Din din poo poo
Due to an unfortunate twist of fate I ended up being related to a rather morbid and sullen old bat and her decrepit husband. Even more unfortunate was that they turned up at our house one day and were somehow given access to the kitchen to make us dinner. I was at the time living a spirited existence in my teenager years and as such looked down upon such occasions with considerable disdain. In all honesty I still do, but let us not get derailed from the question at hand.

As these relatives were from England they used their considerable culinary skills to conjure up something uniquely British. Or so went the preamble that preceded the unveiling of their hours of toil in the kitchen. The food was delivered to the table with considerable pomp and ceremony as was befitting of these upper class toffs. Or so I'm sure she imagined herself to be.

The plates of dry meat and vegetables that had been meticulously boiled to remove every last vitamin were summarily passed round the table. As I was positioned in the far corner I was the last to help myself to this pseudo feast. However, by the time each serving dish arrived it was virtually empty. The stupid bint hadn't cooked enough. On noticing her gargantuan error the bat helpfully commented that there was a little bit of extra bread in the kitchen if I didn't have enough on my plate. I quickly surmised that four fucking peas, the remains of a Brussel sprout, a sliver of a carrot and the dry crust of a bit of over cooked beef probably wouldn't suffice so I forced a smile, thanked her for the suggestion and wandered off the to kitchen to find some bread.

The conversation was typically stiff and morbidly boring as was to be expected. We were all rapt in attention at a story about how the old bat had undergone some sort of check up with a particularly insensitive gynaecologist when the dog trotted into the room. His claws click clacking on the wooden floor made a sufficiently distracting noise for the riveting conversation to end and we all trained our eyes on him. He made his way to the carpeted area of the room and turned 180 degrees so his eyes were facing us. He held eye contact with everyone at the table and then they widened to size of small plates. He then assumed the squat position and started to squeeze out a monster turd.

I swear the little fucker was almost grinning as expelled the stinky log from his arse. It was also totally out of character as he was exceptionally well house trained and hadn't poo'ed in the house for ages and didn't do it after that ever again. I can only conclude that he felt exactly the same way about our relatives as we did. Needless to say the conversation took a welcome lull as the dog was escorted outside and the bomb squad were summoned to deal with the mess. On this particular day I was the bomb squad.
(The Archduke of South London I'm in your Girlfriend eating her organs, Tue 17 May 2011, 15:42, 4 replies)

what a hero
the dog should have been given a (dinner) medal
(Monkeystrumpet monkey. Monkey, MONKEY!!!, Tue 17 May 2011, 15:51, closed)

My brother's dog once shat exactly in the centre of my neighbour's treasured front lawn.
We're not sure how Bo measured it so accurately just by eye but he did a lovely job.
(Juan Quar is clinging to her front teeth on, Tue 17 May 2011, 18:01, closed)

I feel your pain - shit roasts are not worth the effort
or money it takes to cook them.
( Bats, Wed 18 May 2011, 5:38, closed)

fantastic
your description of the dog taking a shit
was my favourite part

great little story
(Cov Boy, Wed 18 May 2011, 11:55, closed)