I'm posting on DadCentric today, about my dreams of revenge on a pooper scooper scofflaw. Here's how it starts:
I'm one of the biggest confrontation avoiders you could ever hope to meet.
I believe that there are always better ways to deal with problems involving the conflicting desires of other people and myself than by facing them head on. On the rare occasion that I do stand up for my convictions, I'm pretty easily convinced that I'm being unreasonable and insensitive to others.
A more charitable description of my interpersonal skills would be that I'm "diplomatic," a trait that I come by honest, as they say, since my dad was an arms-reduction treaty negotiator before he retired to become a ski bum.
So I'm all about making compromises and coming to a peaceful solution, even if it takes time, patience, and effort.
But lately, an issue has arisen that has me rankled. One might even say that I'm incensed.
The truth is that I have been having violent fantasies: dark, lurid imaginings of vengeance on the scale of a Samurai movie or Spaghetti Western.
And the object of my twisted daydreams?
The motherfucker who keeps letting his dog shit on the tiny strip of grass between the sidewalk and the curb in front of our house. The sliver of lawn on which we stand while loading our children into the minivan. Sometimes it's not even on the grass. It's been on the curb, on the sidewalk, and even in our overgrown flowerbed.
Seriously, who does that?