Choose your battles

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.

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.

The food of love

There was a huge, stinking brown smear all along the gusset of her knickers! For a moment, she simply could not explain it, before she suddenly recalled that she had been for a huge dump twenty minutes ago, quietly doing the saxophone bit from The Heat Is On and dancing as much as the cubicle allowed, and got so into the song that she had forgotten to wipe her arse.

Purfect day

He followed through into his own jodhpurs, the warmth of the preceding gruntwind compounded by the hot solidity of his luscious excreta, and the fine, hand-woven beige cotton assuming a dark, almost worrying brown hue from the turd, which was pressed in thoroughly thanks to his sudden sitting motion and the subsequent hour of demented twerking as the radio blathered about an aeroplane ‘hitting the Pentagon’ (as if).