Multi-tasking

Little Jamie was running around, Jayden was following him, Katie had just pooed in her nappy and now mother was calling for help from upstairs too, and if she was calling while the kids were going mad, that meant it was urgent. Now she saw smoke coming from the oven. Shit! She’d forgotten about their waffles. Oh, God. And it was raining. The washing had to be dry for this evening. Then her phone started ringing, and it was her boss. He never usually rang. Just as she was about to answer it, she heard a sharp rap on the front door and a face trying to poke through the letterbox. The bailiff! Oh, God. And he’d definitely seen her already. Her mum called again. She told Katie to just stay still for a moment. She thought of getting Jamie to bring in the washing but then almost laughed at the idea. She began to scurry upstairs. But then the smoke alarm went off, and it was piercingly loud. Suddenly, near the bottom of the stairs, she found herself losing control, and turd after turd plunged out of her arse, into and through her knickers and fell free to flop indecorously into the puddle of piss she had poured forth at the same time.

Never give up

His lips exploded! Well, that will happen if you pay the lowest possible price in Dhaka to get them ‘done’, or so he had been told over the crackling phone line by his concerned mother, but had he listened? Had he fuck. Ah, man, it really hurt too. Still, perhaps he could distract people by getting some more botox in his already-bulging forehead, or maybe in the hideously rigid flesh around his eyes.

Facing the past

He knew that having a lip job was a mistake, let alone in the ‘seventies, and now, as he stared at himself in the mirror, bits of lip flesh sagging and hanging down from his abused mouth, he knew that only death could restore his dignity. But, hey, dignity was overrated, and instead he eagerly started calling lesser-known clinics to inquire about radical, cutting-edge remedial surgery at the lowest possible prices.

No such word as can’t

“You can’t polish a turd,” he had always been told, and yet, as he sat back and admired his handiwork, he felt vindicated in his refusal to believe the old adage. Granted, he’d had to embalm and varnish it first, but he’d done so delicately and with very little change to its glorious surface, and now it sat gleaming on his mantelpiece, having displaced the least prestigious of his trophies – the one for taking part in a penalty shootout at the local school fete.

Next stop – bants!

What banter! Steve had tried the old ‘dip your finger in water to make you piss yourself in your sleep’ on Chris, and it had nearly worked, but then Chris had woken, grabbed Steve, swiftly and expertly manoeuvred him into an agonising arm lock, held that ’til his whimpering subsided before snapping the arm off and laughing, then held a loaded pistol to his head while he produced a turd for Darren to carry round to Steve’s mouth and shove it all in and pinch his nose until he swallowed it else the both of them would have got their fucking heads blown off.