Poopy Claymore

There’s the odd day here and there when I’ll get some time all to myself. Some time to catch up on a TV show, maybe play some Xbox and generally catch up with a couple of household chores that may be needing done before a vengeful, anger fuelled Roobs comes home from work like a booted ginger tomcat who’s been caught in amongst the cream buns.

Arduous chores too, like emptying the dishwasher and perhaps folding some washing. I’m not saying I’m a martyr here folks, but I’ve managed to get two loads of washing done and only have to lay down with exhaustion for perhaps two hours afterwards to recompose myself from the effort. I’m a real people’s champion.
However there’s times when your help will be not only under-appreciated, but laughed at! I know, I’m as shocked as you are that my normally sweet and respectful wife would be anything less than sympathetic when she finds out her husband was trapped in the garden with a bare left foot full of dog shit covered toes.. Let me explain.

When I work dayshift, I normally stumble out of bed at 4am so I can leave the house at five, giving me plenty of time for the commute, get to work then complain about my life and how early it is before my shift mate has enough and runs out the door. This week, I was up a bit fresher and brighter than normal, so before leaving for work I thought I’d pull the washing out the machine that had been on overnight and hang it out on the line, thinking it would be dry for Roobs and The Destroyer getting up later in the morning.
Sporting little more than my raggedy shorts and a threadbare vest, I pranced out barefooted onto the morning grass like a beautiful gazelle, throwing washing onto the line while cartoon birds flew around me singing about how beautiful I was in the dawn light..*

(*Note – I may have been hallucinating that part though due to the out of date ‘Mexicana’ cheese I’d snacked on before bed.)

It wasn’t until I was hitting the crescendo of my imaginary cartoon animal enhanced dance recital that disaster hit. Just as I spun and effortlessly clothes-pegged a pair of hole riddled Asda boxers to the line, my bare left foot landed perfectly on the only dog shit within a fifty feet radius..

It turns out that as I’d opened the back door of our house and then turned to pick up the basket of washing from the kitchen table, our dog ‘Fucking Jack’ (which he’s commonly referred as) had sprinted outside and laid a foot long Mr Whippy right in the middle of the grass, and coincidentally right in the middle of my wonderful 4am dance recital..

It wasn’t until my foot had fully planted itself flat on the ground did I suspect something was wrong down below, even as I felt the half digested Pedigree Chum log work it’s way through the gaps of my toes I wasn’t quite sure what had happened.. Until the smell hit me, like someone had taken a blowtorch to a bin bag full of Cullen Skink filled nappies.

I’m now in the garden at stupid o’clock in the morning, dry heaving and speaking in tongues due to the stench burning out my frontal lobe.. I’m hopping on one foot whilst clutching the ankle of the shitty one, trying to navigate my way around the obstacle course of discarded kids toys so I can get to the garden hose and clean off my shatty sole.
Probably due to my blurry eyes caused by the dry heaving, my coordination wasn’t at its best, as proven when I lost my balance and bounced off the Destroyer’s slide before landing face first into the grass. I decide then through a furious face soaked in morning dew that I was just going to commando crawl to the hose and spray the foot until there was little more than bone left..

Did you know though that your average garden hose with the tap full on puts out far more water pressure than you would expect? I learned this quickly as the stream of cold water hit my foot and sent poop bullets winging off in all directions. I’m pretty sure the neighbors monkey puzzle tree took a fair hit, (despite being near twenty feet away) and I’d maybe advise the folk two doors down to avoid using their sun-chair until they can get a chance to give it a quick going over with an antibacterial wipe or two.

So today’s lesson has been this; If you want to prance around your garden like you’re starring in the Disney movie, ‘Song of the South’, do a quick minesweep first for any ‘Crappy Claymores’ that may have been left out by a devious hound who’s probably mad at you for not sharing your poached egg on toast with him that morning..

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