Talkin’ shit with the GP

I went to the GP today to get some cheerpills. Mental thrillness capsules. I also got a tub to shit in. I think it’s for tests. I hope it’s for tests.

I sniggered in the waiting room, imagining the receptionist getting up and putting two hands in the air and shouting “WELCOME TO THE MEAT GRINDER!”, for no reason at all. My tendency to laugh in the wrong place was about for a bit, and continued in the appointment when the conversation turned literally to shit.

She gave me a tub to lay a bum egg in. I don’t know how I’m going to cope with that. Shitting into a tub for a start. It’s hard enough to hit the bottom of a toilet bowl with any accuracy, let along passing it straight into that. Am I going to have to push it in? What if it’s massive? Do I need to cut it up first? Then taking it through town, knowing I am quite literally carrying a tub OF MY OWN SHIT ABOUT.

I’ve written sketches like this. Now I’m living it. And then I have to hand it over to the surgery. What If I give it to the wrong person? Hello, here’s a tub of my shit. Hope you enjoy it.

Stinking up the feces fun.

I kept laughing my way into town again, and went to pick my pills up. The fun continued, as I sat down to wait and Blondie’s Heart of Glass played. I mentally sang it like this:

“Tugged my cock, and it was a gas, wanked myself, in a house of glass.”

I chuckled my way home.


About neilstilwell

Abseiling into trouble, a sewer rat staring at the stars. Disgusting. You can assist my search for the one ring by buying a Kindle version of this diary from here. It has some other stuff in it, and a dreadful cover.
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