Tales of Bob Dean #4
On a steamy afternoon in
mid-July, a gloomy Bob Dean and I walked his brain damaged Great Dane
along the FDR Drive. Bob Dean had been expecting hundreds of
followers to wait with him in the lobby of his wife’s condo on July
5th, but to his shock, nobody had arrived. So he was feeling
kind of mopey and nothing cheered him up like the porky aroma of
midtown joggers mixed with the tangy slurry of the east
river. And I’d promised him a hot dog from the Papaya King,
so he was feeling a little punchy with anticipation.
When we reached the Papaya King (“Tastier Than Filet Mignon!”), the Great Dane assumed the familiar position, and with much heaving and straining, hunkered down to produce an admirable work of art. Being a good citizen, Bob Dean lunged for the dog’s production, his hand wrapped in a plastic bag.
To my horror, while Bob Dean was busy rooting around under the Great Dane’s still arched rump, a second magnificent production was unloaded onto his naked arm! But Bob Dean was unphased, and paused to gather that creation as well.
The dog shuffled forward a few feet, and Bob Dean, ever vigilant in his war against littering, scooted along the ground after the beast, eagerly collecting these offerings which spattered his cuffs and shoes and the bare skin of his arms and hands, but there was no stopping him. Despite my protests, and the pungent reek in the hot summer sun, Bob Dean filled the bag and yet greedily grabbed at the dog’s every new contribution.
Great Danes produce a lot of poop, and a display like that will put a person off their hot dogs. I cried out to him, “Bob Dean, why are you doing this? The bag is full! You can’t fit any more Great Dane waste in that little sack! Stop a minute and get a new bag!” but my pleas fell on deaf ears.
At last, the mentally retarded Great Dane appeared to have satisfied its urges as the last of the droppings hit the face of Bob Dean’s wristwatch. Bob Dean mopped his sweaty brow with his funky wrist, and replied, “I am like the colon of this defective Great Dane. How can I gobble the weiner unless first the ass is emptied?”
When we reached the Papaya King (“Tastier Than Filet Mignon!”), the Great Dane assumed the familiar position, and with much heaving and straining, hunkered down to produce an admirable work of art. Being a good citizen, Bob Dean lunged for the dog’s production, his hand wrapped in a plastic bag.
To my horror, while Bob Dean was busy rooting around under the Great Dane’s still arched rump, a second magnificent production was unloaded onto his naked arm! But Bob Dean was unphased, and paused to gather that creation as well.
The dog shuffled forward a few feet, and Bob Dean, ever vigilant in his war against littering, scooted along the ground after the beast, eagerly collecting these offerings which spattered his cuffs and shoes and the bare skin of his arms and hands, but there was no stopping him. Despite my protests, and the pungent reek in the hot summer sun, Bob Dean filled the bag and yet greedily grabbed at the dog’s every new contribution.
Great Danes produce a lot of poop, and a display like that will put a person off their hot dogs. I cried out to him, “Bob Dean, why are you doing this? The bag is full! You can’t fit any more Great Dane waste in that little sack! Stop a minute and get a new bag!” but my pleas fell on deaf ears.
At last, the mentally retarded Great Dane appeared to have satisfied its urges as the last of the droppings hit the face of Bob Dean’s wristwatch. Bob Dean mopped his sweaty brow with his funky wrist, and replied, “I am like the colon of this defective Great Dane. How can I gobble the weiner unless first the ass is emptied?”