The news is rather grim out there and the world full of brow-furrowing sorrows, so I would like to bring to you a joy only possible through the medium of a fun faecal fable. There are several stories about the wonderful lady of whom I shall now write, but this is her defining moment and my own personal favourite. This is the story of how Poo-Finger Sue got her name.
Every word I shall write is golden and true, no fibbing, just the facts as told to me, and it’s a tale that may haunt you, so I’d quit now if you’re the slightest bit squeamish.
Poo-Finger Sue was, and still is, a lovely woman, seemingly of sound mind and glamorous looks. Her clothes always of the latest fashions, well turned out and clean; her hair beautifully groomed and her manner a delight to behold. Her company always brought with it smiles and sunshine. She seemed… normal.
Poo-Finger Sue had two children, both boys – not that it matters what dingle-dangled ‘twixt their legs, but it adds depth of character to the narrative and whatnot. Both boys were young, one still but a babe in arms and Poo-Finger Sue was a busy mum, as all mums are (except you, Tamara Ecclestone – she of the perpetual holiday).
Whilst out shopping one day, laden with bags and places to be, one of these boys, the tiny baby, filled his tiny nappy with no tiny amount of tummy mud, as tiny babies are wont to do. With not a second to lose and not a minute to care, Poo-Finger Sue leapt into action, as flustered mums do, right there in the public car park. Time may have been short but nerve endings were shorter.
All a flurry of groceries and wailing babes, she whipped off the tiny tot’s tummy mud-trashed nappy and applied a fresh one to his plump little rump – a task akin to applying silk stockings to a highly irked squid. Upon completion of this al fresco fiasco, she noticed that she had managed to get some of her wriggling son’s poo on her finger. Oh dear.
She looked in the nappy bag but no wet wipes could she find, her handbag bore no absorbent papery fruits, all about her was a land bereft of spare tissues. What happened next, dear reader, sickens me to my core to this day still.
Poo-Finger Sue did not wipe her finger on the baby’s sock, she did not wipe her finger along the rear of her jeans, she did not stoop to wipe it along the coarse ground, nor save the dirty digit for when she could locate accommodating wash facilities. SHE POPPED HER FINGER IN HER MOUTH AND SUCKED IT CLEAN!
And that’s how Poo-Finger Sue got her name. The end.