» Shit Stories: Part Number Two

Evil twin
Ah, at last we arrive back on the subject that has kept me amused for many a year. Is it because I am a Brit, or simply that I have never grown up. Or perhaps, it is just the colour, smell and effect of poo on proper grown-ups that has me dissolving into giggling fits at the mere thought of the messy brown stuff or it's breezy sidekick.

Being one half of twins (the better half, of course), I was able to constantly torture my brother with poo-related incidents during our childhood (it's not over yet). As small people, we were well aware of how much fun could be derived from any kind of competition, especially pooing. So one of my particularly favourite habits was racing him up the stairs to get to the toilet. I usually beat him at this (being born 10 minutes later makes all the difference with speediness, I assure you), and was therefore able to lock the door in time and listen with much cackling as he pleaded more and more desperately to be let in. I seemed to have an amazing ability to hold pee or poo in (and still do now), whereas he had the control of tic-ridden shelf-stacker.

This one fine sunny day, I had just beaten him again and had plonked myself down on the freezing rim to release some wee wee (no poo needed that day), when I heard the poor mite at the door pleading with me to let him come in and poo. Much guffawing ensued by both of us despite his obvious discomfort, but I still wouldn't open up. After a few minutes, he still hadn't given up, so I decided to open the door a peep, just to further my amusement by witnessing his puffed out fat little face.

Naughty sister, I hear you all cry, but it was worth it that day. Not only had he pooed into his little white y-fronts, but I also had the pleasure of watching the little brown lump bounce onto his pants, which were situated around his knees, and it then landed at his weird toes (I'm still confused by their unusual bendy shape), like some freak anal circus trick.

This story isn't amazing in itself, I know, but I do marvel that the image of my brother's poo bouncing on his pants, has never left my tiny pea-brain.

I'm also still amazed by the memory of our dog Blackie (dear god, our dad even called her Wog for short - he's not in any way racist, I hasten to add) and her penchant for leaving presents in our garden. They used to turn white like little antique bottom treasures, and me and twin would poke them with sticks to make them crumble into poo ash. I never see white poo anymore.....

Twin takes mild revenge now that we're older though, and makes me talk to him while he's on the gary glitter, even when it really smells. I think he forgets I work in a mortuary where poo is an everyday weapon (I wrote 'poo' in poo the other day, which kept me happpy for about half the day).

I also still fart on his head, given half a chance.

Length? I was 21 inches and he was 25.
(Fri 28th Mar 2008, 14:44, More)

» Have you ever seen a dead body?

Yes, but only Monday to Friday...
I work in a mortuary with Mr Tubs......and we live in a cemetery. I'm not weird, it's just a perk.

8 years in the job and roughly 1000 post mortems a year makes that about.......erm (brain cells that haven't been overly affected by formaldehyde kick into gear)......8000 dead bodies, give or take.

I've also developed (perhaps unsurprisingly) a slightly odd sense of humour.

Hell of a way to meet Mr Tubs though. Got married last year.

Not in the cemetery though...

Click "I like this" to celebrate me popping my own B3TA lurking cherry. (NB. Help! How do I create a link to I like this - I'm really quite appalling with modern technology - Please Mr Moderator, won't you help?)

Length? I nearly choked on my muffin.
(Tue 4th Mar 2008, 13:23, More)

» Eccentrics

Looney Tunes...
I'm one of four kids and each of us seem to have inherited a touch of madness from our daft bat of a mother.

She truly is a character. Early childhood memories include her asking me and my twin brother in an unsuitably loud voice, if we "need to go poo" on a tube train. The looks of pity from the other passengers were even more embarrassing. I believe we were about 5 going on 10. She has an obsession with talking loudly in front of anyone, no matter what is being discussed and yet, also harbours a raging paranoia about the goverment listening in on her conversations (this especially applies on the phone, so when we ring her, it's rather like taking part in a French resistance play).

She won't leave anything of "value" at home when she goes out, so everything (and I mean at least 6 carrier bags of "my papers") have to be hauled into and out of the car everyday.

Her sense of timing is appalling and she is constantly late for everything - the record as it stands is 3 hours for dinner at my house ("I'm coming darling, I just had to do security checks in the house" - wtf?)

It doesn't help that her father was always a bit mental too(apparently his sister went to the loony bin). She slags off the royal family, the upper classes and the Tories something rotten, but speaks with the most delightfully posh English accent, perfect pronunciation, diction and all.

She mostly accepts my job at the morgue as a "passing fancy", even after my 8-year post there, and still insists that my classical education is really what I should be honouring. "You'll make a beautiful singer and pianist one day. Why don't you leave your job darling?" Yeah alright ma, I'll leave my job that gave me a house with it, just so I can sing bloody arias in some stuffy old theatre and plonk on the ivories reading Chopin badly.

My older brother and older sister have an arabic father and I swear they inherited new barmy attributes from him when they were born. They both call me and my twin Yon-Hair Yaney Ganey (me) and Yon Duma (my twin) and occasionally whilst having a regular conversation with us, break off into unfathomable Arabic nonsense as if telling us off, and then proceed to violently but comically whack us round the heads. I don't understand any of it but it makes me laugh.

My dad is the only one who seems to be slightly normal, despite having a horrific motorbike accident when he was 19, suffering severe brain damage, being in a coma for 6 weeks and having to relearn emotions and speech.

Mr Tubs is my daily laughter tap. He thinks he's a terminator. I thought he was joking when he told me this quite proudly, but he really wasn't. Even when he was a small person, he thought he was a robot. It cracks me up laughing when I talk to him. He never gets emotional or anything. It's like having my own Arnie. He thinks my lot are all barking. But I think he's jealous...

I'm so lucky to have all these lunatics in my life. Eccentricity should always be celebrated. It's a wonderful trait to posess, or even better, to observe.

Hooray for the crazies!!
(Fri 31st Oct 2008, 13:05, More)

» Phobias

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....
(Tue 15th Apr 2008, 14:27, More)

» Blood

Yet another mortuary tale (apologies people, it's all I know).........
I love horror films and particularly those gory blood-drenched ones, so when I started working at the mortuary, I wasn't sure how I'd take seeing blood for real.

After a while I realised that some days are really clean, as if there isn't a whiff of a post mortem in the air. But other days, oh those other days, where you can't move for dead people, the stench of copper filling your nostrils, the floor covered in claret, the walls spattered with meat, nay the entire room looking like the tail-end of a vampire massacre - they can get quite messy.

Yes, those are the days when the most fun can be had.........

The favourite to date is when we waited for the delicate and sensitive "Adrian Mole clone" pathologist to disappear out of the room dictating a case, and then secretly finger-wrote "murder" on the wall by his table in blood. The way the blood started to drip after a minute or so down the wall was fantastic, but for utterly maniacal humour you sure couldn't beat the look of pure horror on his face, when he re-entered the room........in the middle of dictating, of course.

He still hasn't forgiven us so we tried to make him laugh the other day by wheeling a colleague into a post mortem, sitting in an abandoned wheelchair (aren't hospital rubbish areas great?) doing Davros impressions. He seems to like us again now.

Mrs tubs was severely reprimanded by Mr Tubs on...
(Thu 7th Aug 2008, 16:11, More)