and when it finally needed to meet it's watery grave, I knew it was going to be trouble.
It felt like I was shitting out a motorcycle helmet. With spikes on it.
Suffice to say, the excrucitaing pain I was suffering wasn't normal. This was confirmed by a 'drip drip drip drip' after the dreadnaught had sunk to firing depth.
The dripping sound was blood pouring from my damaged arse. In horror, I quickly stuffed a load of bog roll up there & drove as fast as I could to the doctors.
Upon arrival, I staggered in, pale faced, nearly in tears and in a lot of pain. I pointed out to the mini-hitler on the recpetion that I needed to see a doctor urgently. Seeing my distress and being a compassionate type, she refused to help me until I'd told her what was so urgent that I had to see a doctor straight away.
I'm sure I heard her sniggering as I was taken in to see the doctor.
I then had to suffer further humiliation as the doctor (male - I insisted) then spent a good ten minutes poking about my arse 'umming and ahhhing' over whether or not stitches would be required. The Bastard.
He eventually decided that none would be required, gave me a prescription for some 'special cream' and told me not to strain so hard in future.
I now drink copious of lager every night, to ensure that my arse is never troubled by anything more than rusty water and grapeskins.
Subscribe to:
Post Comments (Atom)
No comments:
Post a Comment