An open letter to the pooper-scooper lady..

I just wanted a slice of pizza. It sounded good to me at the time. And so that's why I was at Costco for lunch. A quick slice of cheese. The sun came out today, so I thought I’d sit outside and read my book. And I looked up and saw a very attractive lady, yourself, with a dog.

I know next to nothing about dogs. I have one at home in Los Angeles. Hobbes. But I couldn't tell you what it was. It was medium-sized. Not the tiny, mousy, barky, hateable dogs that gay guys and freakish old women have. And not the oversized dogs that paranoid ladies and loser guys have. Just a medium-sized dog. I barely even remember the color. Brownish.

So, you're attractive and all. And the pizza was quite nice. I'm not even looking for a girl because I have one. I married a lovely woman. A great smile and she makes me laugh everyday. And she's great and I'm all set for life, which is really nice. And I don't cheat. Won't cheat. Not in me. I'm not the type. But at this moment I was eating my pizza, and watching an attractive woman and her dog. And the newspaper she was holding.

You really have a lovely body. You're a very attractive lady. Some day you'll meet and marry someone. Not me of course. As I've mentioned, I'm spoken for. But some day. But not that day. And I can imagine not any day in the near future, as long as someone watches you stoop down, hold a newspaper under your dog's ass, and wait for poop. Patiently waiting for poop. And the dog obliged, as they do, delivering a steamy load onto the newsprint poop plate you so casually held under your dog's ass. The pizza, as you can imagine, was ruined. As were my memories of you.

My dear, lose the dog. Or risk dying alone.