So I'm in the bath with little Jojo, my two-year-old. It's a normal evening routine for us and we normally have much fun comparing scrotum size and other manly activities. A form of male bonding, if you will. This particular evening, however, I don't much care for the cut of the toddler's jib: he seems sore in his guts and uncomfortable with himself. Hindsight is a wonderful thing and I should've heeded the symptoms; but, criminally, I thought nothing of it, and I became alarmed only when I observed the child's face turning a tremendous shade of purple. I cursed my stupidity and became transfixed by a feeling of paralyzed dread. However, even the certain knowledge of what was to come still left me unable to fully comprehend the evil magnitude of it.
I'll cut to the chase: the infant turns around, arse up, and through a sheen of soapy bubbles I witness the lad's ringpiece pucker as he unleashes a particularly malevolent-looking turd. No man should have to see his son's ring pucker in this fashion. "Dear sweet shivering Jesus," I mouth silently, unable to actually make a sound, as the beige torpedo propels itself in my quivering direction. It's coming at me at a rate of knots, meandering its way through rubber ducks and other kiddy toys, like a turd on a mission. It looks determined all right, and it means to do me harm -- of that there is no doubt.
"Is there no bastard who can help me?!" I shriek in apocalyptic tones, the corn-studded missile being near upon me. Coming to my senses and slipping out of my terror-zone at the last second, I exit the bath in a tidal wave of water and foam, screaming like a banshee, like a large girl panicking as she flees shark-infested waters. I make it out -- alive -- and lie there in the corner of the bathroom, cowering and disoriented. Then I realize: Argghh, I've been fucking skiffed.
"Dear God, can somebody not help me??" I grab a towel and remove the wet brown streak that has attached itself to my side. Tears roll down my face. I turn to face my nemesis. The scene I encounter could only have been conjured up by evil fiendish forces of the night: Jojo is by now chucking the lathered turds around the bathroom like he's at one of those Spanish tomato-throwing festivals. His diabolical little face is a mixture of confusion and delight. His horns glow and his forked tail swishes around menacingly behind him. The bathroom now looks like an IRA prisoner's cell.
But my ordeal is not over. Oh no, it can never be over. It takes me about twenty minutes to hose down the diminutive fiend and get him out of the bath. Then the pièce de résistance: I realize that not all the remaining turdage will go down the plughole; not of its own, volition at any rate. Pure unadulterated wickedness!
I turn the shower on full power and hope to force the nuggets down. But still they lie there, proudly defiant, grinning at me in their soapy majesty. A broken man, I actually have to resort to squeezing the turds down the plughole with my fingers with Satan's little helper laughing behind me.
I sit here now, months later, recuperating from my ordeal. I'm nursing a beer. It'll take some time to recover. The bathroom may never do so. Little Jojo will have to accept in good grace the cork that gets shoved up his bunghole every time I bathe him in the future.