The Little Crap That Couldn’t


“Feelings” by Mike Mitchell (2010)

Who says feces have no literary merit?  Someone, I’m sure.  Well they’re wrong, and of that I’m sure as well.  The following is a tale of loneliness, adventure, redemption and poo (not necessarily in that order).  Originally written on the 21st July 2008 without shame.

The Little Crap That Couldn’t

Once upon a time there lived a gentlemen. As a great and well-fed lover of food, he had spent an entire day at an international food festival sampling all of its marvellous and varied offerings. The gentleman gorged himself on many delectable delights, succulent specialties and tantalising treats and after many hours spent in this manner, his swollen belly began to protrude very ungentlemanly like indeed. So the man decided that he’d had his fill and it was high time to leave the wonders of the festival behind. Besides, the many loud expulsions heard emanating from his embarrassed hindquarters had upset the other attendees and he was asked to leave by management. Not that the gentleman particularly cared at that point though, he was feeling quite queasy anyway.

Later that night, as he was walking down the street making his way back to the hotel to sleep off his now rather painful overindulgence, the gentleman suddenly had the most intense urge to pitch the biggest loaf this side of the Warburton’s factory. He wanted to drop the deuce right there and then in his fine cotton boxers but, being a man of distinction, he chose not to (for he knew how to take care of a good pair of boxer shorts). Instead, in one fluid motion he pulled his chinos and fine cotton undergarments down and let loose the biggest sludge beast of brown plasticine he’d ever unleashed and watched in stark humiliation as it slopped all over the paving slabs beneath him like a malfunctioning chocolate fountain.

What a scene his public defecation did cause. Terrified women and children screamed and ran for their lives, ageing pensioners dropped unconscious and a double decker bus swerved into a church and exploded. Some bodybuilding macho man even tried to be a hero and took it upon himself to dive headlong at the puddle of potent poo, attempting to scoop it up in an empty bag of Doritos. But alas, the foul stench of the colon broth was far too overpowering and the wannabe saviour dropped like a fly.

Woe to the flustered gentleman, for his face and name would forever be associated with taking a dump in the street. But as much as the gentleman was deserving of it, infinitely more woe was owed to the poor little jobby he’d just birthed upon the pavement. Only five seconds out of the womb and already the world had shunned it. Before they even had a chance to embrace or take a photograph to commemorate the moment, the jobby’s biological father died after popping an embolism and crapping his intestines out, thus ruining his expensive chinos after all. The gentleman’s fine cotton boxers however, were snatched up by an opportunistic thief before the rancid river of rectal refuse could reach them. Alas, the little unloved jobby began to shed a tear, for it was orphaned already. Owing to the fact that it was born out of asexual reproduction, the bronze expulsion only had one parent, and he now lay dead in the street with blood trickling from his nose. The jobby broke down and sobbed uncontrollably. It had no home, no one to love it and no clue about the strange new world it now found itself lost in.

The little poo was used to swimming through the tunnels with all the other little jobbies, joyously splashing in the yellow rivers and popping the aromatic bubbles. That all seemed like a distant memory now as it lay plastered to the pavement in the middle of a bustling metropolis surrounded by unconscious bodies, pale-faced bystanders and towering confusions of concrete with a thousand glass eyes. The jobby noticed some of the windows on the monoliths were smeared with the white spatterings of pigeons, and with those lurid smears there came rushing the haunting memories of home which in turn brought a urinous tear to its leaky brown eye. The poor thing was a meandering mess of meaty marmalade, frightened and alone in a terrifying world. It remained by its father’s side for many hours, weeping and lamenting as the strange people walked around it and the darkness of night gave way to the light of day.

Even though it did not know exactly what to do next, a vague instinct eventually told the little jobby that at the very least it must get out of the open and take cover inside one of the strange edifices soon, for if it were to stay in the street much longer the hot midday sun would surely bake it into a diabolical deuce cake or a brown bowel batter brick right there on the unforgiving pavement. The little jobby spied a church and something told it that this would be a place of refuge and that safety and sanctuary from the blistering elements were surely to be found within its colossal walls. The church was just across the road, and there didn’t seem to be any more of those fast moving metal contraptions coming. So, ever so slowly, the little jobby smeared itself across the paving slabs and made its way to the kerb, leaving its deceased father behind forever.

After managing to shuffle half way to the edge of the road with great difficulty, the little jobby realised that it would take all day at that rate and it would be a smelly brown cake getting burnt on the pavement very soon. It pondered its predicament for a moment before having an epiphany; it would mimic the passersby and mould itself some stumpy legs out of its pliable body much like a person would do with clay or plasticine. And so that’s exactly what it did.

After a few minutes, the little portion of severely undercooked anal broth had made itself some new legs and now had the ability to make a speedy dash for safety. With new-found confidence and hope, the little jobby leapt off the kerb and began running gleefully across the road towards the church and the safety and salvation it was sure to find within. Its little mind was overflowing with optimistic thoughts and wonderment as it raced onwards.

But when it got halfway across, it was flattened by a bus.

The flattening of the fleeing feces was not its end, however. For in the next moment an alien spaceship from fifty billion light years away suddenly appeared above the road and used its teleportation ray on the giant skid mark, beaming the stretched-out jobby onboard. The aliens had meant to hit the bus but missed and wound up with a quarter mile of fresh human excrement in their cabin instead. The stench soon caused the aliens to have a series of debilitating strokes, and the spaceship crashed into the church, blowing it to smithereens. Owing to the fact that the ship was powered by incomprehensible alien technology that somewhat resembled nuclear fission, the entire planet went up like a nuke and was annihilated in an instant.

And that is why if you ever find yourself presented with far more food than you can knowingly eat, you should never overindulge. It’s greedy, and you never know what could happen if you do.

An Incident at the Pearly Gates


“At the Pearly Gates” by Steven Smith

Even in the afterlife (the good one), things can be hard.  Here’s a story I wrote about how arduous it must be toiling away , day after day, at the gates of Heaven.  St. Peter’s been finding work a little difficult recently, so in his infinite wisdom he decides to train a robot to help lighten the load.  What could possibly go wrong?  Written on the 9th February 2017.

An Incident at the Pearly Gates

“You died in a jet ski accident”.

“No he flaming well did not!” spat St. Peter, bashing a spanner off the robot’s head.

The devout and hard working saint was particularly flustered today, normally his divine duty of manning the Pearly Gates™ was stressful – there were always unjudged souls ready to object to being denied peace everlasting – but today was extra aggravating because he was trying, between fresh neophytes, to build himself a robotic servant. No mean feat when the world’s population never took a break from dying and ascending that ethereal escalator in the sky.

“I told you already, this one died of a brain aneurysm, not a sodding jet ski. Now get that into your thick CPU or we’ll be here all day… Oh Jesus Christ, here comes another one…”

“Did somebody say my name?” It was Jesus, he’d appeared out of a pink cloud, a habit his father had asked him to stop because it was upsetting the more sensitive angels.

“Get lost Jesus, I’m busy here,” snapped St. Peter, jabbing a golden screwdriver into the robot’s auxiliary port.

“Well now, somebody’s uptight today. Better hurry up Pete, you’re starting to get a backlog there,” jested the son of God, pointing at the steadily expanding line of recently deceased on the other side of the gate.

“Shut up, you wood-whittling hippie!” barked the divine doorman. Jesus sneered and promptly left, kicking up a wisp of cloud in his wake. “Alright, you. Yes you. You’re next. Okay, let’s try this again. St. Peter 2.0, tell me how this man died, and I swear to the All-Maker you’d better not screw it up again”.

“Greetings sir, and welcome to Heaven. My neural sensors indicate to me that you have just died in a jet skiing accident”.

St. Peter exploded. Literally. Never in his multi-millennia long service to the Kingdom of God had he been this spectacularly angry. After his steaming skull chunks had settled over the clouds and the pulpy bits of his sizzling brain slid down the faces of the bewildered deceased, Peter’s head reconstituted itself and he resumed his tirade. “Damnit! You’re the single biggest piece of crap I’ve ever had the misfortune of working with in my entire life! Gabriel, hey Gabriel, get your bronzed buns over here and help me out with this pile of trash!”

Gabriel, who was nearby and busying himself with adjusting a quadriplegic’s bow tie, sauntered over to the gates and let loose an impressed whistle. He’d never seen a robot in Heaven before. And no, Jesus’ wooden golem didn’t count.

“Gabe, now you’re a smart lad. You know a thing or two about machines, what with that arcade cabinet you and Jesus threw together for Barachiel’s birthday last week. Tell me how to fix this piece of garbage before I lose it completely and set it on fire”.

“What operating system is it running?” asked the angel, rubbing his fake-tanned chin.

“Erm, excuse me…” asked a man timidly on the other side of the pearly barricade. “But could you tell me, is this Heaven?”

“Shut your mouth, you impatient wretch!” blared St. Peter. “I’ll get to you in a God damn minute, can’t you idiots hang on for just a second? You’re already dead, it’s not like you need to be anywhere or anything”. The angry old saint scratched the bald spot under his halo, it always itched whenever he was stressed. “Now let me think here… Um, yes, I think it’s Microsoft Windows: Divine Edition. That’s it. Why?”

“Oh,” said Gabriel, sounding suddenly quite hopeless. “I don’t know much about Microsoft systems, I’ve only ever worked with Apple ones”.

“Apple?!” spat St. Peter, kicking the robot and stubbing his toe in the process. “Apple?! You know damn well no apples are allowed in Heaven, not since the incident with Adam back in the day. How dare you speak such blasphemy!”

“Oh shut up Pete,” scolded Gabriel, turning and starting to walk away. “It’s an operating system by a company called Apple. It’s not an actual bleeding apple, you dick. I hope that robot falls over and crushes you, you nasty old man”.

“Fine!” yelled St. Peter with his finger pointing accusingly at the retreating messenger of God. “I’ll fix this thing all by myself! I don’t need you or your bad attitude anyway, Gabe!”

“Excuse me sir, but I really must insist: is this Heaven or is it not?” It was the man on the other side of the gate again. He seemed to have gathered some courage, for now he had stretched an arm through the bars and was tapping St. Peter vigorously upon the shoulder.

The gatekeeper of the afterlife was about to turn around and chastise the man for daring to lay his fingers upon a saint, but he didn’t get the chance. For at that very moment the robot kicked into gear and wasted no time tearing the impatient soul’s arm clean off. Howling in agony, the man fell backwards clutching his bloody stump as several other recently deceased gathered round and tried their best to stem the bleeding, but then gave up when they realised they were already dead and bleeding out probably wasn’t that much of a concern.

“Why did you do that?” shouted a woman accusingly.

“Yeah, that was completely uncalled for!” yelled another.

“You’re a malicious piece of work, that’s what you are!” cursed a third man with his arms folded.

“Oh go to Hell, you bunch of whiny babies. I didn’t tear his sodding arm off, now did I? It was this useless mountain of junk over here, he’s been botching up all day long and now this. I can’t win. I just cannot win today”. St. Peter glared at the group of confused and angry people awaiting both judgement and an apology on the other side of the gate. Then he turned his gaze towards his robotic companion. “St. Peter 2.0, why, pray tell, did you tear that poor man’s arm off?”

“Because, master, he was showing hostilities towards you, and I simply did as my defence programme dictates I do in such circumstances”. The robot stared blankly into space. The gatekeeper considered this for some time.

“Right, owing to your loyalty, I’ll give you one last chance. But if you get it wrong again, it’ll be the last thing you ever do. Now, tell me how that man lying over there died”. St. Peter stood back with his arms folded and awaited the robot’s response.

The mechanoid thought long and hard, his capacitors and circuitry buzzing and ticking as he processed the situation extra carefully, like a dog who’d been specifically told not to eat the biscuit, despite the biscuit having been placed upon his nose. “You died…” the robot paused. St. Peter’s eyes glared with the intensity of a thousand prayer candles. “…When a robot tore your arm off and you bled to death”.

“No! Damnit no!” screamed St. Peter in a foul rage. “A man can’t die twice! You imbecile! That’s it, I’m going to decommission the crap out of you, you worthless pile of bolts!”

“Actually,” said a voice from beyond the gate. “I think he’s right. This man is dead…again”.

St. Peter snapped his head towards the speaker, then looked down at the one-armed man. He was blue. And not breathing. The saint fell into deep shock, he was utterly bewildered. Such a thing had never happened before in the entire history of Heaven. No one had ever died twice. It simply wasn’t possible, surely?

Just then, the one and only Jesus Christ showed up once more, having felt a disturbance in the divine force. “What’s all this, what’s going on, we’ll have no trouble here,” he demanded as he marched over to St. Peter and saw the blue, one-armed man on the other side of the Pearly Gates™. “Is that man dead?! For my sake Pete, what have you gone and done now? You’ve killed somebody!”

“No I haven’t!” fired back St. Peter, shaking like a leaf. “People can’t die in Heaven, how can he be dead? It’s not possible!”

“Look idiot, he’s not in Heaven yet. He’s still on the other side of that gate, therefore, technically not in the afterlife yet. If you hadn’t wasted so much time with that hunk of junk over there, he’d be inside and enjoying everlasting happiness. Now look at him. He’s dead! I don’t even know what that means for his soul. He’s probably in purgatory now, for all eternity, no thanks to you. That’s it, I’m shutting this gate down!”

“What do you mean you’re ‘shutting this gate down’?” croaked a man on the other side. “We’ve got every right to be here! You can’t deny us entry into Heaven, we deserve our divine judgement! We’ve lived a life of righteousness for this moment!”

“Yes, yes, I know,” replied Jesus as he pulled a roll of caution tape out of his bum bag and began cordoning off the Pearly Gates™. “Don’t worry, I’ll open the second gate for you. Hadraniel’ll sort you out. His gate’s on the other side of Heaven”.

“How far away is it?” asked another.

“Hmm…’bout eighty six thousand miles away,” answered Jesus, affixing a large “CLOSED TO THE PUBLIC” sign.

“Eighty six thousand miles?! I’m not walking that! It’ll take ages!” whinged a little old lady, shaking her fist.

Jesus screwed up his face in annoyance as he straightened the sign and took St. Peter’s keys off him. “Alright! Fine, I’ll arrange a bus to come pick you up. Now don’t say Jesus isn’t good to you”. The Messiah turned to St. Peter once again and addressed him. “Pete, you done goofed royally this time. I’m hereby suspending you as official gatekeeper of the Pearly Gates™ and temporarily revoking your sainthood. Don’t look at me like that, Pete. You know fine well I can’t let this slide. A man is dead because of you. It’s not up to me to judge you for this, that’s up to my father. That’s why I’ve just texted him about what’s happened. He wants to see you now”. Peter opened his mouth to protest but Jesus cut him off. “Shut up! Don’t say a word or I’ll put my foot in your ass! Now go. He’s waiting. And take that damn robot with you”.

Peter, who was now just run-of-the-mill Peter and not St. Peter the revered doorman, grudgingly shuffled off towards God’s office, leaving Jesus behind to dispose of the blue, one-armed man. Peter wasn’t exactly enthusiastic about his impending meeting with the supreme deity, not when the reason behind it was him essentially losing an innocent man’s soul to the unknowable abyss of purgatory…possibly. He’d probably wind up getting fired, or sent as a missionary to Hell to try and convert demons like poor old Jegudiel after he’d burnt God’s bagel that one time. God didn’t mess around. As he and his robot made their way though the gardens and winding streets, Peter was hissed and booed at by the angels and other saints. Word got around quickly when somebody messed up in Heaven.

Up to the front door Peter dragged himself, pressed the buzzer and waited nervously for the response. “Come,” came the deep, booming reply. Peter opened the door and entered God’s office.

There wasn’t much inside, God was famously a minimalist. There was a small wooden desk that Jesus had built Him with some Lego on top of it, a reproduction painting of the Mona Lisa on the northern wall and a wilting potted plant. God was standing over the desk, putting the finishing touches on His Lego castle. “Pete. Take a seat”.

The robot walked to the nearest corner, faced the wall and put itself into power-saving mode. Peter looked around the barren office. There were no seats. “Um, there’s no chairs,” said the man glumly.

God didn’t look up as He put the roof on the castle’s east turret. With a nonchalant click of His fingers, a neon pink inflatable chair appeared in front of the desk. Peter took the cue and sat in it, squeaking and making a great deal of noise. Still not looking up from His work, God resumed talking. “It has come to my attention, Pete, that you have somehow managed to kill a man”.

“Well it wasn’t really me, it was–“

“You killed him with a robot”. Without looking up, God pointed to the hibernating automaton in the corner.

Peter looked at his feet. His big toe was bleeding. “Yes. Well, essentially. That’s pretty much what happened”.

God placed a Lego sheep in front of the portcullis, facing a pirate. “That’s not good. That poor man probably doesn’t exist anymore. Not even I know what lies in purgatory”.

“That’s a bit shit”. Before Peter even knew what he was saying he’d already swore in front of the Almighty. Peter’s mind flooded with terrifying thoughts of his employer smiting him senseless for the indiscretion.

“It is a bit shit,” agreed God, replacing the sheep with a ghost. “And considering that we have no choice other than to assume that the poor man will never find happiness again, I must punish you for your rather severe gaffe”.

Peter felt a strong sudden urge to pee now.

“Incidentally,” continued God, “why did you feel the need to use a robot during the course of your duties at the Pearly Gates™?”

Peter shifted uncomfortably in the inflatable chair, sending a loud squeal rippling through the office. “Well…” he began, his bald spot getting incredibly itchy. “I, uh, felt that having a helping hand would, I dunno, maybe speed things up a bit. You don’t know what it’s like out there at times, it gets so hectic. Especially when there’s a tsunami or earthquake or something. I needed some extra help. So I bought a robot”.

“And where did you get this robot?”


“I see”.

God fell into silence for some time as He removed both the Lego pirate and ghost and moved the portcullis further down the courtyard, allowing more space for His castle’s expanding walls. Peter toyed with the idea of scratching his itchy scalp, but thought better of it when he realised the inflatable chair would squeak far too much and he didn’t want to upset God any more than He probably already was.

“I had a coupon,” Peter offered out of the awkward silence.

“I was not aware Amazon delivered this far north”.

“Yeah. Only since they started using drones, but yeah”.

“I see,” murmured God, putting the finishing touches on His castle and putting it to one side.

“Right,” said the Father of all creation, folding His arms on the desk, “I have mulled it over. You have committed a very serious offence, but you have also served this kingdom for a very long time and, until now, have always acted with utmost professionalism. Taking that into consideration, I have decided to relieve you of your duties on a semi-permanent basis. When you leave this office, you will report to Gabriel–”

“Aww come on, God!” interrupted Peter, leaping out of his chair in protest.

“Silence! You will report to Gabriel, whereupon you will join him in his sacred duty of tying and adjusting the bow ties of Heaven’s quadriplegic residents. You will do this for the next four thousand years, and if you fulfil this duty without incident, then I will consider putting you back on the Pearly Gates™. Now get moving, and do not let me hear from you again, lest you wish to experience a more severe punishment. Begone”.

As Peter left the office with his head in his hands, God looked to the robot with its back to Him in the corner. It was the first time He’d actually paid any attention to it. Crossing the room, He began inspecting the machine more closely. There was a minuscule switch on the back of its neck. God leaned in, squinting His eyes. There was some small text above it. Pulling His prescription glasses out, He read the words aloud. “Jet Ski Mode. Huh, now that’s weird”. He flicked the switch to the OFF position and slapped the robot across the back of the head to wake it up.

“Robot, I am God. I’m not a judgemental guy, well, for the most part, so I want you to know that I don’t blame you for killing that poor man. I never granted robots the right to souls and feelings in the first place, so I know there was no malice in your actions. As I have just turned your Jet Ski Mode off, I want to give you an opportunity. I want you to go back to the Pearly Gates™, take down the cordon and get back to work. If you can make it through the day without any more fatalities, you’ve got yourself a full time job. Now get moving, there’s plenty more souls to judge”.

The robot beeped in acknowledgement and rattled off out the front door, ready to replace his former master. God walked back over to the desk and started rearranging His pirates and ghosts again. Removing the outer wall of the Lego castle, He revealed two homemade figurines hiding behind the portcullis, one of St. Peter and one of the robot. Smiling, God picked up the saint and put him to one side, leaving the robot all alone in the castle. “That’s better”.

When Nature Fails: Daddy Long Legs


“Crane Fly” by Derek Parker (2014)

Nature, God, Earth Spirits, call them what you will but they don’t always get it right.  Perhaps the most spectacular fail in biology is the crane fly AKA daddy long legs.  Nobody likes them, and with very good reason.  The following is a quick overview of these…things…and an outline as to why they suck as profusely as they do.  Written on the 31st January 2017.

When Nature Fails:  Daddy Long Legs

A daddy long legs is a stupid thing that has no right to exist. Simply put, it’s a piece of crap. Utterly incapable of flight or anything even remotely resembling it, this idiotic creature still finds it necessary to have wings and ruin magical moments with its foul presence. Much like the penguin or Egyptian dodo, this winged-yet-land-bound animal is a true failure at life and as such is fully deserving of the extinction that it surely deserves and is long overdue.

Asides from its completely pointless wings which all other flying insects laugh at, it has a long body somewhat resembling a poorly rolled cigarette or elongated length of goldfish poo, though a stringy piece of fish crap is infinitely more pleasurable to be around than these disgusting things. It also has long spindly legs, not dissimilar to those of a spider, though unlike a spider it has absolutely no redeeming qualities. Actually no, you can pull their legs off fairly easily which is probably quite exciting if you’re a psychopath and into that sort of thing. The creature’s face is also uglier than sin and will make you want to stomp on it if it ever comes anywhere near you.

Speaking of which, if a daddy long legs does ever somehow managed to make its way towards you via the spasmodic and hysterical dance routine it probably thinks constitutes flying, you will immediately want to projectile vomit all over it to keep this degenerate filth-spawn at bay. These cretins have a propensity for targeting faces, particularly those of people who harbour an intense and lifelong dislike for them (i.e. everyone in existence). Despite having zero navigational skills or homing abilities, they can and will, without fail or hesitation make it their sworn mission from God himself to batter themselves and their stupid bodies off your screaming face forever until either you or they die of stress. The most efficient counter measure against this obnoxious behaviour is to strike at them wildly with heavy objects and/or projectile-firing weapons. Fire is also strongly recommended.

God was once quoted in Good Housekeeping Magazine as saying that he hates daddy long legs with a passion only rivalled by his disdain for Adolf Hitler, and that he only made them because he was drunk on celestial moonshine (again, just like Hitler).

Daddy long legs also have redundant straw things jutting out of the front of their hideous faces like they were stabbed with the world’s tiniest chop sticks. Perhaps they’re beaks or something but whatever the case, nobody actually cares. Despite having these ludicrous straws, the only thing that they manage to suck, is all the fun out of life. Some biologists speculate that the insects feed off the blood of shrews and voles but this is without doubt a massive lie because I’ve never seen them manage anything properly, let alone the basics of life like eating to stay alive. Other biologists and certain members of the clergy assert that they are a form of lesser demon or insect djinn and that the straws are horns gifted to them by Satan himself. I am very much inclined to agree with this hypothesis because I have never encountered another living creature which instils me with as much hatred and the desire to kill as these worthless things do.

In springtime, if you are really unfortunate, you might see these repulsive atrocities of the animal kingdom come sprouting out of your lawn like a bunch of miniature pencils with Parkinson’s disease. The general consensus is that they are crawling out of Hell because even Satan’s had enough of their asinine antics. It is strongly advised that you jump around the garden stomping their numbers into oblivion. This may initially seem cruel, but you are actually doing them a massive favour by releasing them from the terrible binds of life as a forsaken daddy long legs piece of crap.

Even when they’re innocent little maggots they still manage to suck because they’re only a reminder of things to come: a god damn disaster.