Saturday, May 12, 2007

Depending on the wind

Sometimes one comes across people that just have a way with words that can describe or relate the most mundane in hilarious ways, one of these is Og the Neanderpundit as well as this from Yorkshire Pudding but I think this one must get first prize for the category of Bog Logging. This was mailed to a group I belong to but I will forgo exposing the name as he has asked to remain anonymous due to his position in society. The picture is from Grant who did some photo shopping to suit the story, however some smudging has been done to retain anonymity!

So there I am, marching up the first hill on the edge of the South Downs,
which I use as my warm up prior to my 2 -3 times a week 2.5mile cross country
run with the dog. It takes great fortitude on my part, I have to say,
especially the morning after a late shift at work, and today was one of those
days where I had had to really push myself as it had just started to drizzle
as well.
So I get halfway up the hill, my MP3 player booming away in my ears, the dog
on the look out for rabbits, when I feel the need to do an urgent fart. No
problem, I just let it go slowly. Except someone then poured concrete into my
back passage. And my shorts felt slightly wet.
I do not fucking believe it. I'd already spent a good 20 mins on the bog
offloading before i left the house. Am I forever to be haunted by my trip to
India and my subsequent Delhi Belly?
So I ploughed into the nearest thicket, bordered with stinging nettles and
brambles, which cut my legs to buggery but which with arse cheeks clenched
against the flow I was unable to leap nimbly over in my usual manner. Fergus
the dog now thinks we're on a proper adventure, and he's bounding around my
legs trying to trip me up. I've got a pulse beating in my glutes that I have
never noticed before, and Talking Heads 'Slippery People' booming in my ears.
I am conscious that at 0930, my main co-ramblers are usually middle aged
female dog walkers, I am wearing a white t-shirt which is not blending into
the foliage at all well, and I am about to do the biggest shit of my life.
With no bogroll. Or a toilet. Or a door to close.
So I dropped my shorts and undies, one of my best pairs as well, grabbed hold
of a tree trunk, and leant back like a yachtsman on a tack, so as to avoid
filling my shorts good and proper. I can live with a wet patch, but a gusset
full of slurry I can do without.
Whoosh. It was like one of those pictures which get circulated on the
internet of a bloke spraying liquid shite from his arse. It went a full metre
or more across the thicket and into the undergrowth. Fuck knows where the
pressure came from, or why it even existed, when I had not eaten anything
dodgy at all for ages. Luckily Fergus had gone back to hunting out rabbits or
else he would have got quite a shock.
So then I am stuck with a wet arsehole, my shorts round my ankles, and no
means of cleaning up. Wistfully, I disengaged my ankles from my undies, and
using them like a pull through, did the business before lobbing them into the
bushes. No doubt a passing fox is chomping on them as I type. Then I noticed
a middle aged couple, talking to each other and pointing into my thicket from
about 30metres away. They can only have thought that I was some sort of
weirdo who shits in bushes while spying on passers by, which at that moment
was a fairly forgivable presumption I suppose.
What a nightmare. I aborted the run and went home, figuratively and literally
I'll try again in the morning....
Thanks T... that was brilliant and worth a 10 point beverage warning! I hope Og reads it sometime, he will commend your style!
"The job is not done till the paperwork is done" Unknown

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