Shreddies

I now realise how they came to name these tiny, diuretic, septuagenarianly woven, square, malty blankets. I've only had a breakfast bowl weeks worth of the carpet like fibre parcels and it's been making me shit like a broken tuba.

I sit here in fear of squeaking out a dirty air biscuit at work in the knowledge that it might make me smell like that kid that everybody had at their primary school who constantly stank of poo.

Maybe all that poor boy had done was haplessly force down his morning bowl of brown midget coasters, under the misguided belief of his parents that a healthy child was a happy one, whilst unbeknownst to them, it was actually going to cost him years of therapy in later life to get over the stigma of repressed childhood verbal battery.

Can these things really be that good for you if all they do is alienate work colleges and clear the close vicinity of seats on the bus home like a taped off murder scene?

I'm not sure I'm reaping the benefits of its health improving claims, in not being sure of whether I'm going to fill my shorts every time i hear the low rumble of disobedience from my troubled lower intestine. All i can say, is I feel extremely bad for the poor janitor who has to clean the work toilets, who will no doubt be both disgusted and astonished by the turgid scene in the recently soiled cubical where lies in the crisp, once white porcelain bowl, what looks like one of Monet's lost masterpieces of pointillism.