Tuesday Is No Love Day

The quote of the day: "Tuesday is no love day." Said by a guy on a bike, making his rickety way down Central Park West, with a battered orange backpack and a thick heavy rusted chain crisscrossing his back. He looked like he smelled, and like he knew it too, filled with rancor and sourness, his anger thick in his voice as he said "Tuesday."

I was filled with apprehension. I never got to meet our cyclist mugger neighbor from last night, which is a relief, believe me, but I wondered if this was the daytime version, or if indeed they were the same one. And if he and the night rider were one and the same, why the rancor? Was he coming off some bad crack? Were his earnings less than he'd hoped for? Did he corner the tourists staying at the youth hostels, or did he get one of the dog walkers, who threw an eyeful of steaming retriever poop in his face?

Which reminds me (I told you that I, Tiresias, would be back to more basic fecal matters) of my recent conversation with a man on the way to the dog run. He didn't come any closer than five feet, but he gave me two email addresses after asking me if I had a good memory (not at all, but I smiled real big). The whole time I held a fresh sack of hot turd fresh from my dog's ass and it gave off a prodigiously sharp smell. I grow queasy just thinking about it. But no one will ever come close to you if you've just bagged some poor dog's poop. Think about it. Great way to keep your neighbors at bay.

Which also reminds me that I have an update from Hobos Inc. Headquarters. The same woman took a roaring (as in squirting noisy) dump next to our unfortunate Cass this afternoon, and again left without washing her hands. What is this? HR has been notified, and we will have more updates on how to deal with this matter as they come.