That Smell v.2.0

Inflatable dog poo sculpture wreaks havoc

A Puppy ( a fecking big one I grant you), Yesterday

A Puppy, ( a fecking big one I grant you), Yesterday

Earlier this year a modern art exhibit wreaked havoc after blowing away from a museum in the Swiss city of Berne.The exhibit in question, titled “Complex Sh*t”, was an inflatable dog turd the size of a house.

The exhibit, a sculpture by American artist Paul McCarthy, was blown loose from its moorings at the Paul Klee centre. An inopportune gust of wind then carried it 200 yards. A sort of ‘following through’ moment then… The giant inflatable stool brought down an electricity line and smashed a greenhouse window before eventually coming to rest in the grounds of a children’s home, after becoming en-snared in a full washing line…

Representatives of the museum later revealed that McCarthy’s work of art had a safety system that would automatically deflate the inflatable turd in the event of a storm but admitted the device had failed to activate. No doubt Bergies colleagues had a similar excuse stored in case they were ever reunited with ‘les enfants du piscine’

Well today some people we know got a new puppee, ah, bless, etc. Well they’ll have all the entertainment of ‘house training’ it.
Always struck me as an odd term that did, ‘house training’, shades of BBC2 and Babs Woodhouse shouting ‘Bungalow’, at some poor demented mutt. Or her yelling ‘1930’s Semi’ and being pleasantly surprised to see a lard arsed golden retriever, wiping its ring piece across the carpet whilst paddling toward her with the lippy out.

It reminds me of a training story and jolly jape played on a new kitty owner, by a known ‘perp’.
New kitty was the owners pride and joy, and I’ve heard tell it was a cute little thing. Well the training started in earnest, and soon Tiddles was using the last scrap of paper, and moving onto the litter tray. Occaisonally there was the crunch of gravel underfoot in the kitchen, lets face it though, it could have been worse, and softer.

Well being a house frequented by assorted piss taking bastards, a cunning plan was hatched. Tiddles ate well and had a very healthy appetite, but to the increasing concern of the owner, had irregular bowel habits. Sometimes as much as two or three days would pass before there was a ‘result’ in the tray. Books were consulted, and other owners, no interweb then, and the concensus was that something was amiss and a vetinary appointment should be booked. (For the cat). Well off went Tiddles to the vets and no doubt had a happy thirty minutes or so playing ‘glove puppets’ with the staff, and returned home, probably in a filthy mood. Lots of cuddles, treats and sympathy for the poor mite. Well four days passed before another movement, and as predicted on the Friday afternoon the responsible owner rang for a vet appointment for the Saturday, which was duly booked. Now Tiddles in fact was a good kitty, very regular, but shift times in the household had allowed the early shift to on occaision remove Tiddles efforts and spirit them away, to be replaced with new kitty litter prior to the owner rising from their slumber. Hence the irregular movement pattern.

Now Friday night being a night out for all on the lash, went ahead as usual. Late night revelers on turning in, said ‘night-night’ to Tiddles and wandered off to bed. The morning shift went out the door as usual for the ‘oh ffs its early’ start. However on departing, Tiddles handiwork was removed, as usual, and after 15 pints or so the previous evening, replaced with a morning glory specimen that Berg’s Dartmouth naval gazers would have been proud of. All it really needed was a walnut on top to finish it off.

Well the house was awoken by some very (still monumentally pissed), loud swearing and cries of disbelief from Tiddles owner an hour or so later, when the young feline was drunkenly being associated with a ‘richard’ at least the size of a good M&S Yuletide log.
Then the smell hit home, and then, it hit the fan. Big time.

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