it on your car. Stuff about saying things to peoples’ faces and he didn’t deserve such treatment and you get the idea. I let him know that we should meet face to face and I’d catch him after work. And then, swept up in the moment, I added that he should think up some excuses for why this leaving crap in the hall was okay. Which got more expected response and I opted to go on about my day.

As I left to pick up J. from work I saw him walking his dogs. I gave a half-assed wave and rolled on.

Back from the rolling fields of hell, J. and I went out back for a smoke and cuppa and I sent him a text about being home and inquiring into his readiness for a chat.

A couple smokes later we decided to head upstairs and work on dinner.

We were in the kitchen when there was a knock at the door. Showtime!

But it was our landlord. With a Christmas card.

And a huge grin.

“Man, is Hank pissed off at you!”

And he recounted to me the tale of how he rapped at young sir’s door and sir did voice his extreme displeasure of a rogue who did besmirch his door with a sack of dung. Verily the swain was rebuffed when the constable informed him that he would have done the same.

I cannot explain my gleeful shock. Did he really think that he had half a case? J. has a sainted friend who teaches in one of our fine city’s middle schools. She once told a funny story about one of her students complaining about the kid who stole his bag of weed. I guess we all go on about our lives viewing things through various filters of justification and we just don’t see things objectively too often.

Perhaps if a person has had a number of emotional events in the past year or so they may have a lot on their mind. Maybe it just doesn’t matter if you forget to take a bag of crap to the dumpster. Everything’s going to shit anyway, right?

Besides, he was given the score when he described the situation to one of the two people I really didn’t want to involve in this. They’re our landlords, not our fricking nannies.

But yeah. Call me childish, I find that last part funny. I just keep letting the scene play out in my head over and over. I don’t know what was actually said, but I can only imagine one script.

a: Those assholes taped shit to my door!

b: What?! That is crazy!

a: I know! They are terrible people!

b: Where did they get shit from?

a: Right here, by my door!

b: Avast, ye scoundrel! Your words do offend my sense of reason and try my patience for good measure!


So like I said, I’m pretty sure that’s the end of that. Maybe if I had to do it all over again I would have just addressed him when I first noticed it. I just can’t help but think that it’s the sort of thing you shouldn’t have to ¬†point out to another person. It would be like telling someone they have to actually load a plate at a buffet and not just stand there eating things out of the steam pans.

Oh well. At least I got to use my gold leaf kit.