Of mice and moan.

by Pseud O'Nym

I wish to apologise to anyone who read my “the shit in the shit on the shitter post’ read the warning that presaged it, and were understandably disappointed to read on only to discover that it wasn’t as gross as they’d hoped. I can only assure them I’ll try and redeem this shocking lack of toilet based obscenity with todays effort, which reading back now before posting is nowhere near as gross as advertised. In my defence, I’m on holiday and therefore can’t draw upon inspiration from Viz’s Profanasurus,


The body is a wonderful thing, so wonderful that we in fact take it for granted. We give no thought to the frankly miraculous ability for the skin to immediately begin to repair itself after being cut. Or the fact that all broken ribs need is some tight bandaging and rest. Or indeed elasticity, a phenomena whereby by the brain basically heals itself. I could go on, but you get the point. And if the point is your body telling you in unmistakeable terms that you need to eat more fruit and vegetables, you know two things for sure. First being, if its gotten to this state of affairs, any remedial action you take now will only have future benefits and secondly, your body will emit sounds that no human should.

Initially, you’ll notice that you are expending a lot of effort without any commensurate result. We’re not talking about phantom poo’s here, the one’s when feel you’ve extruded a turd the size and girth of a baby’s arm, are sometimes lucky enough to feel still leaving your body as it enters the water, only to see an empty pan meeting your expectant gaze Disheartening doesn’t begin to cover it, and even bother to pretend that you don’t have a Scooby what I’m on about. Because you do. But we’re not talking about phantom poo’s here, what I mean is when you’ve sat on the toilet for so long that your arse goes numb but the water below remains untouched. The air, however doesn’t.

There are many sounds one hears, all of them amplified by the wondrous acoustic properties of covered porcelain and to which I’ve spent rather too much time distracting myself by trying to describe the many sounds of a grumpy sphincter.can make. First off there’s the bog standard one, which sounds rather like like the noise a balloon makes when you slowly let air out it. A sort of high pitch squeak which if you emitted on a boat far out to sea, would be mistaken by dolphins as a mating call. Or if you were elsewhere in the house, perhaps thoroughly engrossed in a good book, might hear and think ‘Ah good, the mousetraps are working.’

Then there are the ones that sound like someones trying to open a door whose hinges haven’t been oiled. Ever. The sort of sound that would be followed by a blood curdling scream in a horror movie. Then there are the strange gurgling noises that issue forth from somewhere below the belly button, but one isn’t sure where exactly. The sort of gurgling sound that conjures thoughts of a mad scientists house and beakers full of foaming green liquid. I start to while away the boredom by wondering exactly how high pitched a dog whistle needs to be, or at what point a humans ear starts to bleed. Anything other than focus on the fact that not much of anything is happening, but consoling myself that I’m in the right place if it does.

When this aural hoax happens, I take comfort in the knowledge that every single human being ever has experienced this. That every person who has ever lived has looked up at the same moon, gazed upon the same sun, felt grass beneath their feet, felt oddly uncomfortable when they see a couple where the female is taller than the male and whose arse has sounded like the last sound a dying bird makes.