After clenching my ring for ages I finally let out a tiny but leathal trump on the Picardilly Line yesterday morning and struggled not to laugh at the disgusted expressions of my fellow commuters. Several covered their mouths with scarves to avoid breathing in my bumdensation. Some old boy had just got on at Gloucester Road and I think he was prime suspect.
No worries, we had a kid in my primary school who had a bag, he was a fucking arsehole, he just didn't have one. I mean just because someone is ill doesn't mean they aren't a complete twat. He bubbled everyone to the teachers and gloated when we were in the shit. He then couldn't understand why we hated him.
It took several good well aimed kicks, preferably with a good run up, to burst his bag and that was a 1960s low tech variant.
This is what went through my mind. What if she was wearing a colostomy bag. What if that colostomy bag had just ripped, letting out the foul rancid material, and associated smell, within? What if that smell had mixed with (or overpowered) mine, and there I was enjoying it, thinking it was mine? I'm still scarred from the idea.
I wear a colostomy, now my wound area is oval in shape, it measures 110mm x 70mm. Now, the colostomy bag I wear is 90mm circular at it's widest, therefore my bag doesn't fit properly which leads to whiffs of cess pool proportions on a regular basis. I enjoy the looks on the faces of anyone I'm in a confined space with when my bag leaks, even better if someone coughs up their breakfast.. Fuck em.
I went the whole nine yards; queasy swallow, corners of the mouth turned down, disgusted frown, visibly not breathing through my nose. Bellowing 'phwoar, what a fucking STINKER' probably would have attracted too much attention, but I was subtle. I'm quite sure everyone blamed the OAP.