Behold the origins of my dismal errand… to Erewhon.
In an effort to improve my health and not commit suicide, I’ve been exercising more the past few months. It feels good to get out early and hate the thing you’re doing to yourself more than yourself. Sometimes, jogging, you can even imagine you’re going places.
Such was the case in Studio City the other day when, having finally hit some kind of stride, and feeling a little hot headed, I beelined across Ventura Boulevard, faking out a speeding Ferrari before blasting off a red curb, sailing over a boxwood shrub, and—inhaling my first hit of runner’s high in a long time—I planted down firmly on an eight-pound mound of glistening wet canine excrement.
Crap, I thought as the flattened tread of my New Balance went juicing along its oozy lubrications. This isn’t what I wanted…
Enjoy this first installment of the four-part series, “Expanding Erewhonian Nightmare.”
All four chapters of this “singular, hilarious, and groundbreaking study” (The New York Times) are available to read on Substack at Dumpster Fires.
Subscribe and listen to Dumpster Fires on Apple Podcasts & Spotify.
Stay tuned for further audio episodes.
Share this post