Share The Lurrve
Now, normally I try and maintain a gentlemanly decorum about matters scatalogical. I'll crack the window open a smidge if my offering to the Gods of the Water Closet is a smidge on the whiffy side, hell I'll even warn potential users of the facilities that waiting a few minutes might not be a bad idea if they wish to retain use of their sinuses.

I will 'happily' wait until my dear lady wiff, She Who Must Be Ignored, has leisurely completed her morning routine before unleashing the Air Launched Botty Torpedo.

And then we started breeding. I'll leave aside the joys of meconium, nappies and all that. I'm not squeamish in the slightest about poo (vomit is another story) and am firmly of the opinion that with enough Dettol and kitchen roll even the worst Pampers Blowout is not a big deal.

However, the bathroom is becoming a crowded place these days. A bit like the flightpath for Heathrow, in fact, and bodies zoom in and out with the regularity and split-second timing of the Red Arrows. My haven of peace is now open access, as 2 osoklets and the Obergruppenfuhrer require scrubbing down and prepping for the day in a fairly limited timespan. In fact my colon has actually evolved to have a quick mini-dump circa 0730 and a main stoolage after arriving at work.

Now I can just about live with Osok Jnr charging in mid-download, the Mrs following hot on his heels with a cuppa. Mildly miffed at being interrupted in my Radio 4 induced trance, yes, but I will discreetly polish the ricker and flush before moving on to shave and shower.

However, and this is where I feel a tad aggrieved, my dear lady's system will demand release at one of two points. Either when I am shaving, or brushing my teeth. Every single frigging day.

The cloud of green corpse-gas drifts towards the sink where I am blearily applying Gillette to face, causing the mirror to cloud over or even crack in extreme circumstances. I can now shave while holding desperately onto one lungful of uncorrupted air.

Brushing the toofypegs can be even worse, I'll go into 'powerbrush' mode, arm moving like a rutting Jack Russell's backside, and run from the room with bleeding gums and Colgate up one nostril.

How on Earth can such a fragrant being produce such evil?

My theory is that the allegedly non-farting laydeez allow the buildup of WMD-like levels of toxic matter, whereas the greet-the-dawn-with-trumpet-solo blokes have not only warmed up the bedroom nicely but have reduced the chances of the bathroom tiles needing replacing again.
(osok Rebel without a clue, Thu 27 Mar 2008, 17:30, 2 replies)

I can identify with this on every level
And it's soooooooo clicky!
Scatalogical (from Greek - scata=shit + logikos=study of) brilliant word *click*
polish the ricker - that's new to me; I presume it means the wiping of one's bottom?
rutting Jack Russell's backside - love the imagery *click*

Also, my bowel always has the uncontrollable urge to evacuate (I have IBS) 90 seconds after Davros' Granddad has gone to brush his teeth. Every feckin' morning.....
( Tourette's ( . )( . ) has a monkey hair in her fried egg, Thu 27 Mar 2008, 22:10, closed)

Ricker Polishing
Correctamundo.

Also polishing the hoop, buffing the sheriff's badge or stroking the starfish.
(osok Rebel without a clue, Fri 28 Mar 2008, 14:29, closed)