Bob Johnson has had a really shitty day, and he wants to rub your nose in it…

In Australia we teach our dogs not to crap where they shouldn’t by rubbing their noses in it. Obviously they dislike this, but fortunately for us all they learn a valuable lesson. And after what happened to me the other day, I am thinking of applying the same rule over here, with just a slight twist. I think the next time I see a dog crapping on my footpath, I am going to grab the owner and rub his nose in it.

You see I arrived at work the other day and smelt a potent stench. It was not just an annoying odour, this was something similar to the rotting bowels of a decomposing goat. And it had that certain smell of… ‘Shit’ I said, as I looked beneath my desk, and indeed shit it was. The largest, foulest, stickiest dog shit ever to have attached itself to a man’s shoe.

Sweat started to break out upon my forehead as I considered what to do, while fumes as thick as fog brought water to my eyes. Unequipped for such an incident at my desk I decided to head for the toilets. I endeavoured to walk casually and nodded at co-workers, while trying to conceal the two kilograms of dog crap stuck to the underside of my shoe.

I looked around the bathroom for a toilet brush or shovel or something, no luck, so I unrolled as many paper towels as I could manage and I made my way to a stall. I placed the paper towelling (about 4 meters worth) on the floor. Tentatively, as if dealing with uranium, I removed my shoe, then grabbing handfuls of towel I began to push away the crap. I was trying not to touch it with my fingers while at the same time trying to dodge the splashing toilet water, lest I catch some type of incurable toilet water dog shit leprosy.

Handful after handful of fouled paper towel piled up in the bowl. Needing a bit more room I flushed the toilet. Water entered the bowl, swirled around a bit, made a funny noise then stopped. I hit the button again, hoping that the second flush would get it. Damn! I tried again. Damn! It didn’t move any further, the mound of shitty, soggy paper had thoroughly blocked the toilet. I looked around for a stick, a plunger or ten-foot pole to push the paper through. Reluctantly I had to use the only thing available to me, my other shoe.

Now standing in my socks I dipped the toe of my good shoe into the bowl and nudged the clump of paper towel. It seemed to move so I nudged it again, however the more I pushed, the deeper I had to dip my shoe. I dipped deeper and deeper and flushed over and over to get that toilet working again. By the end I had to pour a litre of toilet water from my shoe back into the bowl. I spent the next ten minutes trying to get the last remaining pieces of dog shit out of the cleverly designed grooves on the sole of my other shoe. I walked out of the stall and looked into the mirror, ‘It’s alright’ I told myself, ‘no-one would have even noticed.’

Timidly I made my way back to my desk. My good shoe squelched on every second step and the smell from the other still lingered like a dark brown aura around me. I heard work mates giggling names like ‘Poo Boy’ and ‘Shit Stick’ to each other. As I neared my desk I noticed a distinct lack of people in the surrounding 20 meters. I looked around the suddenly lonely area, ‘Nah, no-one even noticed’.

Who is Bob?

Bob, 24, is Australian and currently drinking in London. Plans of backpacking around Europe were put on hold when he went to Edinburgh and drank away his savings.

He moved to London to earn some money, further his education of hangovers and mix with the other 4.5 million Australians here. He is currently staying in London until a) he wins the lottery, b) they kick him out or c) his liver fails.

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