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Op-ed: I’m a Monument Avenue Purebred and You Play Cornhole Where I Shit

Hey you. Yeah, you.

Just who do you think you are? I may just look like an innocent purebred with perfect lineage I can trace back 14 generations, but I’ve got something to say to you.

Every year, as spring slowly transitions into summer, you Richmond millennials emerge out of your boutique apartments like black bears coming out of hibernation to bask in the lovely warm weather. And every weekend, you all dress in your khaki shorts and sandals and flock to the grassy median of Monument Avenue to lounge out for hours at a time. You take up all of the space, converse about topics like which brewery you went to last night and how awkward that Tinder date you went on the week before was, and then you play that stupid game you humans call “cornhole.”

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Well, I want you to know, I’ve got a problem with that. A big problem. Because that inner city oasis you choose to occupy every weekend afternoon is MY oasis. It is my sparking white porcelain seat that I eagerly turn to to relieve myself multiple times a day.

It’s where I go to shit, and you have absolutely zero business being there without my permission.

You see, when you and your cronies stumble onto the grass at any given time, you’re effectively trespassing. On my territory. On the turf which I have claimed many times before and will claim many times again by virtue of pissing all over the trees, the grass, and occasionally the Jefferson Davis Monument. And honestly, intruding on my land once or twice, here and there, is no big deal. But EVERY weekend for hours at a time?

Get the hell out of here.

I don’t know who exactly you lot think you are, but all of you are effectively on notice. You don’t just get to stroll onto my turf, kick back, drink that craft beer garbage, and engage in the mundane activity of throwing a bean bag into a wooden board with a hole without repercussions.

You all suck at that game, by the way. And for those of you who don’t suck, what the hell is the matter with you? Is that all you do? Get a life. Or start hurling sticks down the street that you have to bring back on all fours. Or maybe try catching frisbees with your mouth without spilling your beer while airborne. Trust me, both are way more rewarding than tossing that stupid bag through a circle.

So here is your one and only warning: I, the dominant purebred, the neighborhood alpha, hereby order all of you intruding humans to abandon the grounds on which I shit. Take your summertime nonsense to the VMFA, or to Short Pump, or wherever. But leave the median and all of its glory to me.

Oh, and don’t think you can tempt me into compassion by giving me affection in the form of petting, scratches, or head boops. You are insulting the intelligence of a majestic canine who just wants to take back what is rightfully his — the exclusive shitting grounds.

I’ll be watching you.

Fancy The Peedmont? We fancy you back, so you should probably visit our online store.

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