S#!tpurse Mondays

Back in the days of the famed Jockey Club we had a tradition called S#!tpurse Mondays.
The Jockey was our home away from home, a crusty shrine to all things Wrong about punk rock. A brick bunker with faded trophies, peeling bordello wallpaper, bathrooms that required a HAZMAT suit, pool tables used for much more than shooting billiards and the greatest jukebox Portland has ever seen.
A haven for misfits, criminals on the run and the terminally unemployed.
Darren was a 45-year-old mohawked adolescent who ran the place during the day. Every Monday, at least during the summer, he would produce an empty purse, usually one left behind by some video-crack hooker, or picked up off the street.
Said purse was then filled with dog excrement, and strategically placed at the bus stop on the corner, which could be seen from the front door.
Without failure, a dope fiend or street wretch would usually look around, snatch the purse and take off with their 'prize.'
The best one ever was when some thug, thinking he was getting away with his crime, took a look around, snuck the purse under his shirt just as the bus was pulling up.
He got on and everyone went out to see. Within a block we could hear the screaming and cursing as that purse flew out the window over I-5 at 30 miles an hour.