I have two children whom I love dearly. They are the most precious things in the world to me. I will love them with all my heart until the day I die, and nothing will ever change that.
But they are disgusting creatures. That's right, I said it - small children are vile, nasty, repulsive little monsters who think nothing of pooping in their pants and running around in it, leaving little trails of foul wretchedness behind them. The smell doesn't seem to bother them, nor does sitting in it for any length of time. My daughter even fell asleep in her own vomit when she was a toddler. But somehow parents get through it all, because in some strange inexplicable way it isn't all that bad when it's your own child. As long as it is your child's faeces or vomitus that you're wiping off the wall or floor or sink or ceiling (don't ask), it's all still perfectly reasonable.
When it's an adult, however...
Charles was found down in the street between two parked cars. The medics weren't sure how he got there, though somehow they were convinced that he had stolen a motorcycle and crashed it even though there was no motorcycle at the scene. I've never seen a drunk skunk, but Charles was obviously as drunk as one, and he just as obviously needed a trauma surgeon (apparently). In addition to being grossly intoxicated, Charles was also morbidly obese to the tune of 160 kg or so (350 lbs). And he was so drunk he decided that he would treat the ambulance as his own mobile restroom. As the medics wheeled him in, the mellifluous aroma of vomit and shit overwhelmed the entire place, driving several of my staff members out of the department. It also drove several other members in, just so they could see the glorious spectacle that was Charles.
Now I can handle my 2-year old's poopy tush perfectly well without even batting an eyelid, but I do not have the fortitude to deal with the veritable mountain of crap that Charles laid down. Everyone donned masks, but that was about as effective as trying to stay dry in the ocean by wearing a mesh bikini. Despite the stench we fulfilled our duty (pun intended) of doing a comprehensive workup, and other than a nice scalp haematoma, he was fine.
After we concluded our survey, the nurses and techs went to work cleaning up his self-induced mess. As the nurses removed his stool-encrusted clothes, in his drunken stupor Charles kept murmuring "Pull my finger" and laughing to himself. Fortunately no one was stupid enough to fall for THAT old trick. The clothes were mercifully discarded (and then incinerated, I hope), and then came the task of wiping his, ah, shall we say generous posterior. When the nurses finally got his ass cheeks pried apart, they found out just how lucky they were not to have pulled his finger when several small plastic bags containing a white powder fell out.
Everyone froze. The room was dead silent (except for the odd gag from one of the security guards). Charles stopped laughing, apparently having figured out that we had found his stash, and he said the only logical thing anyone could have possibly said in that situation:
"Uh, that's not mine."
One of the nurses took the bait and piped up, "How is it not yours? It just fell out of your ass!"
Charles paused for just a moment, but he stayed right on course: "Uh, I must've sat on it or something."
Several of the nurses nearly started crying from laughter, though it could have just been their eyes still watering from the fetor.
I don't have any idea what that white powder was - cocaine, heroin, crack, amphetamine (which isn't blue, by the way) - but I have a sneaking suspicion it wasn't talcum powder or baking soda. The bags were handed to the police, who seemed less than convinced that they didn't belong to Charles. He got himself a lovely pair of bracelets and an all-expenses paid trip to jail.
As ridiculous as his excuse was, I give him full credit for sticking to it. But it taught me a whole new meaning of the term "ass crack".