“Come support the multiple births club” the flyer at work reads.
Talk about unnecessary, a ‘club’ already exists for births; it’s called parenthood and you don’t have to be Jon and Kate to join either. And yes, a lot of the time spent in this club is shit, tough and all of it unpaid, but what bonuses there are will be the most rewarding you ever have and guess what? You don’t need to join another club for those that have popped a couple out through the beef curtains to have them experiences either. You dicks.
Speaking of clubs, changes are afoot at the ClubDes homestead next week as we welcome a flatmate for the first time.
Whether it was the fact we had a spare room worth a tasty week’s rent just gagging to be let, or the fact that the missus and I are done talking to each other after 10 years of wedded bliss who really knows, the ad went up and arrive in a few days she does.
My last experiences of flatmates, some 15 years ago now, are not favourable so I am a little apprehensive. They were the days of living with Coops older sister, who avoided confrontation by sticking post it’s to the bedroom door noting such helpful hints as “please don’t masturbate in the shower as it clogs up the drain”. Or something like that.
Usually I have a very big thing about stranger danger, especially in my own cave. I am creature of my own habits and I like my own routine so the prospect of some noob coming in and disrupting that would usually tighten the sphincter markedly. But truth be told I am quite excited about the whole thing. Yes she may be attractive but I am only looking forward to reading the articles.
Now naturally when one prepares to welcome a young lady into a house dominated by boys, talk naturally turns to the important issues like the state of the toilet, or ones attire in the early hours of the morning. Strangely it’s only the females in the household that seemed concerned about these things.
Thankfully Junior is at an age where most of what gets aimed at the carzie ends up in there. Unfortunately some of what ends up in there does tend to stick around though which presents a separate issue entirely because a quick mop up of the floor or seat with the sock, or Dads towel is not going to cut it where a good bowl dent is concerned.
It’s a strange phenomenon is the toilet dent. Theoretically it shouldn’t happen; the area is well lubed and unless we’re talking about public shitters, flushed afterwards. Mrs ClubDes, like all good women, has a technique that she swears by which is the layering of several pieces of butt wipe to catch the Cosby Kids and thus alleviate said skid marks.
I reckon that 'layers' are the female answer to everything though. Layers on the bed, layers of clothing, layers of pillows on the couch, my feelings are like layers, why paint the feature wall once when you can do several layers all different colours...
Which is fine in principal but it misses the one variable in all this; angles and height. Because anyone who has played bombers over Tokyo at the age of 12 whilst doing the business (and who hasn’t aye?) knows that get the range right and even the most mundane of bodily functions can get awfully creative, awfully quick.
So we might do the layer cake thing with the two ply but I ain’t wearing more clothes early in the morning. Besides, how do I expect our new flattie to feel comfortable waltzing around in her undies if I’m not….?
Now you can see why I've rushed around and put the hidden cameras up...
