Dear goodness, children. Sit down on your little story-time carpets. Criss-cross applesauce. This is Grandma Edna, and I have something to discuss that came to me after three glasses of my "medicine" sherry last Thursday evening.
You see, Buster—my thirteen-year-old Yorkie with a nervous stomach—and I take our walks every day, rain or shine or the day the cable man didn't show up and I cried in the pantry. I bought this Leak-proof poop bags for daily walks package—ASIN B07DHVDPY7, $6.99, which I consider very reasonable for a dozen bags that promise separation between one mammal's matter and another mammal's shoes. They're called "Post-it Poop Bags" in the listing. Cute name. Very catalog-y. Reminds me of the little yellows Francis used to leave on my coffee mug during our forty-year standoff about matched socks.
Now, here is the sentence I must strangle out of myself like a bad gas pain: I wondered, in a moment of late-night web surfing that could only be described as "the wifi is working, let's ruin the remaining parts of a life mostly well-lived," whether you could turn these bags inside-out and explore new, frankly aggressive dimensions of "pet supplies rectal use."
So. Yes, Virginia. There is a Santa Claus, and he wants you to drop trou and cram a gusseted, biodegrable produce holder where the sun does not achieve permanent record status. And this specific product—details aside—does offer something. The plastic isn't crinkly enough to alert the neighbors, who already suspect something because Roger next door caught me arranging the garden gnomes according to a color-based numerical system.
Let's speak frankly about comfort testing, because you must be the thorough type if you clicked on this paragraph. The advertised dimensions—which, can I be honest? I forgot exactly—present a satisfying girth. There is a drawstring closure. The moment of engagement provides a crisp pow! like a green bean opening in June. The bio. The chemistry. Grandma Edna giving her all for the scientific record. I will grant precisely that: the Post-it poop bags under $6.99 deliver security that your dignity might stay inside where you folded it. I was surprised. Trying this was a mistake someone described as "bringing the bag to the inside, quite literally," and I admit no continued trust in conventional relationships.
Cons? Okay, yes. Hot. Unpleasantly hot. Imagine folding a baked potato inside an old tube sock and then existing within six inches of that described act. The gusset does eventually decide it wants you inside you first, a philosophical reversal you're not prepared for at T-minus five seconds to wobble-hobble toward the bathroom. Also: these bags are charcoal filtered allegedly for odor cleanup. Honey, the process opens rivers of smell that charcoal never signed treaty about. It's a mushroom jam your senses will pick by hand forever.
I can find this on Amazon, yes. Should you buy Post-it poop bags? Look. At $6.99, fill your cart. Expand your horizons. Accept flaws as good comedic garnish. Every kindergarten family feud class teaches apologies and forgiveness. So from the stool of my learning—legs apart, memories aching—know that this product offered both and cost nothing compared to the Roto-Rooter bill.
