So, imagine this…
You’re out at 10PM on a clear December night, walking your big ole’ city-dog. Great dane, pit bull, tibetan mastiff; you know, some breed obviously most suited for tight space constraints and not prone to health concerns that will lead to suffering or upset an already-precarious financial situation. As is tradition in New Westminster, particularly the low-rises.
Anyhow, you’re feeling all down and morose.
Wait, can I still say morose? Is that bad now?
Well, you’re feeling all morose, and you’re walking around letting your dog sniff, lick, and piss on everything in sight. You’re thinking about how nobody loves you, and you’re acutely aware of when the next episode of your favorite hyper-specifically-themed shittily-subtitled East Asian anime cartoon show comes out, and by this I mean the location of the nearest bridge.
To help take your mind off how much of an unloved bell-end trash-monger you really are, you pull out your phone. On total accident, you hit the little button, the red one, that one that holds onto the YouTubes. In an instant there are some huge melons jiggling on your screen and illuminating your surroundings. Your dopamine-starved brain twigs at the sight, and when those there melons are cut open and juiced for the patrons of a spa for wealthy vacationing Eastern Europenois you are absolutely riveted. Part of your brain is lo-jacked by the algorithm and there’s no going back tonight.
You flick your thumb and are instantly onto the next video.
Then the next. Then the next. Then the next. Then the next. Then the next. Then the next. Then the next. Then the next. Then the next. Then the next. Then the next. Then the next. Then the next. Then the next. Then the next. Then the next. Then the next. Then the next. Then the next. Then the next. Then the next. Then the next. Then the next. Then the next. Then the next. Then the next. Then the next. Then the next. Then the next. Then the next. Then the next. Then the next. Then the next. Then the next. Then the next. Then the next. Then the next. Then the next. Then the next. Then the next. Then the next. Then the next. Then the next. Then the next. Then the next. Then the next. Then the next. Then the next. Then the next. Then the next. Then the next. Then the next. Then the next. Then the next. Then the next. Then the next. Then the next. Then the next. Then the next. Then the next. Then the next. Then the next. Then the next. Then the next. Then the next. Then the next. Then the next. Then the next. Then the next. Then the next. Then the next. Then the next. Then the next. Then the next. Then the next. Then the next. Then the next. Then the next. Then the next. Then the next. Then the next. Then the next. Then the next. Then the next. Then the next. Then the next. Then the next.
Then the next. Then the next. Then the next.
Then the next.
While you’re flicking your screen like Juan Valdez flicks beans, your dog’s found a pile of excrement and is stoked as absolute fuck. Rover goes in for a hefty sniff, overwhelmed with the heady aroma and thick, comforting nose-feel. Quiet, understated, present, elegant, the kind of turd that could carry information as significant as the dictionary, the Magna Carta, or the DSM-5.
You have no idea about all that because you’re learning from an AI voiceover the 100 best things about 2010s movies you never thought to ask, you’ve had enough of the cold, and your phone battery’s running low anyway. Without taking your eyes off the hot MILFs in your area, you give the leash you’re holding a yank and crank your body around to walk home. The tug on the leash upturns Rover’s balance and he takes a step to stabilize himself, squishing a deep paw-print in the otherwise model turd.
The next day your apartment reeks like dog-shit. You don’t notice it because you’re too focused on the reels, and anyway you’ve got a shot sense of smell what with the years of cocaine abuse and cigarette-inhaling. It works out, I guess, because nobody ever comes to visit you except JWs doing their rounds and the occasional census-taker. You’re perpetually alone except for your dog, living in an apartment that smells like dogshit, and you’re still unloved.
What is the point of all this? Pay attention and pick up after your god damn dog.