I love that you have so many “shit your pants” stories that you’re on #9. 🤣 I so far just have a single diarrhoea story on my Substack. I almost feel like I need to catch up. 🙈🤪
“Head down, hamstrings damp, I walked the lonely brown mile. From the front, I looked like a churchgoing man; from the back, I looked like a churchgoing man, who’d shit his pants. The odd car honked, but they didn’t seem like honks acknowledged with a matey salute.” 🤣🤣😅😅
haha at that's only the 10 that were worth telling! Trust me, you don't want to enter this competition man. There are no winners, but if there were, they would be me! Send yours over!
You bow out with your head held high! And in years to come, you will look back on this day with a wistful smile, and realise you made the right decision
Wait - is this a genuine literary category now? Did I miss that this has become a genre unto itself?
This needs a proper name - shit-punk, perhaps, or shitcore, if some pesky musician hasn't already coined that term. I wouldn't put it past them. You know that branding it so will only attract the wrong crowd though...
Excellent point. I have wondered that myself many times. Although, now that I think about it, I would hope that our nemeses had some self respect and would choose to dwell somewhere less smelly and more convenient than down in the sewers...
lol Yeah, I hear you. I still remember being convinced as a five-year-old blind girl that there was a monster in the toilet who was going to jump out when I pulled the lever down. Took my mom ages to convince me otherwise...
You're telling me. When I was 3, my brother told me captain hook was down the toilet. After pooing in the garden for a week, my parents found me out there. In many ways that's my origin story
If you didn't exist we would have to invent you... Just to have somebody who shat their pants on a regular basis writing hilarious... er... material for us.
haha this is not some form of pamplet! This is poetry, father, and you shall accept it as such. I'm haemorrhaging subscribers like a hurried reintroduction to a digested curry. 5 so far. But I'll be damned if I'll bend over and use a toilet to please my readership
haha these piety of the literarily constipated, frankly, pains me. The fluidity of my liquified prose is too much for their fair eyes - and that I now know.
They wouldn't wipe their arse with my words, they say. Well my words would not be wiped with their bone-dry bottoms. My writing would sooner towel down with a fistful of nettles, than do them the honour!
Truly spoken, and defiantly. I wouldn't expect a son of mine to think any other way.
From what I can see there are three styles of Substack: gnarly-real (e.g. reprobates like you and I), twee book-club pinterest, and the raging fashies.
You've now fallen foul of the twee ones who shouldn't have been here in the first place anyway. The fashies would find your work degenerate, a betrayal of the pure race. No slick six-pack abs to admire here, please move on. So that just leaves the gnarly ones.
If I'm reading you right, and, as a writer, I think that I am, your saying my humble tales of slipped shits defeated Nazism in those first few global skirmishes - and stand today as the last bastion against the ever-creeping encroachment of evil. It is my verses, they should cite, it is my stenchy phrase, that will ward of ill-meaning spirits, it is my craps written, we should turn, in their hour of need. Father, dear, father. I have become undone.
I love that you have so many “shit your pants” stories that you’re on #9. 🤣 I so far just have a single diarrhoea story on my Substack. I almost feel like I need to catch up. 🙈🤪
“Head down, hamstrings damp, I walked the lonely brown mile. From the front, I looked like a churchgoing man; from the back, I looked like a churchgoing man, who’d shit his pants. The odd car honked, but they didn’t seem like honks acknowledged with a matey salute.” 🤣🤣😅😅
haha at that's only the 10 that were worth telling! Trust me, you don't want to enter this competition man. There are no winners, but if there were, they would be me! Send yours over!
Thank you!
Yeah, I think if there are 'only' 10 stories 'worth telling' and there have been more, you definitely win. No contest. Heh!
You bow out with your head held high! And in years to come, you will look back on this day with a wistful smile, and realise you made the right decision
🤣🤣🤣🤣
First rule of Shat Pants Club: just throw the soiled clothes away.
Second rule of Shit Pants Club: tell everyone you know
I will never look at Depend undergarments again without thinking of you. Thanks for that...
Hmmm... You do make a good point, my friend. I bow to your superior powers of observation.
haha
Wait - is this a genuine literary category now? Did I miss that this has become a genre unto itself?
This needs a proper name - shit-punk, perhaps, or shitcore, if some pesky musician hasn't already coined that term. I wouldn't put it past them. You know that branding it so will only attract the wrong crowd though...
Seriously, eat some fibre.
haha I am the sodden grandfather of shit-punk! The screaming deathrattle of shitcore! I think this might isolate some core demos. Shit-lit has legs.
I'll give it some thought!
This is classic !!!
Thanks Ken!
KINDREDS.
Respect! What's your lifetime total? (childhood aside, naturally!)
Not nearly as many as you! Bows humbly
Don't bowel out so soon! It depends how we're judging, by the sounds of your article, I think you might have me for overall volume (fl oz)
I thought shitting myself next to the avocados in the supermarket was bad. And then I found this. Bravo fellow pant-shitter
haha grazie! Those avocados should be privileged! Great to meet a fellow undy-pooper and oversharer!
Oversharing ftw! I think there should be more of us out there. Normalise sharts. I might get that on a t-shirt
haha send me one. I'll get it tatted across my middrift! I don't know what the concept of shame fees like, and it's a great way to be.
It’s so freeing. Like wandering around naked.
I used to party naked in my youth. There's certainly nothing quite like it
Thankfully, for all my fellow party-goers, I did not 🫣
Excellent point. I have wondered that myself many times. Although, now that I think about it, I would hope that our nemeses had some self respect and would choose to dwell somewhere less smelly and more convenient than down in the sewers...
haha stinky, snaking, respectless. I fear these are the exact traits of nemeses...
lol Yeah, I hear you. I still remember being convinced as a five-year-old blind girl that there was a monster in the toilet who was going to jump out when I pulled the lever down. Took my mom ages to convince me otherwise...
How can they be so sure our nemeses aren't down there?! There just assuming
Interesting choice of words there, giving the fact that sh*t can be a fertilizer too.
You're telling me. When I was 3, my brother told me captain hook was down the toilet. After pooing in the garden for a week, my parents found me out there. In many ways that's my origin story
If you didn't exist we would have to invent you... Just to have somebody who shat their pants on a regular basis writing hilarious... er... material for us.
haha this is not some form of pamplet! This is poetry, father, and you shall accept it as such. I'm haemorrhaging subscribers like a hurried reintroduction to a digested curry. 5 so far. But I'll be damned if I'll bend over and use a toilet to please my readership
Damn them and their diarrhea intolerance, we true squit-heads will stick with you, son , through thick and through runny.
It's a pity you don't write pamphlets now I think of it, they'd be mighty handy to have about your person in certain circumstances...
haha these piety of the literarily constipated, frankly, pains me. The fluidity of my liquified prose is too much for their fair eyes - and that I now know.
They wouldn't wipe their arse with my words, they say. Well my words would not be wiped with their bone-dry bottoms. My writing would sooner towel down with a fistful of nettles, than do them the honour!
Truly spoken, and defiantly. I wouldn't expect a son of mine to think any other way.
From what I can see there are three styles of Substack: gnarly-real (e.g. reprobates like you and I), twee book-club pinterest, and the raging fashies.
You've now fallen foul of the twee ones who shouldn't have been here in the first place anyway. The fashies would find your work degenerate, a betrayal of the pure race. No slick six-pack abs to admire here, please move on. So that just leaves the gnarly ones.
Welcome to your true tribe, scuzzer...
If I'm reading you right, and, as a writer, I think that I am, your saying my humble tales of slipped shits defeated Nazism in those first few global skirmishes - and stand today as the last bastion against the ever-creeping encroachment of evil. It is my verses, they should cite, it is my stenchy phrase, that will ward of ill-meaning spirits, it is my craps written, we should turn, in their hour of need. Father, dear, father. I have become undone.
'Tis indeed so, you are the stanky bulwark of freedom, the hero that we need but never thought we wanted.
Ah, the trials and tribulations of the modern man... But then again, one should always be ready for the unexpected...
haha it became a pretty garden variety expectation, in the end
"The kind of temp job anyone aware of shirts can get, but a job." Excellent line.
Thanks very much Sharon! I liked that one too