Merry Chrysler

“Merry Christmas” I chimed automatically as I handed over the sealed plastic bag.

“And to you” the receptionist at the GP’s office replied.

I felt it necessary to clarify.

“I mean, not just because I’m handing over the er… …package,”

She smiled, I blushed and turned, walked away. I can’t think of a time when I’ve handed over a bag of (my own) faeces to anyone, let alone on the week of Christmas or Chrysler as it is now called in my house. Whenever my children are upset with someone, I promise to deliver flaming packages of faeces through their letter boxes, but I have the decency to say it will be dog waste – I’m not an animal.

The previous night’s dreams had been laced with defaecation. And on waking, I knew what I had to do. Doo-doo.

 The doctor hadn’t given me any instructions to collect what she described as a “poo sample” (what am I a five year old – please call it something medical sounding Doc), but said that I needed to provide one. Luckily not then and there. I thought the Doc and I were close, and that we could talk about the ins and outs of collecting samples. After all, she’d just had her finger up my butt. But no. No instructions.

The receptionist just told me how to label the sample in the plastic tub. So I had to rely on the darkest corners of the internet to teach me how to put clingfilm over my own toilet bowl to do the needful. Collect a sample the size of a walnut it said. But how? The tube was hazelnut sized at best, but luckily it came with a blue plastic spoon built into the handle.

Your walnuts are tiny

I used said spoon to collect some of my spare waste, and then followed the instructions to replace the top, and place the container into the bag, seal the bag, and then store it in the fridge.

Putting excrement in the fridge just shortcircuited everything that was good and decent in my brain. Years of wiring had to be snipped to get me to do so. Where to put it? Definitely not the vegetable drawer, but it didn’t look right next to the cheese either. Then a thought came to me that I just couldn’t shake.

Maybe I should put the spoon harpooned turdlet into my freezer and call it a poopsicle when I brought it out.

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