Strolling upstairs after watching Lorena Bobbit on Oprah -- wife had the remote -- I glance out the window at a sight that causes immediate panic.
There's a huge pile of chicken manure in my vegetable garden!
For those who don't know their bird waste, not a big deal.
But for people who've been there and dung that, chicken manure is not just a big deal, it's a big, strong odor.
It's fantastic fertilizer, but the stuff reeks 10.6 times worst than the price of beer and 92.8 times stronger than hockey gear.
Seriously, it's insufferable.
Once this is around, you almost want to quarantine the block.
Having a pile of it in your backyard is not going to endear you with the neighbours.
And that puts me in a state.
It's dusk, and I'm too pooped to work a mountain of manure into the garden.
But I don't want to cause a big stink in the neighbourhood by leaving it there.
Ding! An internal wrestling match between right and wrong begins.
A heavy rain settles it.
I'm not messing around with that crap now.
I'm expecting the neighbours to form a circle around the house with placards, angry enough to go all Lorena Bobbitt on me.
If not that, I'm sure there's a call coming.
The phone rings.
Expecting to be in deep do-do, I take a deep breath and answer.
It's my father-in-law, thankfully.
Turns out he was talking to the guy who delivered the dung.
It's from a horse, he says, not a chicken.
And even OK with the crappy weekend I'll have shoveling it.