“Oh that’s some funny shit, man.”
The last time somebody said that to me, it left me deep in thought. I mean, just exactly when did excrement develop a sense of humour? Was it an optional extra that I missed out on?
God: “Install your shit-o-meter right now and I’ll throw in an excremental sense of humour entirely free of charge!”
For some reason, I don’t see my shit as particularly funny. Don’t get me wrong. When I drop a monster-sized grogan in the dunny bowl, I’m proud of it. I want to take it outside into the streets and show it off.
“Hey – look what I just did!”
Randy Marsh on Southpark was damned proud of the monster-sized grogan he left lying in the bottom of the dunny bowl and I know what he felt like. Especially when it’s the result of extended constipation.
A female friend of mine once confided that childbirth was a horrendous thing, with her screaming “give me more drugs you fat bastard!” but once the child was laid in her arms, it was all worth it. Well give us a break, girls. We blokes don’t get to experience that. Our master act of creation is the grogan. Coiled up on itself just like a bit of fancy whipped cream dressing on a ripper bit of apple pie. You look at it proudly, admiring its size, its shape. The fact that it is a nauseating piece of poo isn’t really that important. Or that its colour is like the teeth of a terbaccy chewer who hasn’t brushed in three years. You just made that. It's all yours.
I feel moved – in every sense of the word. The build up of pressure, then the release - ahhhh. If you’re really lucky, it’s accompanied by the bowelesque symphony of sound – faaaaaaaaaaaart.
I am not normally in the habit at laughing at things I am proud of. But I keep getting told that shit is funny henceforth this blog shall be known as Funny Shite (Funny Shit was already taken – so it’s Shite as in Sh-ight).
Image created just for me by artist Shauna O'Meara - link to her stuff coming soon