Wipe Your Bum.
by Gethin A. Lynes
What’s that, you ask?
That, my little nipple ticklers, is an absolutely immaculate, 18yr old Talisker, dancing on the corpse of my final assessment. Ok, ok, so it’s not precisely immaculate, and yes, that is an ice cube floating in it. But before you come in here with your distillate elitism, let me ask you this: do I flay you for royally fucking up a perfectly good cup of coffee by putting milk in it, and sugar, and dumping a great choking cloud of chocolate dust over the top of it? No. So shut the fuck up.
I took the day off work today. I have done something twingey to my back. No, not from all those fucking weights I’ve been lugging off the floor like you’d think. From doing yoga. Yoga? The shit that is supposed to stretch the fuck out of all those twingey bits and turn you into a fucking flesh-coloured Gumby.
It was a good excuse though. I’m feeling a little emotionally drained the last couple of days. Well, emotionally bludgeoned more like, but you know, that’s a story for another venue. I’m not one to air dirty laundry in public. Not my own anyway. Someone else’s though, that’s another matter. Got no qualms about lifting up some other fucker’s filthy dacks and proclaiming in my quietest little shout: Hey, mate, have you looked at the state of your fucking undies lately? Look at this. Didn’t your mum teach you to wipe your bum?
Speaking of which, that reminds me of this time when I was a kid. I was at this friend’s place, somewhere in the years before I got seriously into lighting shit on fire, and sneaking out of the house in the middle of the night to throw smoke bombs through the windows of any poor fucker that just happened to live within a two kilometre radius. You know, there were those years where you just had this urge to fuck shit up. They mostly sat between the slightly younger years, where you were content to sit silently and play computer games for fourteen hours straight and the slightly older years, where you were content to sit silently and play computer games for fourteen hours straight.
Anyway, this was before that time, and we were probably just sitting there kicking the shit out of footbag on California Games or something. Those were the days: all Commodore 64’s, tape drives, and plenty of time to run down the shops for a pie and a bag of lollies, and then have a quick swim, while you waited for the game to load. The days before short attention spans… because fucked if you weren’t going to play that game until you broke it, ’cause it just took 40 fucking minutes to load.
Anyway, there we were, doing something of the kind, and this guy’s brother – I don’t know which one, they were twins, and I could never tell the fuckers apart – off in the back off the house, evidently from the toilet, suddenly yells out “Mum, can you come and wipe my bum?”
What the fuck do you say to that? What do you even think? I mean, this kid was like ten fucking years old. I don’t think my mum had wiped my arse for me since about the time I learned to stand up on my own, let alone more than half the way to fucking University.
Jesus. That’s akin to still suckling your son to sleep when the little bastard’s on the verge of going to school. That’s some seriously messed up shit right there.
Anyway. Diploma. Done. Finished. Never have to fucking edit a thing again.
No doubt it’s a familiar feeling to anyone who has engaged in any kind of prolonged education by choice. School doesn’t count. You got no choice in that. But why on earth anyone chooses to do this to themselves is currently beyond me. You spend all this time studying something fascinating, compelling, maybe even liable to get you a fucking good job – or at least a better job than the one you got now, where you spend all day playing the ape in a room full of monkeys, and the fuckers keep looking in the mirror and cracking the shits at that other monkey who keeps looking right back at them all defiant and shit. And then you get to the end of it. You slave over your last essays, or analyses, or corrections, and the last thing you ever want to even think about doing, is this same thing, ever again. And fuck making a career out of this shit.
But the good news is, you don’t have to. No, instead, now you can come home from work at the end of every day, and instead of facing a long evening of trawling through someone else’s shit, looking for where they fucked it up, or dealing with the guilt of not doing that, well, now you get to deal with the guilt of that neglected, unloved and half-started novel that keeps looking at you, all doe-eyed and pouty from the corner of the desk every time you venture into the study.
Of course, you could always just shut the door and have another whisky.
And by the way, this one, it’s as immaculate as Mary was before she did the dog with Joe.