Man in his Pyjamas A collection of comedy writing, poetry and Asperger Syndrome.

Scared sh*tless

Emailed 08.09.2014

Picture this. A man is sitting in his kitchen, on his own, drinking coffee. Suddenly, the Imperial March from Star Wars starts playing at TOP VOLUME. By itself.  The man is not expecting this. He is of a nervous disposition and prone to dramatics. He struggles to control his bodily functions for a moment.

For those of you that don’t know the Imperial March from Star Wars, it goes like this and accompanies Darth Vader’s entrance. Our man is of a certain age and is still a bit scared of Darth Vader. (read this post I wrote about Darth Vader. It’s brutal)

SO, just to recap, a man is sitting on his own,  in his kitchen, in the quiet, not expecting music to start playing by itself, and then, music starts playing by itself.

I don’t mind sharing with you that I aged a fortnight in those few musical bars. Name That Tune in two testicles relocating to my chest space. Blimey.

In shock and panic, I part regurgitated my coffee and then re-swallowed it down the ****** wrong hole. I nearly choked to death in my kitchen. I nearly coughed up my own balls. Stupid John Williams.

Turns out that my son’s i-Pod Nano, that was charging in the i-dock, JUST STARTED PLAYING BY ITSELF!  I suspect foul play. Or a poltergeist? Either way – not happy.

Now forget that and picture THIS

A man is walking to work in the sun. He is wearing his new Converse trainers, his new work clothes and his favourite jacket. The man is at peace.  In this moment, he is a happy man. And then, without provocation and for no reason WHATSOEVER, a stupid bird decides to empty its feathery buttocks directly above the man. The man that is happily minding his own beeswax.

By the grace of God, the plummeting plop drops ‘as the crow flies’ and lands on the pavement just millimetres from the man. SO CLOSE he swears it stroked the end of his nose as it passed him on the way down.

For a moment it seemed as though it fell in slow motion? For a second, it was directly in his field of vision. The man didn’t know it was possible to make eye contact with flying faeces? Is that even a thing?

The man stops, frozen in shock. Stunned into immobility.  PLEASE GOD NO. He checks the end of his nose for unexpected poo. Clear. He looks around to see if anyone is laughing or pointing at him?  It wouldn’t be the first time. Everyone is going about their business. For him though, time stands still, apart from his brain which is speeding double time…..

He can’t quite understand how the funk it missed him? He double checks his trainers. Clear. He quickly takes off his rucksack and his jacket to check. Clear. Phew….

He breathes in. He exhales. He gets dressed and walks on. He feels like he’s dodged a bullet….He feels blessed. Perhaps he is a deity? Or has mastered the matrix?

He walks, he would estimate about another four feet, and then ANOTHER ****** BIRD tries to sh*t on him. Or maybe it was the same bird. Who knows? Who cares? RUN!

The man starts to run. He shouldn’t run. EVER. He looks terribly undignified. His running days are behind him, unlike, sadly, the scathing derision of Mr Binks, his loathed PE teacher of yesteryear. He can hear the bald b*stard telling him that he’s go two left feet. For a second the man is not sure who, or what, he is running from?

The man’s rucksack is full of computers and fruit, and is designed for fashion, not speed hobbling. It bounces uncontrollably on his back, like a large lady’s unbridled bosom. His knees rattle and clank in the absence of any cartilage.

Each footfall causes him pain – psychologically and physically. He looks like an animatronic model of the poor little calliper boy that used to advertise the Spastics Society.


He feels as though he is re-enacting the ‘run Forest run’ scene in reverse. He really doesn’t want to be poo’d on.

Regardless, the man is forced to slow to a brisk walk. His pathetic body will take him no further at speed. He bemoans his lot and spends the rest of his journey nervously looking up and wincing. Part due to the sun. Part due to his painful knees. Part expecting to see God flippin’ him the bird.

The man is, and remains convinced, that one of his ex-girlfriends must have recently passed away and has been reincarnated as a flying revenge machine. He bemoans his lot once more, and is reminded of all the terrible things that he has done in his life. His only solitude?  He now has content for his weekly newsletter. The tangled webs..

Do not pity him.

Actually no, pity him. Poor b*stard.




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