Overstuffed bowl of crap.
This thing will haunt me till I die and then it will somehow gain the power of walking and visit my tombstone; the bastard. Passers-by will see the bowl and add their own crap to it, until one day it becomes so vast that my mortal remains become part of the bowl of crap itself. It’s the circle of life: birth, death, bowl of crap.
As you can see, the overstuffed bowl of crap is full of all the things you need to keep handy in case of an emergency such as, a red stapler with no staples in it, just in case I want to pretend to staple something. One snap card, that basically sums it all up. A Peppa Pig purse you can’t fit anything in and a plastic tray full of grapes.
The grapes appear from nowhere. They burst onto the scene somewhere between the hours of 4 and 5pm on Wednesdays. I am planning to stake out all entrances next week so that I can spot the leak in my defences and then block up their point of entry. I don’t mind the grapes myself, it’s just the plastic tray. I know that once the grapes have been eaten, the plastic tray will stay in the bowl of crap for a further two weeks before it is jettisoned from the mother ship, at which point all the other bits of crap will hold their traditional farewell party, which involves buying more grapes.
We could all learn about how to deal with immigration from the crap bowl; anything and everything is welcome within its borders. Black or white, stapler or spent battery, all are treated equally. It’s essentially a swinger’s club for bric-a-brac.
The Pleasure & Pain Chair.
My kid made this thing at primary school and it scares the life out of me, but I am unable to get rid of it because my wife is sentimentally attached to it. If she could find a magnet big enough it would be on the fridge door right now.
It looks like any other craft item from the front, but on the back it is full of spikes; pleasure and pain. Plus, to add to the freakish nature of what is just essentially just some Crunchy Nut boxes painted a luminous green, he made it with a kid at school who I have always been wary of because he is a sloppy eater; give that kid a bowl of spaghetti hoops and you better buy yourself a raincoat.
Using the stairs as shelves.
If any member of my family is unable to stuff anything more into the overstuffed bowl of crap, they put it on the stairs. They think that the stairs are a never ending parade of shelves, that they can also use to get upstairs.
This is either a symptom of rank laziness on my family’s part, or they are trying to kill me. I once found three bowls of jelly and an empty tray of grapes on there. By found, I mean stood in and then toppled over and crashed to the bottom.
Cups I never use.
I don’t even know where the Marmite cup came from. It’s a cup nobody uses that features a picture of food nobody eats. It may as well just kick me in the nuts.
Don’t get me started on the fun kid’s egg cup. That thing’s never seen an egg. I’ve more chance of having an orgy on a Monday night than that thing has of being used. On the upside, if I did have an orgy I’d have enough cups to go round, which has always been my major concern about hosting an orgy.
Coats I never use.
I brush past these every time I go out the back door to hurl Marmite cups at the wall. I have to do a slight body swerve to get round the overstuffed coat rack, a sort of sideways limbo dance. It’s the kind of move you see Flamenco dancers do when they’re letting an imaginary bull whizz past them.
Do they stress-test coat racks? Based on the amount of stuff that’s already crammed on mine, I reckon it could hang a rhino. To be honest, if you hung a rhino from my rack and then stuck a bubble coat over it I’d never notice.
If you look closely at the pic, you’ll see that the salmon-coloured summer jacket has done the decent thing and committed coat suicide. Either that or it’s decided to spearhead it’s own search party to try and find my gloves. Good luck with that.
Comedy toilet ornament.
How incapacitated would I have to be to ring a bell for more bog roll? I know for certain that if I screamed, “Help! Fire!” it wouldn’t be enough to stop my kids watching Scooby Doo. Hearing the dainty tinkle of a bell would only make them think that I’ve started taking a playful budgie into the toilet with me.
And anyway, it would take away a golden opportunity to scare the neighbours by shuffling past the kitchen window with my trousers round my ankles. Throw in a jaunty limbo move round the overstuffed coat rack and it would look like I was throwing a bag of cocks out the door.