He had left a dookie behind, perhaps deliberately.
He did a backflip, but alas, he’d chosen the worst place to do so, and the thousands of yards he fell gave him time to contemplate his folly before splattering beautifully on the excrement-smeared cobblestones.
Hold on! Was that an Oscar? Had he just won an Academy Award? It couldn’t be! This was unbe- Oh, no. No, it was just a turd. Still, he had won it.
There was a dark brown stain on the back of his jodhpurs, and they all knew it was shit.
He threw himself from the roof, picking a fight with the corner of the lower building and losing immediately, his headbutt not devastating the brickwork as he had hoped but in fact breaking his own skull open, though the snapping of his neck meant that he only had a fraction of a second to contemplate it, and no consciousness left by the time he hit the floor in a contorted mess and expired with his arse above his open gob and, you know it, a turd emitting languidly from one into the other.
The follow-through filled his Y-fronts immediately and carried on going, his clown trousers soon brimming too and the pressure forcing the hot cack up through the sealed plastic sheeting into his heavy plate armour and finding its deserved release through the gaps.
The spear pierced his throat, killing him in seconds and releasing his bowel from its duties, a column of shit quietly slipping free into his brand new lavender pantaloons.
Boom! A turd exploded in mid-air, splattering the plush regency drawing room with its filth.
It was generally unproblematic to break wind in the jacuzzi, but it was much, much less acceptable to follow through, as the signs posted all over the health club had made abundantly clear, entirely in vain.
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.