it's shit.
I am 23, staggering in to the kitchen of my family home, fighting a hangover bigger than the flab roll that hangs over the waist band of Lisa Riely's hot pants. I am wearing my trusty towelling dressing gown, and nothing else. Now, I knew that we had family staying, cus I had to sleep on the sofa. I open the fridge door, with my back to the rest of the kitchen. I thought I was alone. I take a big refreshing gulp of apple juice, and feel a big rumble bubble in the old belly. "Ah, I feel a little windy-pop a-rising!" I happily sing to myself, looking forward to the gas release relief. I squeeze a little, too hard in hind’s sight and out pops a slimy; booze endued jobbie, right on the kitchen floor. It looked like I had broken off one of Bungles (from TV show Rainbow) fingers at the knuckle and smothered it in Vaseline. I am slightly taken a back by this, but not over come. That was until I shut the fridge door, turn around and see my mum, dad, uncle, auntie, sister, gran and grandpa sitting quietly having tea and toasted crumpets.
I had just sang a song about farting, then shat myself in the kitchen. In front of every respected member of my family.

Now, at every opportunity, does not matter if in front of one or hundreds of people, my father is always, “ hey every one, you wanna hear the story when T-bone Jnr shat on the kitchen floor?” I reply with, “ you wanna hear a story about when dad was caught touching the 8 year old boy next door?”. My stories never get a big laugh.
(Jeeves, Fri 2 Sep 2005, 16:27, Reply)