Scatology: the subject of human waste.
A lecturer I had at varsity did his thesis on scatology, and how pooh can be sexual. That's a whole 'nother topic altogether, and coincidentally I saw him at Brenton-on-Sea the other day, but whatever. Today I embark on my own experience of all scatological.
I know I've breached this topic before, but girls don't pooh. And even if they secretly did, I would be the small minority that still didn't pooh.
Because I don't. I like to think that when I ingest something, it doesn't come out through my doetpipe like the male of the species, but instead comes straight back out in the form of colloquial vernacular instead.
I talk a lot of shit because I don't take dumps. If that makes sense.
Smoking Legs is perplexed. We have shared an ensuite bathroom now for a week. He has a bowel movement every day. I don't.
"Have you even gone to the toilet here?"
No. Only to take a slash.
"Where've you been poohing?"
I don't pooh.
"In the bushes? At restaurants? In the sea?
No. I do not partake in aquaturds. (My male friends talk about the latter like it takes a fucking hero to abolish their intestines into a body of water. Animals.)
Then this morning. He reckons I've done a pooh. Nope, I really haven't. In fact if I had done one, it was smelling of Chanel Chance, the perfume he gave me for Christmas.
Today is our last day in [windy] yet sunny Knysna. We drive back to Cape Town tonight, and will be staying at his beautiful place in Kalk Bay.
But for now, I need to do a sneaky manouevre and go find myself a toilet.