I wasn't the perfect kid, I tell you, but my mother thought I was fine - until I decided to become the mischievous pixie of the house. At some point in my childhood I decided I needed to fill the role of a practical prankster of the family, much to my poor mother's distress. Even more unfortunately for my mother, she had no idea what I was up to when I got my hands on some yellowish, sticky, gooey fake piggy poo, which really looked more like cat's poo.
Fake piggy poo was quite popular at the time - the kind that was wrapped inside some plastic animal, and when you squeezed it, the poo would emerge from its behind; mine was a pink pig. I had purchased my poo at some downtown night market and I loved it. Yes! I was terrible - I pulled that fake poo out of its plastic pig wrapping and found a new spot for it every single day.
I never tired of the endless ruckus it caused. Oh, fake spiders were fun, but nothing could beat the chaos caused by my fake poo. I treasured that fake poo until the fateful day that my mother, having discovered it lying there in a lump at the dinner table, threw it into the bin. There I was left with fake spiders, whoopee cushions, squirting calculators, snapping gum, joke teeth and glasses, but no fake poo. I cried, I screamed - life was hardly worth living without my beloved fake poo. However, my mother was firm.
"No more fake poo! I'm at my wits ends with you!"
On that awful day when the garbage music rang and the garbage was collected, I knew that I would never see my beloved poo again, but I would not...