Feeling inspired, despite all the beers the night before, Mr Fit, (obviously not his real name) sprang out of bed and embraced the first day of the New Year.
He quickly dressed in his wife’s skins, he didn’t have a pair of his own. It had been a spontaneous New Year’s resolution after all. He squirmed into a very tight blazing orange t-shirt which barely covered his mid rift, let alone his man boobs, (a dodgy Christmas present from Aunt Mavis) and set off on his first run in at least …….hmm, well, forever actually.
Off he ran, down the road to the bottom of the hill.
“Not bad,” he thought to himself feeling rather chuffed. “Not bad at all.” He ran a bit further. “I am Superman,” he chanted. “I am Superman on New Years Day!” And if he could he would have clicked his heels in the air.
“Good morning,” he gloated as he ran past a fellow runner. She recoiled in disgust at the outfit Mr Fit was wearing. His snail trail was rather prominent against his snowy white abdomen and unfortunately, his crown jewels were on display for all and sundry so tight were his wife’s skins.
“Good morning,” he called cheerily to a group sleeping in their swags on the beach. They muffled an unintelligible reply.
“Oh sorry about that,” Mr Fit apologised as a rip roaring fart exploded from his behind. A repugnant rotten egg smell settled over the slumbering sleepers.
“What the hell,” one groaned groggily. “You could cut that with a knife and fork!”
“Uh oh,” Mr Fit said as another fart escaped. His tummy didn’t feel quite right. It started to cramp. He could feel something travelling down to this nether regions, a great lot of something which demanded expulsion immediately. He squeezed his buttocks together and slowed to rather an odd looking walk. He made it to the boardwalk where attempted to run again.
“Noooo,” he whispered to himself as he felt his stomach cramp again. “Uh oh,” he said and doubled over in pain. With a toilet block nowhere in sight and too far from home, Mr Fit crab crawled across the road and hid behind a tall, thick hedge.
Thankfully, the house behind the hedge looked unoccupied. Barely able to contain himself, Mr Fit pulled down his wife’s very tight skins and relieved himself at a rapid rate. On and on it went, spurting and gurgling until, kilos lighter, he felt he could do no more.
“Brutus,” a deep voice called from the other side of the hedge. “Brutus where are you?”
Mr Fit pulled the skins back up, tearing a great hole in his haste.
“Haven’t seen a dog on the loose have you?” the owner of the deep voice said striding into the yard.
“Um, no I haven’t,” Mr Fit stuttered standing in front of festering mound, hoping Deep Voice wouldn’t notice it.
“Oh mate,” Deep Voice said in embarrassment. “I can smell he’s been here.”
“Nope, haven’t seen him honestly,” Mr Fit said nervously.
“Don’t move,” Deep Voice commanded. “I see it. There it is right behind you.” Mr Fit turned and looked down at the mess near his feet. He wished he could disappear.
“Sorry about that. Here let me get it before it kills your rose bush,” and gagging slightly, Deep Voice picked every slimy bit of Mr Fit’s stinking, hideous mess into a plastic bag.
“Can I just offer a bit of advice?” Deep Voice asked tying a knot in the plastic bag.
Mr Fit nodded, dreading what he was about to hear.
“Take a look in the mirror before you leave the house,” Deep Voice said. “Because I’m pretty sure that’s a woman’s crop top your wearing and it might be an idea to sew that tear up before you get arrested.”
And with that Deep Voice left and was never seen again. As for the rose bush, it’s flourishing, surprisingly.