Why do I find other people’s toilet habits so amusing? Why do I find it utterly hilarious when I find someone else’s log floating in the murky depths of the toilet after an unexpected reappearance? Why is it the funniest thing in the world when someone accidentally let’s go of a huge guff when they do a side stretch? Why do I crease up with laughter when someone slips off for a sneaky poo and leaves the mother of all smells lingering for days as well as a 4 inch skid mark? And why do I go running to the scene of the crime when someone else discovers another’s evil deed? Why do I need this further proof that someone I know has just done a crap? Why do I care about anyone else’s shitting routine? I know it’s not just me. I’ve seen someone leave half their bowel in the toilet and they didn’t bank on a re visit so when the crime was discovered and announced to the room, every person (including the perpetrator who shall remain nameless) ran to the toilet to witness the carnage and to point and jeer and feel safe in the knowledge that they now they know what [nameless’s] turds look like when they are extracted from the bowels of hell (the term ‘short and curly’ is not only reserved for pubes you know…). It’s weird. It’s weird how I never laugh at rehearsed jokes but these moments of spontaneous crap are enough to send The Fee rolling around on her fat gut until it hurts so bad it feels like my insides are being cement mixed. Only today I was in such a messed up, creased face state over constipation. Thankfully I have never had hard excrement sitting around in my belly for 2 weeks. So you’d think I could never imagine the pain of sleeping on your gut, which is harder than a cock after viagra or that I couldn’t imagine the sheer strength you’d use trying to shoogle your rock out with or the colour of red your face would go with all the effort. You’d also be forgiven for thinking that I could never understand what it must be like to shove a nozzle up your arse and squeeze out goo to numb your back passage to prepare it for the eventual birth. However, thanks to the visuals I was provided with, not only can I feel all these traumas in my head, but I am also stuck with the image of the constipatee forcing out a rectangular shaped turd whilst grabbing onto the side of the bowl and praying for a girl. I can see the super pooper’s face all crinkled like a foreskin as the largest, most abnormally shaped jobbie (what happened to the curved edges is what I want to know??!) finally relieves itself from an unaccommodating backside. Finally ridding yourself of such a mass of pressure must have felt like an orgasm. Imagine the little face light up with pure delight, like the first time those fingers went a wandering, as Tracey Turd made her entry into the world. Also imagine the major amount of back splashing that must have occurred. The blonde hair was now mousy brown with a tinge of chocolate. Apparently it only took two extra flushes to rid the house of such an immense poop. It’s a shame it was the mother who had the job of double flushage as the perpetrator was so ecstatic to have dislodged the cushion of shit that had taken up residence for two weeks that he/she was now able to eat, gyrate and wank and so left his/her mother to fend off the attack of the 6ft Poop. All the pooper heard was, ‘Jesus Christ it’s back again’ and then finally, ‘ah sweet relief. I never want to see your oblong of brown ever again’. I don’t know what happened to that jumbo job (although I’m sure it should have been retrieved from the toilet and cut up and sold to stoners) but there’s no way something that solid would ever have dissolved and it’s possible that it’s the only thing keeping the house up. Although, there are rumours that Mr Brown is now a small continent or far off planet with it’s own brown residents doing their own brown things. Whatever the outcome of Mr Brown, King of the Craps, to this day, he/she who delivered the brick of shit has never felt so light and always makes sure there is plenty of Bran in the flakes and never misses a meal of fibre with his/her fruit. I’m sure there is a lesson to be learned here. I have a feeling it will be to never rip the shit (sorry, couldn’t resist) out of other people’s misfortune and I will now find myself unable to let go of my dinner for days upon days, until I definitely cannot fit into my new, already-far-too-small skirt. Bastard.
And so I conclude Tales from the Turd for another evening and go ponder over the new delights inside my wardrobe and wonder why being gay has to be so complicated. But that’s tomorrow’s entry. So goodnight readers. Do return and leave me some comments and make me happy.