When Done A Poo goes bad
Disaster. A bit of a runny bot yesterday evening following a Mexican meal that went horribly, horribly wrong. Chilli? Not a bit of it – my arse was red hot, as are my punning abilities, it would seem. An afternoon spent catching up with some reading on the toilet, and I assumed, foolishly, that the worst was over.
Then, me charming wife asks me to rearrange some furniture so her chair's no longer in an annoying draught coming straight off the English Channel, over Chesil Beach, right down the chimney and straight up her left trouser leg. Of course, the inevitable happens as I'm humping the sofa. No, not that - the familiar warm, damp feeling as you follow through in your kecks.
For a few moments, my head spinning with delirium, I wasn't 100 per cent certain what had happened, so I absent-mindedly rubbed the gusset into my arse-crack for a feel, and just spread it about more. It's then that I realised that any attempt to flee, or to make the slightest movement will result in the dark, dark secret revealed.
"What's that smell?" she finally said, and I blamed it on the dog.
Ah, love's true course finds its way again.
Damn you Mexicans!
With Christmas just around the corner, and my bottom resembling the aftermath of an oil depot fire, why not reward your favourite and hardest-working blogger (who has suffered geiune gonad-rending agony for his art this year) with something from his Amazon Wish List?
Ah go on, be your best friend. And you're right, I have absolutely no shame.