Zufriedenheit - Satisfaction

After selecting this entry and staring blankly at the screen for five minutes, I felt a poo was imminent and so took the opportunity to sit and ponder exactly what I’d write about. The only thing in my head was that Rolling Stones song, but given (quite embarrassingly) I know almost nothing about the band, it’d be a difficult five hundred words to blag. Sure Mick Jagger’s a strutting, womanising, narcissist, but there’s something about him you can’t help but admire. Probably the womanising actually. And of course Keith Richards swaggers around like he’s Jack Sparrow’s father and has a face more wrinkled than a hypothermic ball sack, but he’s still cool as fuck. There’s not much you can joke about without feeling like a bit of a jealous prick. So anyway, I was just about finished on the bog, still struggling to think of anything worth committing to keyboard, when it hit me how completely satisfying my shit had been. Apologies for lowering the tone, but you should have seen where this was going from that opening sentence. You’ve only got yourself to blame. Oh, and me. But it is true: that sense of euphoric relief you get after clearing out yesterday’s cereal, yoghurt, crisps and chocolate fingers (the biscuity variety, not human) is almost unrivalled. It does smell though, and not always pleasantly. Especially if you’ve got a terrible diet consisting of tray-in-the-oven food and sugary snack foods. Although veggies stink horribly too, so you can’t win. Not that there’s much of a game in it - only once have I awarded the Best In Shit trophy after both my housemates made particularly fetid deposits on the same day. One had definitely been eating a Fray Bentos pie, while the winner’s entry smelt more of cheap Asda sausage rolls and burger sauce. A worthy victor indeed.

So while we’re down in the lower echelons of taste, I might as well mention the worst thing about pooing at work. For me, my uniform seems to create what I can only describe as a shit-chimney, where the offending odours rise from the bowl and enter my loose-fitting shirt around the belly area. Then, travelling up the half-flesh, half-fabric vent, they exit by my top button, treating my face to a concentrated faecal gas-cloud. It’s not much fun, and it also makes me stupidly paranoid that my whole upper body smells that way for the rest of the shift. Anyway, the good news for you is I need to leave for work in ten minutes so this is ending right here. I just hope I’m sufficiently emptied for the night ahead.