Poo: A Game of Thrones

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Suggested Audio Excretion:

The Prodigy Funky Shit

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The bowel movement comes to us all. Regularity may vary and consistency ranges wildly but I’m fairly assured I speak for most of us when stating that we all take a quick glimpse between our legs to ascertain splash damage. Medical experts recommend we all take a look, check our stamped addressed packages before posting them off but, regardless of their advice and for our own selfish reasons, morbid curiosity gets the better of us in such instances and we cannot help but sneak a peek. It is human nature after all, the natural reaction after dropping our H-bombs is to share an intimate moment with our poo, before that final flush… or two.

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Depending on the circumstances, clearing oneself out can be an intensely invigorating affair. That palpable relief we feel as we rid ourselves of our surplus can replicate a mild orgasm, having processed our waste we push it through a tiny muscle and often this, in itself, is a moment to cherish. Of course, much depends on the omissions and diet can play a hefty part in swinging our votes. Should it be a clean-cut then we carry on about our business, lighter in the load. However, if it should scald on exit then it can be a far more troublesome endeavor, forcing a swift rethink on any immediate plans as we embark on damage limitation.

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Wiping is our price to pay and ordinarily commences with a front-to-back slide as we gather any Intel we can about the aftermath of poo-gate. It’s like treating a cranial injury, any damage taken will invariably cause a fairly hefty bleed to begin with and this is par for the course. Subsequent dabs of the hand towel become less labored until it eventually stops gushing. Rectally the same is true, we’re looking primarily just to stop the onslaught before entering into waxing off. If we have our lucky rabbit foot upon our personage, we are occasionally gifted with the clean sweep straight from the offset and this is a most enchanting turn of events. “Nothing to declare” is music to our ears and extra spring is injected into our step.

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Shapes and sizes vary ferociously and no two poos ever quite look the same. Some are like rock formations, burly boulders which tend to roll out rather cleanly and require very little afterthought other than “look at that beast”. The more troublesome turd is the straight slider. This can be of considerable length and takes some degree of concentration to run its course. Our chomping jaws just want to chow down as they flume southward, cut it off at the pass and save a token for later. This is dicey at best but should you manage the unthinkable and pass the serpent in its entirety, then it will culminate in a sharp point and slither away before you even get to grab your ‘selfie’.

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Depending on all manner of factors, it can be a drawn-out slog wrestling out our behemoths and half an hour of Angry Birds later we can still be in negotiation. Reading materials are piled up like a dentist’s waiting room in case of such eventualities and some folk are enthused to grab those precious minutes in this compromised position. Others just cannot wait to get it over with and I’m presuming these people don’t possess smart-phones.

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Befuddlement is entirely unremarkable, a real white-knuckle ride can produce a rather pathetic end result as we chip off the old block like anal sculptors. What we are left with is a bowlful of spherical shards that a Russian Hamster would scoff at. On the flip side, a real Goliath can flume out fast enough to set off a mobile speed camera and not even wave ta-ta. It’s the luck of the draw, some you win and others we are born to lose. While it is nice to be left with some certification of authenticity, those stealth bombers can leave us feeling as though we’ve dodged a bullet or, perhaps more fittingly, it has dodged us.

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As we go about our daily chores, our system is processing the shit out of everything we bundle into our bodies. Colonic pinball ensues until we are ready to hit tilt or get our flappers busy. Regularity of visits to the White Throne of Dunga is different for each individual, some can set their stopwatches to their first daily movement whereas others get caught out in the field and are required to find the first available trench pot.

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Should you be miles from home, then you enter into a dangerous tryst, a Game of Thrones if you will. The public toilet is like Russian Roulette with five in the chamber. Others never demonstrate the same level of decorum when in a communal waste palace and it can be truly horrifying swinging open that cubicle door.

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This is absolutely demented, it is as though offenders revel in some sort of shit party, flinging it around with gay abandon just to administer the hapless journeyman with a moment’s heave as their gag reflex is crudely tested. I have turned around and walked straight back whence I came as a result of such treachery and wag my digit at any Gruehead culpable of such heinous war crimes. I say shame on you, delivered with not nearly straight enough a face to sound convincing. Meticulously laying down the sheets is preferable to any ill-fated hover technique as whatever someone left as a parting shot still inhabits the splash zone and nobody wants to soak that back into their posterior.

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The cursed few with constipation issues get the meanest deal as every skirmish leaves its wear and tear behind it. A simple number two becomes akin to being callously fisted by Clyde from Every Which Way You Can and, should a few grisly hemorrhoids gatecrash the party, then the tears of a clown are shed. Sickness and diarrhea barely even warrants a mention as, while I’m willing to get my hands dirty, some things are just better left unsaid. I will say this however… shiiiiiiat!!!

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Anyone familiar to parenting will have been required to get a little more up close and personal as diapers are relinquished on a bi-hourly basis. I had the bizarre bamboozlement of changing my boy’s first and remember thinking I must’ve hit pay dirt or something. The midwife had declined to inform me of  the inky deposit which I was presented with as I explored and I’m fairly convinced it went on to grab an uncredited part in Creepshow 2. From thereon in the color palette changes with the weather but after a few months incessant practice, we’re soon clutching our peanut butter jelly sandwiches in one hand whilst hysterically attempting to access the wipes with the other.

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So there we have it; we all partake and, behind firmly latched doors, most of us gain some level of gratification from the process. There’s ultimately nothing to shame in dropping the kids off at the estuary and remember that even the great Leonard Nimoy has to squeeze out his daily deposits. That’s presuming that Vulcan’s poo of course. Better ask Shatner, sounds like he’ll know.

When Good Farts Turn To Shit

 

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Flatulence comes and flatulence goes
Playing its bum notes wherever it blows
It fills up five senses and none least your nose
The moment each parp has departed

 

On occasion, it isn’t content just to smell
These instances come and we all know them well
The touching of linen, the taste of pure hell
On realization we’ve sharted

 

It catches us out at inopportune moments
We ask for a rasp and receive its foul bonus
and with its release it decides then to own us
By manifesting something chronic

 

Feels good to let rip but once we’ve enjoyed it
The second phase comes, when our asshole deploys it
And all of this shit could’ve just been avoided
By grabbing ourselves a colonic

 

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Drop your sin in the bin,

Keeper of the Crimson Quill

Copyright: Crimson Quill: Savage Vault Enterprises 2014

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