The other day, I started my morning run in a foul mood from some news I had recently received. About a mile into my workout, I see a hipster dude in Buddy Holly glasses and skinny jeans walking his dog about a half block ahead of me. The hipster is yapping away on his iphone and doesn’t seem to be paying attention when his dog shits on the well-tended lawn of a house they are passing.
I don’t think much of this until I see what the hipster does next. He looks down, sees the big pile of shit his dog has just ejected, turns back to his phone and starts to walk off. No effort to pick up the shit, no sign of guilt or even an effort to hide his crime—it’s obvious this is a typical morning routine with this dude and he’s obviously gotten away with it so far.
Well, not this morning. Not on my watch.
So I run up to hipster dude. “Hey, man, your dog just defecated on that lawn, you need to clean it up,” I say to him.
The hipster juts his finger out in front of my face. His phone conversation is clearly more important than anything I have to say. If I was feeling grumpy before, I’m starting to grow enraged now. All bets are off.






















