There are three basic kinds of luck in the world today: good, bad and plain old dumb luck.

Good luck can include pretty much anything. Finding a pot of gold is nice. So is stumbling onto an old friend after getting lost in an airport.

A life free of major illness could be considered a product of good luck too, as healthy living and medication aren't enough these days.

Dumb luck is usually just good or bad luck gone wild - the kind of situation that makes you shake your head at the improbability and laugh like a giddy school girl. Like getting struck by lightning only to have it recharge your pocket calculator or having a massive coronary at a heart surgeon's convention.

It's not always a pleasant situation, but the end result is universally fantastic.

And then there is bad luck. You might be surprised to find out that bad luck only involves one thing: shoes. More specifically, shoes which have stepped in something frightfully disgusting.

With that last bit in mind, it's safe to say I got lucky this weekend.

It happened somewhere on Pioneer Street in Cooperstown. After snapping a quick photo of two lovely ladies setting up Christmas lights Sunday afternoon, I decided to hit the Clark Sports Center for a couple of quick rounds of bowling.

Down in the alley, as I reached around to pull off one my snazzy new blue running shoes, my hand inexplicably slid right off the heel.

Puzzled, I looked down and saw my palm covered in muddy brown goo.

At which point I did what 96.3 percent of all men and 1.5 percent of women would do in the same situation - I stuck my hand in front of my schnozz and took a big whiff.

You can probably guess by now that it wasn't mud. It was dog poop - bad luck in excrement form.

Now, I don't have a dog and I've spent precious little time around them, but as soon as that acrid stench - smelling like a mixture of rotting cat vomit and moldy earwax - hit my brain, I knew exactly what it was.

For a few seconds, I sat there sort of dumbfounded. What exactly is the proper etiquette for a situation like this? How do you handle dog poop in a public place? About sixteen possibilities flitted through my brain, fifteen of which involved a mixture of irrational laughter, tears and vomiting.

Shaking off the stupor, I chose the sixteenth option and carefully - and with one hand - took off the soiled sneakers, put on my bowling shoes and walked out of the alley to the bathroom.

Of the assorted thoughts racing through my mind as I headed for the bathroom to wash this vile substance from my hand, I remember three: "There's dog poop on my hand and shoes; this is bad" (summarized at the time with one four-letter word), "I'd love to give someone I don't like a high-five" and "I really hope someone chooses now to steal my new shoes."

After dousing my hands with a gallon of scalding water and a fistful of soap, I calmly walked back to my lane as if nothing happened. And then I bowled three games, pretending the entire time that I didn't notice the peculiar odor wafting from underneath my seat.

A valid question at this point would be "Why didn't you do something with your nasty shoes, sicko?" to which I would reply "How about a high-five?"

If the shoes in question were old and decrepit the story would have ended here with a garbage can and a 21-gun salute. Unfortunately, these were relatively new and still had that sweatshop shimmer characteristic of shoes made in Third World countries. Not that American businesses would ever import products made by unfairly compensated laborers, right?

Anyway, I'll spare you the gruesome specifics, but after trying to clean those puppies off I have a newfound respect for tread-less sneakers. And pooper-scoopers.