The Turdminator

I’m sat on the train late at night and a guy has just got on and parked himself next to me.

He’s not a small guy.  In fact, I’m now getting very intimate with the window as I’m pushed up against it.

But the weird thing about Shrek here is the way he’s breathing.  Every breath has that strain like he’s bending out a fresh biscuit in his shorts.  His massive, massive shorts.

Any minute now I’m expecting him to shout “finished!” followed by that warm pungent odour of fresh man manure.  And I think to myself, whilst wedged up against the upholstery, that by the looks of him it won’t be a small chipolata affair.

Now don’t get me wrong, I’m not mocking obesity as I myself was a lot larger up until about a year ago, but logic tells me that the more food he puts in, the more poo he’ll put out.  Fact.

So what if he really is squeezing one out?  What if my suspicions are correct?  Then what?


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