I found it oddly satisfying to dump freshly-scooped kitty poop into a garbage bag containing, of all things, a discarded Teac 5¼-inch floppy drive. If I were some kind of a Dadaist art wank, I might have had the resultant pile installed in some sort of über-chic Postmodern gallery; the kind of place where emaciated young men in black turtleneck tops periodically adjust their horn-rimmed glasses while stroking their goatees, intoning something deep to their hopelessly detached semi-goth lady companions. “The banality of feline waste combined with outdated technology… it speaks to me!”

Upon viewing my masterpiece, some will openly weep with joy. It will remind some of that scene with the plastic bag in American Beauty. Others will cite it as a reason to give me a fat grant from the National Endowment for the Arts. Still others will want to name their children after me.

But most will point out that it’s crap.