Fooled By George
On a warm Thursday morning, you roll over in your single bed, clutching your body pillow as you lie alone, with only your thoughts as a companion. You keep your eyes closed, as you know that once you open them, you’ll go right for your cell phone to check the time and see that you only have an estimated 4 minutes before that bastard alarm goes off to signal the start of a new day. Your life has indeed become one constant, repetitive symbol of the mundane. You frown. The changing of the seasons is paired with minimal blanket coverage for comfort, so as you let a morning fart go, the stench, not to mention the sound, is enough to get you out of bed. Let’s start this day.
The traffic going to work sucks, causing you to be a bit behind schedule when you arrive. Your email box is jam-packed and the phone is ringing off the hook. Looking out the window, you think about scaling the stairs to the top floor and walking off. But you cool your jets. You take a bathroom break and realize that it’s only 8:25 and you’re already sitting on the john. I know where this day is going. Seconds turn to minutes, and minutes to hours, as you’re taking it pretty hard from the man. And you better believe that it’s an all day type thing. Work for an hour, hit the can. Work for an hour, hit the can. Probably, shouldn’t have had that third helping of sauerkraut last night. But, cmon. Mom overcooked. Your eyes are fixated on the clock until it is finally time to leave. Pack up, log off, quickly scratch your beans, and you’re off.
Traffic on the way home sucks equally as much as it did on the way in. The radio isn’t playing anything great, and it seems like every time you turn to another station, the end of a great tune is firing through the speakers. Goddamn. I really could have used ALL of Strange Magic by ELO right now. And to make matters worse, you have to go to the fucking gym. The gym blows. And you know that it’s going to be riddled with a bunch of overly tan, overly juiced, tattooed d-bags spending 3 hours working on their pecks and who you’re certain are only doing so because it gets them top billing in a gay porno. You finish and exit to drive home, as it begins raining cats and dogs right as you walk outside. Man, this day is really giving it to me, here.
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The traffic going to work sucks, causing you to be a bit behind schedule when you arrive. Your email box is jam-packed and the phone is ringing off the hook. Looking out the window, you think about scaling the stairs to the top floor and walking off. But you cool your jets. You take a bathroom break and realize that it’s only 8:25 and you’re already sitting on the john. I know where this day is going. Seconds turn to minutes, and minutes to hours, as you’re taking it pretty hard from the man. And you better believe that it’s an all day type thing. Work for an hour, hit the can. Work for an hour, hit the can. Probably, shouldn’t have had that third helping of sauerkraut last night. But, cmon. Mom overcooked. Your eyes are fixated on the clock until it is finally time to leave. Pack up, log off, quickly scratch your beans, and you’re off.
Traffic on the way home sucks equally as much as it did on the way in. The radio isn’t playing anything great, and it seems like every time you turn to another station, the end of a great tune is firing through the speakers. Goddamn. I really could have used ALL of Strange Magic by ELO right now. And to make matters worse, you have to go to the fucking gym. The gym blows. And you know that it’s going to be riddled with a bunch of overly tan, overly juiced, tattooed d-bags spending 3 hours working on their pecks and who you’re certain are only doing so because it gets them top billing in a gay porno. You finish and exit to drive home, as it begins raining cats and dogs right as you walk outside. Man, this day is really giving it to me, here.
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Dinner is decent and then you catch a shower. You’re in better spirits because as you’re drying off, it hits you as hard and as fast as Tommy Lee pounds on the bass drum: I think I’ll go grab myself a cold beer. I may even make it 10. Even the rain has let up. Mr. Blue Sky is really looking down upon ya now. Thanks, buddy. As you make the trek to your local watering hole, you see in the distance what looks to be a clean, crisp dollar bill lying in the middle of the road. Hot damn in the morning. The day sucked but man, this is shaping up to be some night. And oh baby. All I need is 50 cents and I’ll have myself my first Bud Light pint of the evening practically on the house. What a deal!
Your pace quickens. You’re practically running, now. Fuck it. I’m gonna run. So, you run. You run so fast that by the time you get up to that clean, crisp dollar bill you don’t realize that it is not, in fact, a clean, crisp dollar bill until you put it in you’re pocket and feel its odd texture between your thumb and index finger, but it’s a…
Oh, MOTHERFUCKER!!!
And then the laughter ensues. You don’t know where it’s coming from. But somewhere, a group of geniuses decided that the only way they could get their jollies was to plant a shit-stained dollar bill out in the public and watch as some hapless fool picks it up and pockets it, thinking it’s his lucky day.
This is Poop Dollar. And it’s sweeping the nation by storm. It’s simple in its intent, yet complex in its strategy. The rules are basic: someone takes a dump and wipes their butt with a George, goes outside, and, in an almost James Bond-like manner, slyly positions the soiled bill in a widely observable spot. Then, you wait. And you wait. And you wait. And just as it seems like the round has been a failure, the Ghost of Natty points some dweeb who has been down on his luck all day in its direct path. He picks it up. Success. And you ridicule him. Now, he may drop it quickly, setting up your next foe, and in turn, setting up another round of laughs, or he may pocket it and keep going. In the case of the latter, you don’t see the end result, but you know how it likely unfolds:
“One hotdog, extra relish, and a Clark bar. That’ll be $1.99.”
“Sure thing.” And as this sorry son of a bitch takes out his money to pay the man…
What the fuck?! Ahhhh, shit. It’s shit!!! “Sir, do you take poop?”
Or something along those lines.
Simply put, and to conclude, Poop Dollar is any Delaware County native’s God-given right and privilege to play. Don’t think you’re too mature for it. You’re not. Give it a try. And I guarantee you’ll be the one next time saying, “Hey guys, wanna play?” as you take your wallet out and walk to the bathroom.
-Bunny Stardust
Your pace quickens. You’re practically running, now. Fuck it. I’m gonna run. So, you run. You run so fast that by the time you get up to that clean, crisp dollar bill you don’t realize that it is not, in fact, a clean, crisp dollar bill until you put it in you’re pocket and feel its odd texture between your thumb and index finger, but it’s a…
Oh, MOTHERFUCKER!!!
And then the laughter ensues. You don’t know where it’s coming from. But somewhere, a group of geniuses decided that the only way they could get their jollies was to plant a shit-stained dollar bill out in the public and watch as some hapless fool picks it up and pockets it, thinking it’s his lucky day.
This is Poop Dollar. And it’s sweeping the nation by storm. It’s simple in its intent, yet complex in its strategy. The rules are basic: someone takes a dump and wipes their butt with a George, goes outside, and, in an almost James Bond-like manner, slyly positions the soiled bill in a widely observable spot. Then, you wait. And you wait. And you wait. And just as it seems like the round has been a failure, the Ghost of Natty points some dweeb who has been down on his luck all day in its direct path. He picks it up. Success. And you ridicule him. Now, he may drop it quickly, setting up your next foe, and in turn, setting up another round of laughs, or he may pocket it and keep going. In the case of the latter, you don’t see the end result, but you know how it likely unfolds:
“One hotdog, extra relish, and a Clark bar. That’ll be $1.99.”
“Sure thing.” And as this sorry son of a bitch takes out his money to pay the man…
What the fuck?! Ahhhh, shit. It’s shit!!! “Sir, do you take poop?”
Or something along those lines.
Simply put, and to conclude, Poop Dollar is any Delaware County native’s God-given right and privilege to play. Don’t think you’re too mature for it. You’re not. Give it a try. And I guarantee you’ll be the one next time saying, “Hey guys, wanna play?” as you take your wallet out and walk to the bathroom.
-Bunny Stardust