Monday 24 April 2017 – Nappies, poo and wet wipes.

Supermarkets annoy me.  The ignorant masses with tunnel-vision, who don’t mind barging you out of the way for a discount joint of beef.  The staff members who seem to develop amnesia in record time when asked where the milk is.  And don’t get me started on the crippled trolley I always seem to choose!  I’m standing in front of the shelves in Asda, staring at the masses of nappies and wet wipes.  I felt baffled, annoyed and slightly inferior if I’m honest.  I understand the size choices, obviously.  Its more the amass of different brands.  How can there be soooo many choices?!  “Lets face it” I remember mumbling to myself, “They’re only gonna shit in them.”  So me being me, I go for the cheap supermarket brand.  They’ll do the job, no problem!  As I started walking towards the wet wipes, I began to get anxious.  I’m no good with names, but I’m normally good with faces.  I also use this logic with everything else!  So when Charlotte said to me, “Are you sure you will get the right stuff?” I said what every man would say, “Come on now, this is me, remember?” And with that said (and a sarcastic look and eye roll from me to my wife) I was grabbing the car keys and I was on my way to the supermarket, as a dad-shopper!

I began to second-guess myself.  I was sure that the nappies I’d picked up were right.  I was willing to bet my right bollock (I bet my left bollock in my last blog post. I think this is what they call ‘consistency’.)  Then I had an amazing idea (if I do say so myself), I must have a picture on my phone of Noah in his nappy!  I could’ve high fived the stranger next to me, who was looking at me with fear in her eyes, as I murder-stared at my phone with a ‘Cruella de Vil’ grin on my fat chops.  Flicking through my photo’s was a great idea, but with no prevail.  I am now fucked.  No way am I calling Charlotte – she won’t let me live that down.  Fuck it!  These are the ones I’m getting.

Right, lets get the wipes and lets get home for a cup of tea!  Talking to myself:

  • Huggies – I’ve been told they’re like soggy tissue and just ‘spread poo around’. So that’s a no.
  • Pampers – Fuck off with your stupidly over-priced shit wipers!
  • Johnson’s – Hate it when they don’t have a plastic clasp. The flimsy plastic shutter just gets full of dust and refuses to close, so fuck you too.
  •   Water Wipes – Do more than four packs of wipes per bundle and you may be the chosen one next time!
  • Andrex – Again with the flimsy plastic, piece of shit shutter!
  • Asda Little Angels: cheapest…yes, handle holes on the box…yes, plastic clasp…yes!!… guess who’s coming home with me, my pretties!

Check-out and home time!

The nappies were the right ones and the wipes were also right!!  The thing is, the Little Angels nappies cant seem to contain my son’s shits.  In fact, no nappy is robust enough for that boys arse. It sometimes escapes his nappy and ends up on the walls of his bedroom, like a prisoner carrying out a dirty protest (You’ll be happy to know I have provided a picture for you. You know what they say, a shitty-picture paints a thousand words!)POOEvery-single-bastard-morning, I open his door to smell what can only be described as: the deepest depths of hell, within another hell on top, surrounded by dead things and living things, but with terrible diarrhea.  I wake up every morning with dread, knowing that as he stands at the baby-gate calling me, he has a smelly fucking present for me.  I never cut my nails as often as I have done since having kids.  That Korma-coloured death package gets everywhere, and I know for a fact that even after washing my hands, I must have so much of that freakishly-yellow substance under my nails, it’d satisfy a large family of Dung Beetles and/or flies.

My daughter Amelia isn’t at that stage yet, thank god!  She is still my cute, little princess, who is satisfied with a smile from her dad to get her through the day.  She doesshit, obviously – but they are ‘cute-shits’.  No, this isn’t favoritism, of course I love my son too!  He is my little side-kick… just with a hint of explosive death-bombs in his pants.

 

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