ex-fooder/farter

Yesterday was a disaster.

I must have made over 20 visits to the office bogs, each visit resulting in a orange-hot jet of steaming hell being jettisoned from my freckle with a mournful sigh. Progressively my poor tattered orifice became too painful to wipe and I was forced to dab it gently with bum fodder, fully aware that I was wincing well before the wire wool type Andrex made contact. By the end of the day my nipsy was more like a frayed bungee cord.

Why on earth manufactures don’t take into consideration a troubled constitution when designing toilets is beyond me. Having a regular plop is fine, gravity dictates plop goes down, it’s basic physics. But when you got 40psi of marmite soda passing through a progressively flexible ringpeice it’s fucking miraculous if the jellified piss hits the water in the pan at all. Subsequently every visit to the chod bin was accompanied by a degrading bout of crime scene reconciliation with the hairy stick.

I spent the phase between each burst of kidney-snot gasping at my desk, giving off deathmetal frowns to the slightest annoyance, speaking only to bark at staff and being harangued by my boss to do things that seemed so extraordinarily petty in my condition I nearly just fucked off home to bed, which is where I should’ve been in the first place.

The worst part of the malaise was the pain in my stomach, it was sensationally awful, causing me to double up without any warning, pinning me shut for a few seconds before dissipating like fag smoke and releasing my sweating face into the office population. For the entire day my guts chimed like a didgeridoo being played by an Aborigine with gallstones.

I smoked 2 fags the whole day and was unable to eat, so at least I was getting weaker and more frustrated as the day dragged on.

Even at home I subject to a further 2 hours of carpet jogging before my stomach agony was slowly replaced by a raging hunger. My choice of foodstuffs were limited, the last thing I wished to do was to entertain the bubbling horror nestling in my tripe, dairy and meat were out for a kick off, perish the thought of a fucking drink.

I settled on sardines and toast, a safe bet so long as the tinned sardines weren’t iffy. It has happened once, as a student they were a major staple of my diet so it was inevitable that one day I’d fall in with a bad tin. I ate them slowly at my PC as I tried to write, the sound of them being digested was actually quite chilling but after an hour I realised they’d done the trick.

I watched Henry: Portrait of a Serial Killer in bed to cheer me up and fell asleep before midnight.

Since then I’ve been all right, the pain has subsided and I’ve not needed to shit. I’m back at work feeling exhausted by fucking pleased that it no longer hurts.

Hurrah-ish.