When You Shit Yourself (365 Ways With Words)

Wednesday, October 16, 2013

When You Shit Yourself

You know it's happened to you – at least once: hopefully not at work or on the bus/train/plane, in a lift, in the doctor's waiting room or at the front of the queue at the post office... If it hasn't, then prepare to be bumscared!

Let's face it, each of us is born into the world with the capacity to cack, the tendency to number two, the potential to poo, not to say the desire to doo-doo. Most of us graduate from filling our pants in the arms of a parent to the taking of a necessary and perfunctory dump in the nearest bog as soon as we're able. It's a bit of a fait accomplis: after all, no one likes to be in the presence of King Tut-Chincloth for a second too long, especially if a pyrocastic flow is due. It's simple: barbarians at the gate – crapper can't wait.

Unfortunately round these parts some citizens, for one reason or another, are unable to make the grade and regularly free the chocolate hostages in the bushes of public parks, or set down brown lilos in the rivers that presumably make their eventual way to the seaside. Also unfortunately, we have canines that now go a-huntin' for such curry slurry, returning with what can only be described as a doggy smile sporting a new shade of brown lipstick – filthy beasts!

Most of the time we are able to conduct our operations with minimum fuss. Sometimes, however, we are caught short with the bum gravy. In the much celebrated 90s show Absolutely John Sparks brilliantly describes such moments with a tear-jerking exactitude bordering on poetry.

Here he again waxes lyrical on the after effects of dinner at the Café Cackapoopoo.

There are other poor souls out there for whom a spot of underpant pebble dashing will begin regardless of the planned date of commensure. Such was the lot in our local Aldis where a local of advanced age in something of a hurry tried unsuccessfully to pass back through the entrance gates – too late! His situation became urgent not thirty seconds before entering the shop, and not a minute afterwards, but right on cue as he took his first tentative steps down the biscuit aisle. His chocolate lazer set for stun, he picked up the pace and fled hot-foot, leaving on the entrance floor what can only be described as the regrettable remnants from a intense pantballing skirmish. He obviously lost – badly. Poor old sod, I don't think his squelchy walk home was without regret for the many pints he'd had the night before.