11 January 2007

Of the 780 blogs I have written since the inception of The Trash Whore Diaries, precisely 219 of them contain the word ‘shit’. In case you’re wondering where I plucked that fascinating statistic from, I didn’t have to read through five years worth of Trash Whore archives to obtain it; Blogger did all the number crunching for me. Given that almost a third of my blogs contain shit, and possibly even multiple shits, there are two possible inferences that can be drawn from this. Either I like to liberally apply the S-word as punctuation, emphasis and expletive or I just like writing about shit. A quick glance at the subject matter of some of the 219 blogs in question (make that 220 now) seems to suggest that the second diagnosis is correct, and I am indeed faecally fixated, for to date I have covered such diverse topics as ‘Are fat people’s faeces bigger than thin people’s faeces?, ‘Why does shit continue to stink even after it’s been flushed down the toilet?’ And the ubiquitous ‘Why does shit contain sweet corn?’ (And if you’re wondering what the answer to that last one is, Elwood forwarded me the following text recently from AQA: ‘The ‘corn’ of sweetcorn does digest in the human body. The skin, however, is made of cellulose which is almost indigestible and is visible in faeces.’)
In case you haven’t guessed, today’s blog is also about shit. But this time, it’s about a type of shit I have yet to document - baby shit. That is to say, shit that was shat by a baby; it may not necessarily be baby in size. In my experience, from the 80 consecutive days in which I have been a proper, hands-on dad, baby shit can be positively monstrous. I wonder if babies have some sort of intestinal zip drive, capable of compressing their crap so that they can gobble down as much breast milk as possible without being torn away from the teat for a bum change. Upon being squeezed out - or rather unzipped - from their tiny bodies, the shit reinflates to full size again.
In the same way that a guy comes to instinctively know the days of the month when he is liable to receive cold shoulders and blue balls from his pre-menstrual bitch of a girlfriend, I know my daughter’s bowel movements inside out, quite literally. On a typical morning, she wakes me up by slapping me about the head and cackling manically until I drag myself out of bed. (My girlfriend, sensibly, retreats under the covers and puts a pillow over her head to protect herself from a similarly rude awakening.) My first job of the day is to change the nappy that the bairn has been wearing all nite. This is not as bad as it sounds, for usually it is filled with nothing more hazardous than pish-scented cows’ milk. It is the second nappy of the day that proves to be more disagreeable. Exhilarated at being liberated from a soggy nappy, the bairn typically makes a point of soiling her clean one within half an hour of it being fitted. For this reason, I let her run about in just her vest and nappy until she has unloaded El Gordo. Otherwise, I’ve got to waste half an hour dressing her up in tights, shoes and a skirt only to have to remove them again when push comes to shove. 80 days after my fumbling fingers changed their first nappy, I have the procedure down to a tee and am capable of changing even the dirtiest of diapers with an efficiency that would put a formula one pit crew to shame. You may think that changing a nappy is hardly rocket science and you’d be right, but that’s not to say it’s a piece of piss - or poo - either. Fuck it up and you’ll end up with you, the bairn and the whole room covered in shit, just like Renton’s infamous bed sheets scene in Trainspotting. Get it right and, well, you’ll receive no recognition whatsoever, but at least the smell of shit will dissipate.
For those of you who have always wondered how to change a nappy, be it in readiness for parenthood or simply to enact your sexual fantasy of mothering a shitting, pissing, nappy clad adult, the following section is for you: Before removing the bairn’s nappy, I always make sure to have the baby wipes laid out beside her, lid open, but not so close that she can grab them and stuff them in her mouth. Otherwise, if I were to open up a dirty nappy unprepared, while I was rummaging in the cupboard for baby wipes, the bairn would be reaching in and helping herself to second helpings of last nite’s supper. (As an aside, I have recently found myself wondering how parents ever survived before the invention of baby wipes. Although it’s not a phrase I use often - in fact make that ever - they really are a god-send. Not only are baby wipes great for wiping sick/shit/piss splattered babies with, but they’re also great for wiping your dick clean with after sex. Sex between two consenting adults, I hasten to add.) I also make sure that the clean nappy is nearby, fully opened and facing the right way up. Otherwise, in the time it takes me to remove the dirty nappy and unwrap a new one, the bairn will have pissed all over the carpet. After ensuring that baby wipes and a clean nappy are on standby, removing the bairn’s trousers and undoing the poppers on her vest, there comes what I refer to as The Moment Of Truth. At this moment, I already know that the nappy I am about to open is shitty - and not just pissy - because of the smell. What I don’t know is what type of shit it is - liquidy, peanut buttery or rabbit curranty - and where the shit is dispersed. Ideally, the deposit will be confined to one specific area of the nappy - the centre. In reality, with the bairn having shat herself and then continued to roll about until the stench was detected, the chances are that the whole nappy is covered in it, as are her genitals and thighs. Hence The Moment Of Truth. On a good day - i.e. a rabbit curranty one - I don’t complain upon unfastening the sticky tabs and being confronted by what lies within. On a bad day, I recoil in horror at the sight of the bairn’s last meal - still recognisable, right down to the last vegetable - artexed all over her nether regions.
This morning’s dirty nappy was neither good or bad, but only because for once the bairn deigned to produce one at her usual hour. As I was scheduled to spend the day in town with her this meant that at some point during our excursion she was bound to poop, leaving me with the fun job of locating a nappy changing facility in Aberdeen and going about my dirty work. When the shit finally happened, it happened in Revolution of all places, just as I was enjoying my first Stella of the day. One moment there was a faint scent of lager and leather seats; the next, the air was redolent of warm faeces. With Revolution being a pub, as opposed to a mother and toddlers group, there were of course no nappy changing facilities, and so I picked up the poop-laden bairn and trudged downstairs to the gents. The toilets were tiny, with only a cramped worktop between two sinks to operate on. I plonked the bairn down on the formica, her head resting against the taps and her feet dangling over the edge, and set to work. When The Moment of Truth arrived, I was relieved to discover that it was of the solid rather than the sloppy variety. I successfully removed the dirty nappy and set about wiping clean with some Starbucks napkins. (My shoulder bag wasn’t large enough to accommodate the luxury of a packet of baby wipes.) Everything was going well until, while attempting to fit the clean nappy, I knocked against the dirty one, spilling its contents over the edge and onto the floor below. I somehow managed to bend down and pick up the pieces (using a tissue) without letting go of the bairn. The offending nappy was then rolled up and taped shut, ready to be chucked in the bin. The only trouble was, the gents toilet didn’t have a bin. Instead, I left the ripe diaper sitting beside the sink while I went for a piss. While I stood at the urinal, my daughter stood by the sink and patiently waited for me. Or at the least that was the plan. Before I knew it, she had dashed over and grasped hold of the piss-spattered urinal. I grabbed her clean hand and held on to prevent further incursions into the urinal while with my other hand I finished what I had started and shook off. Then, in one fell swoop I grabbed the bairn, sat her beside the wash basin, washed her pishy hand under the tap, dried it under the hand drier, washed and dried my own hands, lifted her onto my shoulder, picked up the dirty nappy and walked out in search of a bin to deposit it in. I’ve done some pretty dirty things in public toilets in my time - wanked, shat, cottaged, fucked, puked and snorted coke - but without doubt, this was the clartiest of the lot.

7 comments:

Anonymous said...

Before babywipes there were dogs. In traditionally living !Kung, it's dogs who lick clean a shitty bum. Some anthropologists think this was the start of dog domestication.

Kai said...

Well that certainly explains how so many dogs effortlessly make the transition from domesticated pet to demeaned sex toy, licking peanut butter from their mistress's clit.

missfee said...

oh you have comments now...

I have endlessly wondered if fat people have fatter fannies than thin people... any insights?

Kai said...

Ha ha, I thought you'd be the expert on that one! I may have to conduct some field research on the matter of fat fannydom and publish my findings in a future blog.

Dissolvo Ray said...

I had a fat girlfriend last year and she had a huge fanny.

Kai said...

With your tiny cock then it must have been like throwing a sausage in a wheelie bin.

Anonymous said...

You're thinking of matters from a human/sexual approach and not a materialist/food persective. That remains your perogative because you have language, unlike the dogs. Please carry on.