Sunday, 30 November 2008

a poo


HOW DO YOU DO...
a poo




Shh, it’s in our blood
Being of good ol’ British stock, apparently we’re supposed to have an utterly hilarious addiction to fecal matter and urine. Listen to any of the musician’s Eddie Shit albums: Complete Shit, Utter Shit and Complete and Utter Shit (Greatest Shits) for a start, and possibly an end.

I mean this doesn’t disprove it, Mozart wrote a piece called "Lech mich im arsch" translated, lick me in the arse. So to say we are exclusive and that the whole world never mentions when someone farts at a particular emotional scene in Gone With the Wind is a bold cheeked lie. They should extend that statement.

“There’s only four things in life that are certain, birth, bum sick, a peculiar piss and taking the piss out of that shit.”

Cos taxes can be avoided if you say you’re dead in which case you can avoid that whole death thing too.

To digress further there was one person so devoid of creative inspiration and equally absorbed with himself he photographed his every poo for six months and exhibited it for his degree show. By all accounts he was happy with it but by similar surveying, it stank. Saying that, his wasn’t the worst. The worst was this jobsworth who made characters out of bits of twigs, plaggy bags and household cutlery, which were her ‘creatures of nature.’ Sadly my work wasn’t next to either.



The Holy golden brownies
Mexicans, bronze teeth, bottle openers, diamonds, tailored suits, the drink sec-sec, Dear Miriam n Toucans are all perfect. But technically a healthy bowel movement must be eighteen inches long (for an adult,) one solid piece, light golden brown in color, one inch in diameter, odorless and floats in the toilet basin. Anything other than that is unhealthy. Broken apart, hard, dark, odor, large or loose stools are the indication of putritfication and constipation and thus the beginning of poor health, which will lead to severe back up or clog resulting in the condition “talking shit.”

Point is:
“Golden brown, texture like sun” = damn lucky
“Went out into the world on a Red dirt road” = lacking even basic preservational skills, nurse? Mum!




Wipeout
When we were potty trained we were given a bowl and told to “go on then.” Then we were wiped over and over and over. This continued until one day we were told, out the blue, before Postman Pat started, to do it your bloody self.

I don’t know about you but I was never schooled in the technique, took no courses, got no tips, I mean, no-one even talks about it. It’s the conversational antithesis of sex. But there’s some anonymous information available on your local superhighway.

So how best do you do it?
(feedback would be fucking stupid, so go on then)

1. Put two tp (toilet paper not tea spoons) squares between your index and thumb and pinch your bumhole with them (from the front). Whereas "wiping" motions spread the feaces out, the pinch should not.
TIP: lick the fingers first. It'll hold better.

2. The street sweeper method. Rotate the paper the opposite direction of travel (up and out) and you won't spread cling-ons.

3. Pinch it off by clenching the bumcheeks.

4. Use babies odorless wet ones and you only need one.

5. Thunder Bum brush. After dumping give one good wipe with tp then waddle to the sink for the finishing brushing. Use a soft bristled toothbrush with warm water and liquid soap. Gently scrub your pucker then finish with a washcloth dampened with warm water.

By the way I hope never to stay over at number 6’s house, bet their arse is gleaming though. The saying “he’s a bit anal“ can be taken three ways with that one.



Act 1 Scene 3 dump 6?
Depending on age, height, size and how many 1.98 roast dinners consumed; 5 –30 minutes of your day you’ll sit wishing for everything to end smoothly yet fearing a possible hemorrhoid hemorrhage. You’ll squeeze, strain, pant, sweat, wee a bit, and curse the lack of distractional literature available. Staring a the same 7 cm tile with a crack in it and a pattern that doesn’t quite match, hypothesizing the idiocy of the tiler’s primary understanding of a tiled themed style. All while assessing the size and stature of each gravy sausage and just what ‘s left in the magic box. Two minutes later, you think it’s over, you squeeze, and it is. Then stand up, oh it’s not, and settle with the knowledge that needless wiping was avoided, this time.

Days have been lost to the needless wipe. Yet we’re destined to repeat history, but why? Because our bodies are against us. Like that lovely chicken you had last week, it cost nothing and you got loads and it tasted like genetically moist virginal athletic perfection. Yet 12 minutes later your body decides you don’t deserve the fruition and prefer to assign you fever, total regret and advanced tiling psychology.



Dribble, dribble
Runs down your leg like a scrambled egg,
Di-o-re-ah, cha-cha-cha,
Di-o-re-ah, cha-cha-cha is the worst and best of all poos. When you catch it, metaphorically speaking, and safety release the relief is comparable to 37 Oscar wins, that’s why most Oscar nominees seem acutely constipated. But if you're sliding into two and your pants are filled with goo
Di-o-re-ah, agh-agh-agh! Your bodies self esteem checker decided those tight red jeans aren’t for this body matey. So it decides to just keep those feet on the ground, sloshing with shit in an unrelenting soundtrack of friend glee.



O Shit!
Indiana Jones in The Temple of Doom featured Indy courageously reaching his hand through insect infested holes to rescue his maiden. Never to be known until practice. Unblocking a toilet is worse. Having to reach through the deposits of your flatmates hole and smeared toilet paper to grab, not like Indy a lever, the biggest turd worm you can make without even a hint of sex deserves a cameo.




The slosh bogger
Public toilets are utterly yechhy. The day they all opened in 1943 some mind-boggler did a browntone Jackson Pollock and they've never seen Jif Or Cif since. They should be renamed by the British toilet association into National Heritage sites. So archeologists in radiation suits can trace our modern human stagnation. I must have been in the toilet when the whole of the nation were informed that anything that has the word ‘public’ attached to it or that is outdoors you can begrime.
I feel for the gay community (well I don't feeel for the gay community) I feel for the gay community having their only safe place to cottage being the dirtiest places in the whole country. Personally I'd leave a note with my address and embellished drawings of my bits on if I wanted to shag that badly.




Tp, Tp? T P !
Toilet paper. It's a rip but we do need it. Or do we? Here is
a list of items and methods that can be used that circumvent a lack of that pricey perforated poo paper.

  • Bill Gates’ choice, spare money. Not economical but if you’re loaded and they’re crisp, ohhhh sex-u-al-lay.

  • The bog roll roll, hard times and the site of a fingernail of viewable paper makes this harsh but reliable “fag-butt rollie” moment.

  • Newspaper, some cheap places actually do use this, great forbumming and catching up on the financial crisis via your partners cheap choice in public drinking establishment.

  • Leaves. Hey, way back they were all leafing it. Upside, you feel a bit natural, downside every plant that is in a bathroom has leaves so shiny you end up making a coupla burnished poo chairs.

  • Your own hair, wait there are people who you see and you think, yo my dear can wipe your arse with that, now think, exactly, you probably would have tried it, c’mon it’s not cos they think they look good.

  • Hands in bum scooping out poo. Sometimes maybe when the toilet roll has broken; you've plucked the plant to a stick, you’re too cheap to buy newspapers and last night you grated your rear against the grey roll till it was bloodier than an entire lady bin. Then, only then, should you start peeling off the wallpaper, you dirt bag.


Life after poo
You might want to imagine your partner deposits tiny dried perfumed pellets in the few months of harmonious honeymooning. the last, LAST thing you think about is “ have they just done a big poo?” Although in some intercoursical perversions this might be the first thing that floats through your mind, swiftly followed by “have I, yet?”

Why can’t we cast poo off? Because evolution doesn’t care n it only happens say once a day, it’s not that important to evolve from. Plus that ancient genome to produce something to mark your territory and get rid of those bits a mammoth you really shouldn’t have had is still in one way useful. The sad reality is nowadays our territory isn’t so important to mark and thus has been superseded by a little thing called, the front door key.

If only we’d have evolved and kept our primates inclinations to chuck their own poo. What a more, honest, shocking and dirty place life would be.


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