14 February 2009
103. The Vinings Poo Garden
Slow Old Bastards H3 - 25 January 09
Please humor this undeserving scribe so I may illustrate a point. Imagine yourself walking near your home. Maybe it’s a place you enjoy seeing while you’re out, or it could be the street you use to get back to the delicious beer impatiently waiting for you in the fridge. Either way, it’s a place you hold dear. Now add the following visual:
On the side of this road, maybe next to the sidewalk, you see a young man squatting down. His pants are down around his ankles, and by the look of his twitching legs, you can tell he’s straining quite a bit. He lifts his shirt up to a safe level, and a long, tell-tale log falls to the ground between his legs. A repugnant smell immediately strikes your nose. Once he’s done committing this morbid corn massacre in your area of solace, he stands up with a flourish of his limbs, adjusts his clothes and calmly walks off as if nothing happened. You can’t help but stare in amazement at his steaming man-movement. How could anyone dare do this in public? What an ass wipe.
Is that butt-nugget nastiness seared into your cranium? Good. Because you need the correct visual to fully comprehend how irritated some people get about dog owners who don’t pick up after their furry friends busting ass on public land. If you ever let Fido fire off his keester cruise missles while you’re walking and don’t bother picking them up, what’s the difference between you and the guy exploding his colon cannonballs near your home? Nothing. If you think it’s any different, maybe you’re justifying the difference by convincing yourself that you’re powerless to control your dog’s asstastic anus. While that’s true, you can still control the shittilicious situation: take a bomb bag with you. This craptacular concept is what makes the Vinings Poo Garden so amazing.
To get to this formidable fecal fantasy, go halfway up Mt. Wilkinson Blvd. and down Cumberland Club Dr. The street starts off safely enough… there’s a quaint gazebo on the right, as well as the newish condos which brought about the swift death of one of the best pieces of shiggy in the area. A dryish creek on your left cuts a steep channel between two business complexes, and draws you to that side of the street. As you continue your stroll, you feel like you just went back in time 20 years. The farthest business complex has that aging aura, and you can see where the street ends at an older gated apartment complex.
This is where you first notice the smell; one similar to standing in an overused Porta John without the nostril-saving odor-eliminating chemicals. It’s dizzying. You quickly look for the source and realize it isn’t a source, singular. Try sources, plural. Next to the sidewalk, on the pine straw-covered patch of ground next to the creek, is The Vinings Poo Garden.
It’s like Satan Claus was delivering rectal releases on his satanic sleigh, but his bowel bag exploded over Vinings and scattered doggie logs all over this tiny chunk of land. But there’s one telling difference between that imaginary scenario and the real one: as soon as you lay eyes on this brutally brown wasteland, you are struck by how LONG people have been letting their pooches drop last night’s dinner here. Some of the stool chunks are white and nearly fossilized. Between these Jurassic jewels and the much-nastier new ones, there is every single age of doggie dropping you can imagine. You can actually doo an archaeological experiment here. The craziest part is that the people who are NOT picking all these digestive-tract divots are the ones who live nearby. Some of them even have to walk right by these stench-laden lawn sausages every day on the way back to their apartments. Did it start as a joke? Are these putrid puppy pickles now a piece of community pride? These are the questions that invade your brain as you’re looking at this vast field of feces.
I would have never thought to draw attention to this mass of mess if it hadn’t been for me haring an SOB live and carrying chalk. I passed by the Garden and was hit by that now-familiar fuming fragrance that fights with your olfactory sanity, and realized I had plenty of sidewalk to create a sort of septic scenic view. I was maybe 30 seconds from the On-In, but I saw Hired Snatch walking around the corner. He excitedly yelled something and started running toward me. “WELCOME TO THE VININGS POO GARDEN” I swiftly but clearly wrote in pastel chalk right next to all that toxic hell candy, then sprinted around the corner to the end. And that’s how the hash was introduced to Atlanta’s shrine of shit.
As long as these rover rockets remain, dogs will be tempted to unleash their loads. So I guess the only think I can say is…
To be colontinued.
Please humor this undeserving scribe so I may illustrate a point. Imagine yourself walking near your home. Maybe it’s a place you enjoy seeing while you’re out, or it could be the street you use to get back to the delicious beer impatiently waiting for you in the fridge. Either way, it’s a place you hold dear. Now add the following visual:
On the side of this road, maybe next to the sidewalk, you see a young man squatting down. His pants are down around his ankles, and by the look of his twitching legs, you can tell he’s straining quite a bit. He lifts his shirt up to a safe level, and a long, tell-tale log falls to the ground between his legs. A repugnant smell immediately strikes your nose. Once he’s done committing this morbid corn massacre in your area of solace, he stands up with a flourish of his limbs, adjusts his clothes and calmly walks off as if nothing happened. You can’t help but stare in amazement at his steaming man-movement. How could anyone dare do this in public? What an ass wipe.
Is that butt-nugget nastiness seared into your cranium? Good. Because you need the correct visual to fully comprehend how irritated some people get about dog owners who don’t pick up after their furry friends busting ass on public land. If you ever let Fido fire off his keester cruise missles while you’re walking and don’t bother picking them up, what’s the difference between you and the guy exploding his colon cannonballs near your home? Nothing. If you think it’s any different, maybe you’re justifying the difference by convincing yourself that you’re powerless to control your dog’s asstastic anus. While that’s true, you can still control the shittilicious situation: take a bomb bag with you. This craptacular concept is what makes the Vinings Poo Garden so amazing.
To get to this formidable fecal fantasy, go halfway up Mt. Wilkinson Blvd. and down Cumberland Club Dr. The street starts off safely enough… there’s a quaint gazebo on the right, as well as the newish condos which brought about the swift death of one of the best pieces of shiggy in the area. A dryish creek on your left cuts a steep channel between two business complexes, and draws you to that side of the street. As you continue your stroll, you feel like you just went back in time 20 years. The farthest business complex has that aging aura, and you can see where the street ends at an older gated apartment complex.
This is where you first notice the smell; one similar to standing in an overused Porta John without the nostril-saving odor-eliminating chemicals. It’s dizzying. You quickly look for the source and realize it isn’t a source, singular. Try sources, plural. Next to the sidewalk, on the pine straw-covered patch of ground next to the creek, is The Vinings Poo Garden.
It’s like Satan Claus was delivering rectal releases on his satanic sleigh, but his bowel bag exploded over Vinings and scattered doggie logs all over this tiny chunk of land. But there’s one telling difference between that imaginary scenario and the real one: as soon as you lay eyes on this brutally brown wasteland, you are struck by how LONG people have been letting their pooches drop last night’s dinner here. Some of the stool chunks are white and nearly fossilized. Between these Jurassic jewels and the much-nastier new ones, there is every single age of doggie dropping you can imagine. You can actually doo an archaeological experiment here. The craziest part is that the people who are NOT picking all these digestive-tract divots are the ones who live nearby. Some of them even have to walk right by these stench-laden lawn sausages every day on the way back to their apartments. Did it start as a joke? Are these putrid puppy pickles now a piece of community pride? These are the questions that invade your brain as you’re looking at this vast field of feces.
I would have never thought to draw attention to this mass of mess if it hadn’t been for me haring an SOB live and carrying chalk. I passed by the Garden and was hit by that now-familiar fuming fragrance that fights with your olfactory sanity, and realized I had plenty of sidewalk to create a sort of septic scenic view. I was maybe 30 seconds from the On-In, but I saw Hired Snatch walking around the corner. He excitedly yelled something and started running toward me. “WELCOME TO THE VININGS POO GARDEN” I swiftly but clearly wrote in pastel chalk right next to all that toxic hell candy, then sprinted around the corner to the end. And that’s how the hash was introduced to Atlanta’s shrine of shit.
As long as these rover rockets remain, dogs will be tempted to unleash their loads. So I guess the only think I can say is…
To be colontinued.
# posted by L&F @ 11:24 AM 
