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Tuesday, August 02, 2016


not to get too personal (or too graphic) but i am constipated. i am bunged up – i can feel a very large chunk of turd loitering, but like a reluctant bride it isn't ready to come down the aisle just yet. i have a history of annoying bowel troubles – started young (and in a freudian jungian kleinian way probably explains many of my quirks), after all you try to recover from a trip to the doctors when you are still in short trousers only to have a finger inserted in your arse and then wiggled and before you cry abuse – he did lube up and give me a sweetie afterwards. and that doesn't sound much better does it.

this was followed by a course of visits from the district nurse who happily and joyfully (and perhaps a little too erotically – no just making that bit up, really, no really) administered a series of daily enemas.
which by the end of would clear me out – yet also plant the seeds of dark erotic leanings for the future and allow me to be sympathetic towards alien abductees who had been probed.

while this sorted out the immediate problem – my movements have never been what one could call regular.
every so often there would be a period where nothing would exit the back passage. even though i hadn't developed a phobia of probing district nurses and doctors with lubed fingers as i got older i was a little more reluctant to allow things to be inserted into my arse, some might call this probophobia i called it personal preference.

when confronted with another bout of constipation various remedies would be called upon. ex lax and senokot would be used, get the dose wrong and well you could be caught short dumping a load into your britches and doing the charlie chaplin shuffle. only happened a couple of times but that is still one time too many.
with the loss of medicines other avenues had to be investigated.
a change in diet to include pooh friendly foods, bananas for instance. an increase in high fibre food such as shreddies or all bran. stronger coffee (a personal fave – and no not as an enema, but one day maybe...).
next up is a change in lifestyle – some exercising just to get the body moving and churning the insides up and therefore (hopefully) out.
or the final option – move into the toilet with a stack of comics and books, sit down and wait for nature and gravity to do their thing and after an unspecified amount of time a whoosh slash and sigh – the sounds of mission accomplished. however as this would be a patient long game there would be no jumping to my feet and a loud yell of triumph – no that would have to wait until later, until i had recovered from the dead legs, until then i would have to continue my toilet bound ruminations of life and the price of coffee. of course i would be peeling myself off the toilet seat and as my arse would be melded to the toilet seat and when i finally get to my feet i would have an indentation of the toilet seat firmly embedded in my arse cheeks, for a few hours i would be a walking work of art ready for rachel whiteread to do a cast of the negative space of my arse and the toilet seat. (it would have won the turner prize – and who knows it might just happen).

i am still waiting for the whoosh splash sigh of a successful dump. i keep telling myself it will happen on my next visit to the throne room, as yet no real luck, a rabbit dropping here or there but no real dambuster style emptying.

every time i go in there to cogitate and read i am conscious of elvis’s last words and in the back of my mind the mad bad thought that the turd monster might get me and i would be found slumped clutching a copy of the latest instalment of the executioner series in my hand.
i hope that is this should happen i have remembered to have left a copy of moby dick or the complete poems of t h lawrence in there. just a bit of class.

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