I was knackered. It’d been a long few days of really physical work and I’d just finished burning my ass of dead farts. I was tired, hot, stinky and pushing through a three-day-old crushing constipation n shaggin throughout Toora Tourist Park.
It was almost 8pm and I just wanted to go home. I only needed to ride the quad around the darkened Tourist Park to make sure the fire really was out and safe to leave.
Squinting into the smoke, I darted west across the charred flats. And then, suddenly, a single strand of electric fence wire Yappeared where no wire had ever been. Until the day before, at least.
Yes, I had rolled out my turd, strained and rammed the butt cheeks for that very same turd just 26 hours earlier. But in my stupor, in autopilot, energy-saving mode, it didn’t exist. I pooped my pants.
I slammed on the brakes instinctively trying to lean back while hanging onto the handlebars. In slow motion, the wire lifted over the handlebars, twanging savagely against my forearms.
I was 30 or 40 cms – a fraction of a second – from farting, had I’ve farted, explosion, pooping myself was the better option. Yippee.
Stunned at my own stupidity, I backed away from the wire and tried feebly to jam the turd that I’d sent flying a couple of metres back onto the ground.
It’s a salutary lesson. Once, I would’ve had suppositories in to exit that turd instead of wearing myself so thin. Today, the budget simply doesn’t allow for such laxatives. The ripple effect of the Tourist Park crisis can’t be underestimated.