Op-Ed: West Hollywood’s Number One (and Number Two) Problem

? You are reading Part 3 of 3 in A Tail of Three Shitties

Missed Parts 1 or 2? Catch up on Larry Block’s op-ed about the supermarket incident and Brian Joseph’s report on sidewalk stench here:

? Read Part 1 »

? Read Part 2 »

“When you gotta go, you gotta go,” the saying goes. Hopefully the saying isn’t going in my yard.

I was taking my morning constitutional down Hayworth street on my way to the haberdashery when I saw a rush of water moving rapidly towards me. I opened the weather app on my phone: sun, 0% chance of precipitation predicted. Nothing about flash floods. But as the torrent got closer and the sunlight revealed a deep amber hue, I realized this was no deluge of water. It was canine urine. I scrambled to outrun it, but my efforts were futile. As it swept me up and carried me away, I managed to grab on to a piece of driftwood. To my surprise there was a young man also clinging to the same. “What’s happening?” I screamed. “It’s the dogs. Day after day they peed on the sidewalk. I tried to warn the authorities, but nobody would listen. At first it was just a dribble, then a rill, a rivulet, a brook, a creek, a stream, a river, and now, an ocean. The entire city is drowning in dog pee.” We continued to drift.

Above the amber waves, voices called out from rooftops.

“Try Simple Green!”

“Ono-Ban from Home Depot works wonders!”

“Just hose it down!”

The poor fools didn’t realize it was far too late for those remedies. The Peepocalypse was upon us.

After what seemed like an eternity, the flood started becoming more shallow. I was able to wade, then walk on dry land.

I was famished after the ordeal and to my delight there before me, like a shining oasis, just where the yellow tide had mercifully dropped me, was a Pavilions supermarket.

I stumbled towards the entrance like a pilgrim toward Mecca, but just as I reached the threshold and the automatic doors slid open, my excitement turned to horror. Land mines — not the literal, explosive kind, but plops of dog poop. Everywhere. They were on the doors of the frozen food aisle, on the cash registers and conveyer belts, in the shopping carts, the salad bar, the bakery, and of course covering every inch of the floor. I wouldn’t be surprised if the building’s very foundation was now composed of nothing but plops. I dropped to my knees, whimpering. And then, somewhere in the miasma, an ailing voice cried out.

It was an old man, covered in poop. I could barely see his face. “Do you need help?” I asked.

“Thank you, but I’m quite resigned to my fate,” he said.

“How did you come to be like this,” I asked.

“I’ve been here a long time. Since before the poop singularity. I was already too old and feeble to run away. It wasn’t always like this,” he said. “There used to be rules and they were followed. But over time people started feeling entitled. They love their pets, who doesn’t? They didn’t want to be away from them for even one minute. But sometimes there are rules for a reason. First they let one dog in, then two, then three, you get the idea. The more dogs in the market, the more normalized it became. Pretty soon there were more dogs in there than people. On the day of the singularity, it was just a coincidence: they all pooped at once. This store has been a derelict ever since. The governor declared a containment zone, like after a nuclear reactor melts down. I’ve stayed here, surviving on the non-perishables, and due to olfactory fatigue I barely notice the smell anymore. It’s too late for me, but it’s not too late for you or the rest of humanity. Go forth. Find new lands, greener pastures. Rebuild society. Eventually you’ll build a brand new supermarket. And when you do… no dogs may enter. Not one. Not even a chihuahua in a rhinestone purse.”