I was in WHSmith today, browsing the magazine rack. I knelt down to get a look at the mags on the lower shelf. I reached for TimeOut, and only noticed once I was touching the magazine that I had reached between a man’s leg and one of the crutch’s he was using. Was this rude, to reach between a man’s leg and his crutch? I had gone unnoticed, but for how long?
I began to wonder if he thought of his crutch just as he would a real leg, and it was therefore improper to put my arm between them. Perhaps it was even more sensitive, and there were laws in fact. Laws that only the Crutched knew of, inscribed on a papyrus scroll rolled inside the crutch. Laws of a Divine nature, number 11 on Moses’ Tablet: Thou Shalt Not Reach Between A Man’s Leg And His Crutch. It seemed unlikely, but the thought was uneasing me.
I had put myself in an awkward position by reaching, but now I had frozen, unsure as how best to get out of this situation in the most dignified manner possible. For one mad second, I decided it would be a good idea to pass the magazine to my other hand, but for my other hand to reach, I had to move in closer. I bent my arm to make the pass. Now I was hugging the man’s crutch, which was seeming more and more like an artificial leg. I found myself wondering, had this man become so accustomed to his crutches that they actually felt like his own limbs? Extensions of his body.
I had still managed to go unnoticed. Either that or the man had thought it best not to say anything to someone being intimate with his crutch. Either way, I needed to change my tactics. I decided to pull the magazine back through the cavern between real and fake leg. I started wheedling my arm through, trying to avoid any contact, like those electric wire games that give you a buzz if your hoop touches the metal. Except this time the buzz would at best be social embarrassment, and at worst, prison.
I was almost out of there when I saw the gap beginning to close, the metal crutch drifting towards his thigh, only it looked more like a guillotine. I would rather my arm be cut off than unintentionally stroke this man’s leg. I watched in horror as the gap became smaller, and I knew that a minor collision was becoming unavoidable. There was a point when I could have cut my losses, dropped the magazine and retrieved my hand ninja-stylee, but this chance was already milliseconds passed, which in my adrenal state felt like years. I saw it all unravelling before me with a terrible inevitability, there was no turning back.
At this point, I estimate I had the strength of four retired boxers, and so when I whipped my hand back, my arm swept through his support like leaves. He fell like a skittle, his face ploughing through the rack, each shelf at a time. I tucked the magazine into myself and performed a commando roll for effect, emerging from the chaos into a bull-charge that the security guard was too scared to challenge. I ran all the way home, stopped only by my front door which I knocked off the hinges. I don’t think I’ll be going back there for a while.
Saturday 28 February 2009
Saturday 21 February 2009
Just not necessary
I called for a taxi recently, and the first thing I heard after the phone had been picked up was the most world-weary and exaggerated sigh ever. Darth Vader couldn’t have done a better job. It was a woman, and I had already pissed her off, surely this was some kind of record.
I just couldn’t understand how this had happened. I’m sure it wasn’t a yawn, because it was spiked with hate, and it seemed deliberately affected for me. It felt as if she had been storing it up, and decided that that was it. The next person who phoned was going to get it. Once she had finished, I stated with apprehension that I required a taxi. “Destination,” she said with clear disdain, it wasn’t even a question, just an automated response that must have left a bad taste in her mouth. No one had ever despised their job this much. At some point this woman had been hired because of her people skills, and now she hated life. It’s not as if she was a weathered prostitute who was asked on a regular basis to perform the most despicable acts on the most despicable people, only to come home to get slapped in the face by a pimp’s dick. Only this would be enough to explain the level of contempt I felt through my earpiece.
I’m sometimes a bit nervous when speaking to service people. I tend to mentally rehearse what I’m going to say before hand, to avoid the embarrassment of wasting their time as I think under pressure. The problem with this is that I become too fixed on what I am going to say, so if they ask me questions in a different order to what I was expecting, I can’t deprogram myself, and carry on with my recital. For example, if I wanted to order some cider and crisps at the bar, it might go something like this:
“What can I get you?”
“Magners.”
“Do you want a glass for that?”
“Cheese and onion.”
It isn’t always this catastrophic, but it feels awkward and confusing to break this line of thought. If I am aware that there has been a change in plan, then the only way I can save myself is to try and wrangle the conversation in my direction. E.g. ordering a taxi might go something like this:
“Where do you want to be picked up from?”
“I would like to go to the train station.”
“Where are you now?”
“Can I have one in ten minutes please?”
“Did you say you wanted to go to the train station?”
“I’ll be waiting by the library.”
I just couldn’t understand how this had happened. I’m sure it wasn’t a yawn, because it was spiked with hate, and it seemed deliberately affected for me. It felt as if she had been storing it up, and decided that that was it. The next person who phoned was going to get it. Once she had finished, I stated with apprehension that I required a taxi. “Destination,” she said with clear disdain, it wasn’t even a question, just an automated response that must have left a bad taste in her mouth. No one had ever despised their job this much. At some point this woman had been hired because of her people skills, and now she hated life. It’s not as if she was a weathered prostitute who was asked on a regular basis to perform the most despicable acts on the most despicable people, only to come home to get slapped in the face by a pimp’s dick. Only this would be enough to explain the level of contempt I felt through my earpiece.
I’m sometimes a bit nervous when speaking to service people. I tend to mentally rehearse what I’m going to say before hand, to avoid the embarrassment of wasting their time as I think under pressure. The problem with this is that I become too fixed on what I am going to say, so if they ask me questions in a different order to what I was expecting, I can’t deprogram myself, and carry on with my recital. For example, if I wanted to order some cider and crisps at the bar, it might go something like this:
“What can I get you?”
“Magners.”
“Do you want a glass for that?”
“Cheese and onion.”
It isn’t always this catastrophic, but it feels awkward and confusing to break this line of thought. If I am aware that there has been a change in plan, then the only way I can save myself is to try and wrangle the conversation in my direction. E.g. ordering a taxi might go something like this:
“Where do you want to be picked up from?”
“I would like to go to the train station.”
“Where are you now?”
“Can I have one in ten minutes please?”
“Did you say you wanted to go to the train station?”
“I’ll be waiting by the library.”
Saturday 14 February 2009
Valentine's meets the Crunch
As we all know, we live in a time of financial collapse. Banks have gone bust and suicide is at an all time high. The USA is currently embroiled in a nuclear civil war, and Tennessee has been wiped off the map, along with its very valuable contribution to banjo music. Babies now roam the streets, fending for themselves, and building forts out of broken dreams. They’ve formed an alliance with the Toddlers, and keep a tight perimeter on the Alaskan border with the aid of diaper catapults. The effects are devastating. And disgusting.
Valentine’s Day is a small respite from the baby regime. And for one flickering day only. For some it’s more special than others. But times are tight, so I offer my five ways to show someone you care, whilst spending zero pounds sterling. Hopefully your loved one will appreciate the gesture, and will equate it to a whole lot of love dollars, redeemable in a marriage bed. I.e. Sex.
1) Sweep Her Off Her Feet
No one enjoys being carried more than women. So carry her through the streets so that she gets the attention she deserves, and everyone knows what prize you have bagged. NB: If you are unable to carry her, then you either a) are a pathetic excuse for a man or b) need to downsize.
2) Build Her A Cake Or Something
Perhaps you don’t have the money to treat your princess to the deluge of chocolate rain that she is used to this year, so instead, turn your own hands to the culinary arts. Chicks love ‘gestures’, so they will literally eat this up. If you are smart though, do yourself a favour and make a terrible job of it. She will then never allow you to cook for her again, but will forever appreciate your effort. Everyone wins.
3) Make Her Feel ‘Special’
Special, is the most desirable state for your burden of a wife. No one knows accurately how to create this state. Some think it does not even exist. The best we can do is to artificially induce it by integrating the word ‘Special’ into any sentences involving her. I.e. “This is my Special Wife,” “Can we get some Special knives and forks for my Special wife, please?” and “You look especially Special today….Special.” The woman will be unable to differentiate the pseudo-special environment that you have created for her, from any genuine feelings of being Special. She will spend her day with a heightened state of self-worth, and will be primed for asking for any Special favours.
4) Flowers
Much like bees, hoes (or egg carriers) are genetically engineered to be attracted to flowers. Think of them as bargaining chips. Go to the finest garage forecourt in your area, and take some time. It may even be necessary to ask the cashier. Do not be afraid, these men are experts. They are hideous, but they also get a lot of punani. If you get the right flowers, you’re going straight to Boob Town. If you really want to impress the symbolism of the flowers, bring your own bee to pollinate them whilst you watch. Once it is over, squirt honey on her back to show her what to expect next.
5) Be Mean To Keep Her Keen
This is always solid advice, and never more so than on Valentine’s. Do not get your bitch a present. Make sure she is fully aware that you know what day it is, and perhaps even mention the great presents you got for better girlfriends in the past. Push this until she cries, and then cut yourself and her, and rub the wounds together, shouting “the ultimate commitment!” Then leave. She will never doubt your love again.
Valentine’s Day is a small respite from the baby regime. And for one flickering day only. For some it’s more special than others. But times are tight, so I offer my five ways to show someone you care, whilst spending zero pounds sterling. Hopefully your loved one will appreciate the gesture, and will equate it to a whole lot of love dollars, redeemable in a marriage bed. I.e. Sex.
1) Sweep Her Off Her Feet
No one enjoys being carried more than women. So carry her through the streets so that she gets the attention she deserves, and everyone knows what prize you have bagged. NB: If you are unable to carry her, then you either a) are a pathetic excuse for a man or b) need to downsize.
2) Build Her A Cake Or Something
Perhaps you don’t have the money to treat your princess to the deluge of chocolate rain that she is used to this year, so instead, turn your own hands to the culinary arts. Chicks love ‘gestures’, so they will literally eat this up. If you are smart though, do yourself a favour and make a terrible job of it. She will then never allow you to cook for her again, but will forever appreciate your effort. Everyone wins.
3) Make Her Feel ‘Special’
Special, is the most desirable state for your burden of a wife. No one knows accurately how to create this state. Some think it does not even exist. The best we can do is to artificially induce it by integrating the word ‘Special’ into any sentences involving her. I.e. “This is my Special Wife,” “Can we get some Special knives and forks for my Special wife, please?” and “You look especially Special today….Special.” The woman will be unable to differentiate the pseudo-special environment that you have created for her, from any genuine feelings of being Special. She will spend her day with a heightened state of self-worth, and will be primed for asking for any Special favours.
4) Flowers
Much like bees, hoes (or egg carriers) are genetically engineered to be attracted to flowers. Think of them as bargaining chips. Go to the finest garage forecourt in your area, and take some time. It may even be necessary to ask the cashier. Do not be afraid, these men are experts. They are hideous, but they also get a lot of punani. If you get the right flowers, you’re going straight to Boob Town. If you really want to impress the symbolism of the flowers, bring your own bee to pollinate them whilst you watch. Once it is over, squirt honey on her back to show her what to expect next.
5) Be Mean To Keep Her Keen
This is always solid advice, and never more so than on Valentine’s. Do not get your bitch a present. Make sure she is fully aware that you know what day it is, and perhaps even mention the great presents you got for better girlfriends in the past. Push this until she cries, and then cut yourself and her, and rub the wounds together, shouting “the ultimate commitment!” Then leave. She will never doubt your love again.
Wednesday 11 February 2009
Don't Depress Me
Did anyone else see the BAFTA’s? Mickey Rourke won best actor for his role in The Wrestler. I think the same thing was on a lot of people’s minds. What the fuck happened to his face? In case you
weren’t aware, Mickey was once a very handsome young man. Looking his best in the likes of Diner (1982) and Rumble Fish (1983).However, a boxing career and subsequent reconstructive plastic surgery left him as the ugly bucket he is today.
It is a mighty shame, but it’s not just being repeatedly punched in the face that will save you money on future Halloween masks. Time can be a cruel bitch. The most frightening example I’ve found is the once beautiful Claudia Cardinale from Once Upon a Time in the West (1968).
See now the old hag. An impostor, a ravaged relic.
This is what 50 years can do to someone. Render them unrecognisable. Only a fragment of their former selves. This notion scares me. No matter how we try to fight it, the matter is out of our hands. Our features soften and become rounder. The skin rubberising, becoming Play-Doh in our grandchildren’s hands.There’s a horrific circularity to it. As babies we all looked the same, and as old people we shall again. Is there anything more depressing than when an old biddy takes great pleasure in surprising you that she was once a beauty? That when old couples look at each other and smile, they’re trying their hardest to remember what they used to look like, and try to forget that they are now different people who have nothing in common.
I suppose the best they can do is laugh at themselves. Find humour in the slapstick nature of life unique to the aged. Like when Doris sets down a brew on the dinner table, only for her swinging breast to swoop down and knock it into the lap of her beloved. Albert doesn’t mind though, grateful that his wet lap isn’t tinged with the humiliation he’s become accustomed to. The shoulder shrug and ‘I’ve only gone and done it again!’ joke was getting old anyway.
Are we still attracted to people our own generation when we get to that age, or do we only look longingly at those in their prime? Does either party even enjoy sex with one another anymore? I imagine the more intimate acts are spoilt by overgrown pubic hairs, and fatflaps covering crevices that haven’t seen soap for 25 years.
Does Doris stop teabagging when she tastes the tang of toilet water?
Sunday 8 February 2009
Are you taking the piss?
Just missed my train. I arrived with time to spare, and joined a short queue. The amount of people seemed to give little indication as to how long they were going to spend at the window. How hard could it be? You say your destination and pay your money. When I was dealt with, I took all of thirty seconds before I was moved on. Why was everyone taking so long? They all seemed to spend a great deal of time in embarrassed silence, apparently unaware of the procedure, or indeed unaware of what a train actually is. I thought some form of counselling was taking place.
These people were so oblivious of the hurry I was in, which I wouldn’t have been in if they had all been in a hurry themselves. The people seemed to think it was a general enquiry desk, not because they had anything to ask, just because they had so much time to kill in their dull and lethargic lives. I wondered if they were doing this on purpose, that these people’s only pleasure was in delaying innocent passengers. I was probably imagining it, but I could have sworn I saw secret and cruel smiles that disappeared whenever I looked at the conspirators.
The equipment for Southampton Central seemed entirely out of date as well, they had no self-service machines, and I ended up spending half my time waiting for my single ticket to be printed. It was so slow I suspected that their ‘printer’ wasn’t a printer at all, but in fact an underpaid man in a box with good handwriting. In London, they print your tickets before you’ve even finished your sentence. You’ll ask them where it is and they’ll assure you it is already safely in your pocket. The ticket itself is an artistic masterpiece, and can be redeemed on ebay for over four times its initial worth.
The staff are no great help either, apparently it was ‘Bring your retard to work and let them do your work’ day, because the cretins that served me seemed entirely unprepared for my very reasonable demands. They probably would have felt more at ease if I told them I wanted to take the grey-tube machine when the big hand meets twelve, and the little hand rests on two.
I am now on the train and it has been difficult writing because I am constantly distracted by the mumblings of the train driver, the only discernible words being the destinations, “mumble-mumble…Romsey…mumble…Salisbury… mumble-mumble…Cardiff…mumble.” For all I know this could be a compelling narrative with vital information, “Frodo finally found the ring under a park bench in Romsey, but he didn’t know the town has a train station, so he’s rung ahead, and we’re picking him up at Salisbury, I hope you’ll all welcome him aboard. He’s convinced that Snowdon is in fact Mount Doom, so we'll be taking him through Mordor, more commonly known as Wales, and drop him off at Minas Morgul, or Cardiff if you like. Let’s wish him the best of luck.”
Why is it that we still have to put up with these unclear messages? Are they afraid that if they installed Dolby Surround Sound and stopped using a cup as a microphone that the perfect clarity would scare us into believing that they were transmitting these messages telepathically? Would we misinterpret this noise as the voice of God? “Go to Bradford, for it is your home. Take the East line, for it is faster, and crisps are only 40p.”
There really should be more done in the form of entertainment for train journeys. At the moment we are limited to stealing newspapers and smelling each other. I understand it might not be in their interest to install 8” LCD screens on the back of every chair, but perhaps the staff could read over the intercom. “Our Barry is now going to read one of his charming prose poems that he’s been working on. He’s a bit of an up and coming talent, and has been posting his work on writing forums across the Internet. He’s received such comments as ‘Roflcopter’ from ‘yahooslut’ and ‘keep it up’ from ‘fatwallet77’ and is hoping you’ll be able to give him some creative feedback when he comes by with the food-trolley.”
These people were so oblivious of the hurry I was in, which I wouldn’t have been in if they had all been in a hurry themselves. The people seemed to think it was a general enquiry desk, not because they had anything to ask, just because they had so much time to kill in their dull and lethargic lives. I wondered if they were doing this on purpose, that these people’s only pleasure was in delaying innocent passengers. I was probably imagining it, but I could have sworn I saw secret and cruel smiles that disappeared whenever I looked at the conspirators.
The equipment for Southampton Central seemed entirely out of date as well, they had no self-service machines, and I ended up spending half my time waiting for my single ticket to be printed. It was so slow I suspected that their ‘printer’ wasn’t a printer at all, but in fact an underpaid man in a box with good handwriting. In London, they print your tickets before you’ve even finished your sentence. You’ll ask them where it is and they’ll assure you it is already safely in your pocket. The ticket itself is an artistic masterpiece, and can be redeemed on ebay for over four times its initial worth.
The staff are no great help either, apparently it was ‘Bring your retard to work and let them do your work’ day, because the cretins that served me seemed entirely unprepared for my very reasonable demands. They probably would have felt more at ease if I told them I wanted to take the grey-tube machine when the big hand meets twelve, and the little hand rests on two.
I am now on the train and it has been difficult writing because I am constantly distracted by the mumblings of the train driver, the only discernible words being the destinations, “mumble-mumble…Romsey…mumble…Salisbury… mumble-mumble…Cardiff…mumble.” For all I know this could be a compelling narrative with vital information, “Frodo finally found the ring under a park bench in Romsey, but he didn’t know the town has a train station, so he’s rung ahead, and we’re picking him up at Salisbury, I hope you’ll all welcome him aboard. He’s convinced that Snowdon is in fact Mount Doom, so we'll be taking him through Mordor, more commonly known as Wales, and drop him off at Minas Morgul, or Cardiff if you like. Let’s wish him the best of luck.”
Why is it that we still have to put up with these unclear messages? Are they afraid that if they installed Dolby Surround Sound and stopped using a cup as a microphone that the perfect clarity would scare us into believing that they were transmitting these messages telepathically? Would we misinterpret this noise as the voice of God? “Go to Bradford, for it is your home. Take the East line, for it is faster, and crisps are only 40p.”
There really should be more done in the form of entertainment for train journeys. At the moment we are limited to stealing newspapers and smelling each other. I understand it might not be in their interest to install 8” LCD screens on the back of every chair, but perhaps the staff could read over the intercom. “Our Barry is now going to read one of his charming prose poems that he’s been working on. He’s a bit of an up and coming talent, and has been posting his work on writing forums across the Internet. He’s received such comments as ‘Roflcopter’ from ‘yahooslut’ and ‘keep it up’ from ‘fatwallet77’ and is hoping you’ll be able to give him some creative feedback when he comes by with the food-trolley.”
Wednesday 4 February 2009
Fart Memory
I remember the most embarrassing fart I’ve ever experienced in public. Luckily, I was just a witness to the exhibition. Protected by the anonymity of a group. We were all young, year 4, junior school. It was story time, and so we had gathered before our teacher: him on a chair, us on the floor.
It must have been a good story, for distraction was at a minimum. We seemed to be hanging off his every word. Our attention was acute and focused, and our heartbeats responded to the soft rise and fall of his voice. He had the voice of a natural storyteller; we felt every stroke of a comma, punch of a full stop, and kiss of a capital letter. It was this interactive style of storytelling that eventually got him fired.
He reached the end of a paragraph, and left a tantalising pause. We bathed in the comfort of that silence, and felt the need for the story to continue. He opened his mouth to oblige us, but instead all we heard was the fanfare of hot air squeezing through the cheeks of a fat kid. It was loud and unhindered. It sounded like wet lips flapping on a trombone. It was silly; an exaggerated imitation of a fart. It was unreal.
All of a sudden there seemed to be one kid on his own, as if a spotlight had been turned on him. It could have been no one else but Phil the fat kid. Only someone as grotesque to behold could be responsible for such an incredible blast. The very noise seemed to suggest uncleanliness, ugliness and obesity. Hands shot up to point at him, to mark him out. I felt my own hand rise with accusation. And then the laughter came, forced and unkind. It barked from the back of our throats viciously. And all the while, Phil the fat kid stared back at us, his eyes wide as marbles, shaking his head in silent terror. ‘Not me’ his head said, ‘not me’. But his face said the rest, and we thought it, ‘yes, you!’ ‘Guilty!’ our fingers said. Despite being grossly outnumbered, Phillip himself was pointing, trying to direct the flow of blame elsewhere. No one looked to where he was pointing; rejecting his explanation. This was an open and shut case.
It’s hard to remember what exactly happened that day, as it was so long ago. I remember things which surely can’t be true. In some of my memories, even the teacher is pointing his finger, the ringleader of Phillip’s humiliation, his lip curled in disdain. I can’t seem to remember what happened next, or how long it lasted. Did he read over the laughter, hoping to save Phil any prolonged embarrassment? Or did the teacher pause, shocked into silence by that flatulent explosion?
It must have been a good story, for distraction was at a minimum. We seemed to be hanging off his every word. Our attention was acute and focused, and our heartbeats responded to the soft rise and fall of his voice. He had the voice of a natural storyteller; we felt every stroke of a comma, punch of a full stop, and kiss of a capital letter. It was this interactive style of storytelling that eventually got him fired.
He reached the end of a paragraph, and left a tantalising pause. We bathed in the comfort of that silence, and felt the need for the story to continue. He opened his mouth to oblige us, but instead all we heard was the fanfare of hot air squeezing through the cheeks of a fat kid. It was loud and unhindered. It sounded like wet lips flapping on a trombone. It was silly; an exaggerated imitation of a fart. It was unreal.
All of a sudden there seemed to be one kid on his own, as if a spotlight had been turned on him. It could have been no one else but Phil the fat kid. Only someone as grotesque to behold could be responsible for such an incredible blast. The very noise seemed to suggest uncleanliness, ugliness and obesity. Hands shot up to point at him, to mark him out. I felt my own hand rise with accusation. And then the laughter came, forced and unkind. It barked from the back of our throats viciously. And all the while, Phil the fat kid stared back at us, his eyes wide as marbles, shaking his head in silent terror. ‘Not me’ his head said, ‘not me’. But his face said the rest, and we thought it, ‘yes, you!’ ‘Guilty!’ our fingers said. Despite being grossly outnumbered, Phillip himself was pointing, trying to direct the flow of blame elsewhere. No one looked to where he was pointing; rejecting his explanation. This was an open and shut case.
It’s hard to remember what exactly happened that day, as it was so long ago. I remember things which surely can’t be true. In some of my memories, even the teacher is pointing his finger, the ringleader of Phillip’s humiliation, his lip curled in disdain. I can’t seem to remember what happened next, or how long it lasted. Did he read over the laughter, hoping to save Phil any prolonged embarrassment? Or did the teacher pause, shocked into silence by that flatulent explosion?
Tuesday 3 February 2009
The Times They Are a'Changing
My blog is now adorned with an awesome header, compliments to Irisz Heathershaw. Also, I recently organised my posts into helpful 'sections' for new readers. So if you think less of some sections and more of others, you now know which ones to avoid. I'm still trying to decide what this blog is, and seeing as I'm an activity whore, this is my compromise. Who knows what other crazy revamps this site may or may not fulfil. Hang low.
Ugly Nuggets continued
If you missed the original Ugly Nuggets post, it is advisory that you check it out now so that you are up to date.
Now, let’s move away from food related issues and table manners. Let’s move away from the kitchen to another important room of the house: the bathroom. Bathroom sharing is an important issue. It seems that most people aren’t offended if their partner takes a leak whilst in the same room. Now, this only works for the bathroom. You can’t start taking liberties with the kitchen sink when your partner’s making a sandwich. Bedwetting is also an unpopular option.
So the real issue is: when can you shit in front of your partner? People say, don’t run before you can walk and so I like to say, don’t shit before you’ve farted.
Farting is always an awkward one. What’s different from our toilet functions, is that it doesn’t have a designated, air-conditioned room. It can also come at any time, without warning, and usually in public situations. The main problem is, your sphincter has no way of measuring these variables, so it gives you the false hope that perhaps it will be a quiet one. You think, what did I have for dinner? Fish and chips. Nothing too odorous, I think I might get away with it. Cue loud stench and embarrassment.
A good way to introduce farting is to make a joke about it. If you want her to feel like an accomplice to your body functions, then try the old ‘pull my finger’ routine. If your partner doesn’t share your sense of lowbrow humour, then try a more intellectual windbreaker over a game of chess. When it’s your turn, take some time, and furrow your brow, as if you are deep in thought. Then crack it open like a champagne bottle, and laugh, to let her know it was all a joke, har har har. There’s no need to make the same joke about future farts, or you’ll have difficulty getting your partner to play a board game with you again.
Shitting in someone’s presence is a quite a leap from farting, but despair not, it is possible. Some people even have their partners wipe their arse, though they are usually kinky or paraplegic (I’m so sorry).
Sometimes shitting in front of your partner is almost unavoidable, and this is how it usually begins. Perhaps your partner is soaking in a bath of suds; unwinding after a long day at the office. You on the other hand are tense. The best way is to force your partner into an ultimatum. Shout through the door that you need a shit, and they will either have to make a hurried and screaming exit, or light a few more of their aromatic candles. Either way, you’ve brought up the subject, and they’ve made the decision.
Now, don’t get too cavalier about your toilet habits once they’ve green lighted you. Try to avoid the brushing-teeth and number-two crossover. This can be very unpleasant for the teeth-brusher, as the sink is invariably next to the toilet, and they only came in for some minty refreshment.
Now, let’s move away from food related issues and table manners. Let’s move away from the kitchen to another important room of the house: the bathroom. Bathroom sharing is an important issue. It seems that most people aren’t offended if their partner takes a leak whilst in the same room. Now, this only works for the bathroom. You can’t start taking liberties with the kitchen sink when your partner’s making a sandwich. Bedwetting is also an unpopular option.
So the real issue is: when can you shit in front of your partner? People say, don’t run before you can walk and so I like to say, don’t shit before you’ve farted.
Farting is always an awkward one. What’s different from our toilet functions, is that it doesn’t have a designated, air-conditioned room. It can also come at any time, without warning, and usually in public situations. The main problem is, your sphincter has no way of measuring these variables, so it gives you the false hope that perhaps it will be a quiet one. You think, what did I have for dinner? Fish and chips. Nothing too odorous, I think I might get away with it. Cue loud stench and embarrassment.
A good way to introduce farting is to make a joke about it. If you want her to feel like an accomplice to your body functions, then try the old ‘pull my finger’ routine. If your partner doesn’t share your sense of lowbrow humour, then try a more intellectual windbreaker over a game of chess. When it’s your turn, take some time, and furrow your brow, as if you are deep in thought. Then crack it open like a champagne bottle, and laugh, to let her know it was all a joke, har har har. There’s no need to make the same joke about future farts, or you’ll have difficulty getting your partner to play a board game with you again.
Shitting in someone’s presence is a quite a leap from farting, but despair not, it is possible. Some people even have their partners wipe their arse, though they are usually kinky or paraplegic (I’m so sorry).
Sometimes shitting in front of your partner is almost unavoidable, and this is how it usually begins. Perhaps your partner is soaking in a bath of suds; unwinding after a long day at the office. You on the other hand are tense. The best way is to force your partner into an ultimatum. Shout through the door that you need a shit, and they will either have to make a hurried and screaming exit, or light a few more of their aromatic candles. Either way, you’ve brought up the subject, and they’ve made the decision.
Now, don’t get too cavalier about your toilet habits once they’ve green lighted you. Try to avoid the brushing-teeth and number-two crossover. This can be very unpleasant for the teeth-brusher, as the sink is invariably next to the toilet, and they only came in for some minty refreshment.
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