I wasnt the perfect kid, I tell you, and my mother eyeshot I was fine - until I decided to become the soaked pixie of the house. At some point in my puerility I decided I needed to fill the employment of a practical prankster of the family, much to my poor mothers distress. nonetheless more unfortunately for my mother, she had no idea what I was up to when I got my hands on some yellowish, sticky, gooey forge piggy poo, which really looked more like cats poo.
Fake piggy poo was quite popular at the time - the kind that was wrapped privileged some plastic animal, and when you squeezed it, the poo would emerge from its behind; mine was a pink pig. I had purchased my poo at some downtown wickedness market and I loved it. Yes! I was terrible - I pulled that pseudo poo out of its plastic pig wrapping and appoint a new spot for it every single day. I never tired of the endless ruckus it caused. Oh, fake spiders were fun, but nothing could beat the chaos caused by my fake poo. I treasured that fake poo until the fateful day that my mother, having discovered it imposition there in a lump at the dinner party table, threw it into the bin. There I was left with fake spiders, whoopee cushions, squirting calculators, snapping gum, lampoon teeth and glasses, but no fake poo.
I cried, I screamed - life was hardly worth living without my beloved fake poo. However, my mother was firm.
No more fake poo! Im at my wits ends with you!
On that awful day when the garbage music rang and the garbage was collected, I knew that I would never see my beloved poo again, but I would not...
Great Seinfeld-esque sense of humour about such a stochastic thing. Well written, entertaining, kept my attention.
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