Bloody Hell

Pass the toilet duck

Oh my giddy shit. I've witnessed something so grim that if I could remove my brain and soak it in Toilet Duck I would. Problem is, this isn't the first time I've been privy to this act of human vileness so had I really been soaking my brain it'd be the size of a fucking callus by now. Anyway, want to know what this portal to hell actually is? Get this: blood smeared on the walls of a women's toilet cubicle. 
Indeed, there I was, lowering my feminine portions onto the porcelain - in the rather fancy Royal Welsh College of Music and Drama in Cardiff to be specific - when I looked up to find that the cubicle I'd stumbled into was actually scenery from The Exorcist. Fuck knows, perhaps it really was the work of a drama student run amok with a bucket of fake gizzards. But then again perhaps it was the work of a woman who'd seen fit to daub her menstrual outpourings over every available surface as a handy alternative to tampons. 
What, pray, the fuck? Why would a woman ever do something so utterly bleak in a place of public comfort? I find it hard to imagine what thoughts precede an act so puerile that it's the equivalent of a toddler smearing baked beans through its own hair.
The thing is, this isn't the first time I've found myself staggering from a bog within moments of discovering that it was previously inhabited by Freddie bloody Kruger. OK, so it's not a daily occurrence (where in the fuck do you think I live?) but it's happened often enough over the years to make me fear for my own hygiene whenever I take a public dump.
Look, there are lots of things I like to do when I'm in the grips of the crimson tide. Swig straight from a bottle of rum, holler at the unsuspecting, paw uselessly at my throbbing abdomen. But smearing the produce of my fertility over vertical surfaces? Er, no. I can't say that's ever crossed my mind, even when I'm gnashing at that vaguely static plastic that passes for tampon packaging.
So who, exactly, does this? What would the photofit of a blood-smearing po perp actually look like? I'm imagining some swivel-eyed mouth-breather who forms thoughts about as often as Alan Titchmarsh produces watchable telly. Never fucking ever. Alas, though, I fear it's better to not know. After all, my faith in humanity is flimsy enough without discovering that it's intelligent, career loving women-folk who indulge in such atrocities. Bloody hell? Exactly.