In the shit
Hip deep in shit.
You've heard the expression.
But have you ever been? Literally, hip deep in shit?
Try being buried up to your chest. In pig shit.
True story time. I was 8 and we were at my aunt and uncle's Midwestern farm. Just before we got in the car to go home, I was running around near the sow barns.
Where I charged up a dirt pile.
That wasn't dirt.
It was shit.
As I got to the top, the dried crust broke and I plunged up to my chest in shit, arms on top of the pile like a chicken.
The inner shit, where decomposition was creating methane gas and all the other fun stuff, was the consistency of canned pudding. Only warm. Very, very warm.
Yeah, once I figured out what I did - and listened to everyone laughing - I burst into tears. More of frustration than that current, shitty situation.
It was like being buried in epoxy. I tried to extricate myself, but the crust that did such a fine job of holding me up for the briefest of moments kept crumbling. My uncle had to bring the tractor over and lift me straight up and out.
I stunk. Stink, stank, stunk.
Into a garbage bag went my shoes, my shorts, my undies (yes, I wore them, a long time ago), and my shirt. A quick, nekked rinse with the hose. A long, bubble bath soak in the couple's ancient clawfoot bathtub. Lots of soap and shampoo (and they let me drink an RC cola there, to soothe the tears of frustration).
I had the essence of o'de hog crap on me for at least a week. Just a hint, the slightest of whiffs, of shit.
There is a moral to this story.
You can be in the shit, and it will be frustrating and it'll stink, but it doesn't last.
Just so long as you extricate yourself in a timely manner.
And treat yourself nice, like taking a cold RC cola into the bath.
You've heard the expression.
But have you ever been? Literally, hip deep in shit?
Try being buried up to your chest. In pig shit.
True story time. I was 8 and we were at my aunt and uncle's Midwestern farm. Just before we got in the car to go home, I was running around near the sow barns.
Where I charged up a dirt pile.
That wasn't dirt.
It was shit.
As I got to the top, the dried crust broke and I plunged up to my chest in shit, arms on top of the pile like a chicken.
The inner shit, where decomposition was creating methane gas and all the other fun stuff, was the consistency of canned pudding. Only warm. Very, very warm.
Yeah, once I figured out what I did - and listened to everyone laughing - I burst into tears. More of frustration than that current, shitty situation.
It was like being buried in epoxy. I tried to extricate myself, but the crust that did such a fine job of holding me up for the briefest of moments kept crumbling. My uncle had to bring the tractor over and lift me straight up and out.
I stunk. Stink, stank, stunk.
Into a garbage bag went my shoes, my shorts, my undies (yes, I wore them, a long time ago), and my shirt. A quick, nekked rinse with the hose. A long, bubble bath soak in the couple's ancient clawfoot bathtub. Lots of soap and shampoo (and they let me drink an RC cola there, to soothe the tears of frustration).
I had the essence of o'de hog crap on me for at least a week. Just a hint, the slightest of whiffs, of shit.
There is a moral to this story.
You can be in the shit, and it will be frustrating and it'll stink, but it doesn't last.
Just so long as you extricate yourself in a timely manner.
And treat yourself nice, like taking a cold RC cola into the bath.
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