If you don't pick up after you're dog, you're going to hell

Mick McKinnon floated comfortably into his fifties. He was a fifty year-old by the time he was a three year-old, insisting his parents get their money back on his soggy green eggs and ham at Denny's. Now that the big Five Oh was officially here, he was just done. Done. No more trying. No more trying to date, no more working for promotions at Granbull Construction Corp, no more paying child support. Life was a breezy downward slope now, and he only needed to sled into pension.
You wouldn't be surprised to hear that Mick was done changing. He was the type of guy who’d rant on his cell phone about his new liver growth in a crowded Metra car, and at the highest possible volume before you'd consider it shouting level. He was the type of bloke who'd use the right emergency lane in a highway traffic jam. But his own undoing began when he bought a puppy from Pet Heaven, one of those retail stores that probably get their dogs from mills. A growing Rottweiler named Molly, he never bothered to put a leash on her, nor pick up her messes in the neighborhood. After all, Mick thought, Molly was an animal and didn’t deserve to be bound, and her poop was as natural as the Earth. "Hey," he'd said before. "We all put our shit in the ocean, and I can't let my dog fertilize our grass?"
In the dark of the early morning, you couldn't even make out that Mick's hair was graying in strange patches instead of all at once. In his den, he sat down besides his late mother's oak bureau, the bottom drawer already open. He picked out pieces of the damp tobacco and began to roll them. Mick loved his finely-rolled tobacco joints first thing in the morning, when the moon was still out, when the sun was only a slight shimmer.

Molly sat at his feet, looking up at him, her tail bobbing left and right.

"Just a moment, Moll."

He finally finished rolling his juicy tobacco. He chuckled to himself, thinking of how genuis he truly was. You see, most every tobacco aficionado clamps their tobacco in a humidor and for years he thought they were right. But ever since the one day he accidentally left his tobacco exposed to the air, it's gotten richer and tastier.

"I should write a book." On what? He thought. "General life." He nodded to himself.

Outside, the air was crisp. Spring was yet around the bend. He greedily sucked the last bit of the amber-flavored tobacco and flicked it onto a neighbor's lawn. Molly sniffed the tiny piece of paper and then squatted.

Mick remembered the last time that he left his dog's doo on Mrs. Schlivk's lawn. She came running after him, throwing the feces at him in a wrapped up newspaper. "PICK UP AFTER YOUR FUCKING DOG, MICK!!!" and after he slammed his front door behind him, he could still hear her shouting. "YOU'RE GOING TO HELL, DIRTBAG! YOU'RE GOING TO BURN IN HELL!" If there was ever a moment that solidified Mick leaving his dog's solidifides, it was this moment. Other neighbors had made little passive-aggressive comments; the people who wanted to say something but were too passive and afraid.
"Molly, come back! Molly..." The dog ran up Schlivk's lawn, sniffing underneath her front window. She'd never gone this far into someone else's yard before. She bent over and delivered yet another pile.
Mick squinted his eyes. His dog had really changed coming into her adulthood. Her demeaner was sturdier. She seemed to prance around like a show dog. She even took her bowel movements wherever she liked. Mick smiled. She was like the daughter he never had (besides the daughter he actually did have, who calls him once a year, on Christmas.)

The next day, his dog's feces were on his door. Not his doorstep, they were smeered all over his front door. Mrs. Schlivk yelled at him from her car later in the day. "I can't wait for you to burn in hell!" It made Mick chuckle; living outside social norms, a purer state, sure had its challenges.

Mick began smoking his tobacco more and more. Keeping it exposed to oxygen was the best thing for it. About a week later, he was done puffing through his second tobacco roll of the morning already. He had nearly tripled his intake. He woke up a bit late this morning, and the sun was already coming out.

He looked at his hands. The tobacco had left a bit of a smear. He went into the kitchen and washed his hands in the sink. When he returned, he gasped.

"MOLLY!"

Molly was squatting over his lower drawer.

"Get away from there!" He shooed the dog away, but it was too late; she pooped onto his tobacco. Aggravated and shouting, he turned on the den light, for the first time in perhaps months. He grabbed a nearby Kleenex and bent over the drawer.

"Jesus....Jesus... JESUS!"

This fresh crap wasn't the only one in the drawer. Old remnants of drying feces lay in clumps all along his tobacco stash.

His stomach clenched. Many of the remants had his finger prints in them. Clumps were missing. He looked at the joint between his fingers. He quickly unwrapped it. Inside the joint was smeared with brown mess.

He couldn't make it to the kitchen sink before vomiting onto his stove. He emptied the contents of his breakfast, which was smeared with brown. Thoughts began running through his head.

"I should have picked it up...Should have... ughh... picked it all up..."

That's right. For the fact is that Molly grew to feel she could poop anywhere. Afterall, she learns her attitudes from her master, who lets her do it. Not only that, but Molly has always associated the ground outside, where she can poop, with Mick's flicked tobacco joints. Thus, she felt more than compelled to poop right into Mick's tobacco. Nay, it felt natural.

So remember, if you're a "Mick," that type of person who thinks the world is your oyster, that your dog's mess is someone else's issue, you deserve to ingest your dog's feces and you WILL. And Mrs. Schlivk is right; you WILL go to hell in addition.