3 stories of varying filth
I live halfway across the world from my dear nephew, a truly adorable ‘miracle’ child birthed by a sister nobody thought would live past 20. I’d have worshipped the little mite even if he had a face like hooker’s syphilitic axe, luckily he’s got blue eyes the size of dinner plates and eyelashes to the moon. He’s not yet two years old.

The problem with living halfway across the world from him is that we’ve forged our relationship over the telephone. He’ll point at the phone and say ‘Nnnntee’ (auntie) and my sister will dial my number. Usually the telephone conversation reaches cerebral depths like whether or not he likes breakfast (yes) and baths (no).

One day my phone rings.

Him: Nnnntee?
Me: Yes?
Him: Nnnteee poop?
Me: Yes, Nnnteeee poops.
Him: HAWHAWHAWHAW!! Nnnnteee nawny (naughty), Nnnnteee poops!!! Phhhplut! HAWHAWHAWHAHAHAHA!!

The phone dropped to the floor as I listened to the child mocking me at length for pooping. NAWNY, I am. NAWNY.

My father was also caught up in the turd inquiry and was established to be a nawny pooper. The child was establishing who didn’t poop (my sister, apparently) and who did (cats, me, my dad.)

***

My ex brother-in-law (Jon, for that is his name), the charmer that he was, had a habit of lighting his farts on fire. I first laid witness to a ‘backfire’ (arf) when, upon lighting his fart, he also set his trackies and junk alight. Never one to learn his lessons, he attempted this fiery feat once again while waiting in a queue for some pizza. He bent over, sparked the flame…then shat all over his hand.

***

It was the 911 Service for American Citizens, the Friday after the attacks. I had just found out that a good friend had died, so I knocked up at St. Pauls Cathedral at 6am, a full four hours before the service. I was, of course, the first person in the queue.

Once my bags were searched, I was patted down and led to my seat. I was surrounded on every side by royalty and political giants. Tony Blair, The Queen, Prince Charles, Maggie Thatcher to name a few…and me.

The service began much as one might expect, with religion and weeping. Then one of the dignitaries around me farted. The mere thought of ingesting The Queen’s chuff bits sent me into a fit of giggles which I deftly disguised as crying. Then it happened again. And again! And again! I was bombarded with farts from some of the most important people in the world! This had me doubled over in laughter, hallucinating because I couldn’t get a breath. This was, I decided, a poor predicament for me to be in, considering the world’s media had their cameras focused on me.

I left (THAT’s an entirely different story) and visited a friend at the BBC. He saw me on the telly, he said, having spasms of woe. I then got to proudly proclaim to all the listening newsreaders and researchers that, in fact, I had spent the hours previous stagnating in the stench of The Queen’s / Tony Blair’s anus.
(TheSnark oh, c'mon, like you didn't see me coming, Tue 1 Apr 2008, 12:08, 2 replies)

I just love
thought of being surrounded by windy dignitaries at a sombre occassion... I wouldn't be able to stop myself laughing either (and I consider myself to be a reasonably mature adult).
( Davros' Granddad a voice of calm reason in a world of spastics., Tue 1 Apr 2008, 12:38, closed)

Those are all
pretty good

Click
(ShitBitch, Tue 1 Apr 2008, 14:40, closed)