Tummy Balls...
In our line of work at the morgue, Mr Tubs and I have learnt about the various phobias all our colleagues seem to suffer from every once in a while.

Most coppers don't particularly like the sound of a head saw and will suddenly find the walls and ceiling extremely interesting, during the brain examinations. One of our now retired pathologists couldn't bare the sight and smell of vomit or stomach contents, ordering any technician lucky enough to be nearby that they were in charge of it's fate (some of the digested curry we came across smelt alright, but I will always draw the line at bile - it truly is the devil's juice).

One of our current doctors has a violent aversion to poo of any form and many a happy hour has been spent inventing new places to hide and then show the poo to him. His fear never dwindles, in spite of our very obvious pattern of torture.

Back to the story Mrs tubs for goodness sake...

In all my time working with Mr Tubs, I have never discovered the secret phobia my darling ape possesses.......until last year.

It was a particularly busy Wednesday morning session and having got most of the "opening up" out of the way, me and my esteemed colleagues were well on our way to "closing up" the bodies with the suitable tools (ie, needle and thread). The man of my dreams then saunters over to me to discuss something of extreme importance (like what IS he having for dinner tonight - when one such as he has given up drinking and smoking for the good of his porky liver and asthma-riddled lungs, naturally one of the only things left to excite him is food). I replied with such pleasing news as home-made chips and omelette, or some such delight, but whilst talking to him, I found the tip of my needle hovering over the tummy button area having nearly finished my sewing. I then spotted a fairly common sight in our job, which happened to be a slightly grimy looking hardened ball of dirt situated within the tummy button itself. What else was a girl to do, but prise it out with my nice sharp needle tip and watch the resulting PING! and SMACK! as it propelled itself toward my unsuspecting husbands nice new plastic apron. The sphere of death then landed back in the body, where I continued to "close up", all before my sweetheart could utter his first retch of disgust. He went a decidedly odd colour and backed off to concentrate on his own body, so to speak. He still managed to eat lunch half an hour later though. Not much will put him off his grub, bless 'im.

I still find tummy balls sometimes and fondly flick them at him if he's in the vicinity. Aren't I a good little wifey?.....

Length? Pah! Short, fat and hard I say....
(HappyBoofy, Tue 15 Apr 2008, 14:27, Reply)