Piles of Trouble

 
At a barbeque last summer, Bill, my thick-as-a-brick next-door neighbour was boring me mindless with his medical problems. We were both the worse for the drink, he much more so than me.
  ‘My haemorrhoids itch like crazy’ he said, ‘they drive me mad at times.’ He then started clawing vigourously at his backside, quite putting me off my burger. ‘Ah’ I quipped, laying aside my now unwanted food, ‘I have a great remedy for that, works every time.’  
 Of course, Bill wanted to know so I told him ‘Take two scotch bonnet chillies and crush them to a paste, stir in two tablespoonsful of tabasco sauce and a tablespoon of salt. Apply this paste liberally to the affected area, you won’t feel an itch for a long while after that.’  
  I thought no more about my little joke thinking it lost on Bill until, half an hour after the barbeque had ended, I heard hideous, agonised shrieks coming from Bill’s back garden. I looked out to see him running around in circles and jumping up and down. He was dressed only in his T-shirt. His fat arse was bare and his wedding tackle flapping like a fish on a river bank. Both his hands were clutching wildly at his buttocks as he ran blindly into a patch of stinging nettles that grew from his compost heap and fell headlong into it. His short fat legs thrashed the air as his screeching grew even louder.  
  I couldn’t see too clearly after that for the tears streaming from my eyes. He then leapt up and dived arse first into his birdbath. There he sat scouring water into his buttock cleavage like a man possessed whilst howling for help. He must have accidentally pushed some of the paste inside himself for his screams went up an octave.  
   I staggered out to help him, my drunken head bemused as to what I could do to relieve his plight.  
  ‘Oh, Jaysus, it’s inside me’ he screamed, now convulsing on the lawn ‘fer Christ’s sake, somebody shoot me.’  
   An idea dawned. I grabbed his garden hose, and, turning it on, rolled him over. His head and knees were now on the grass, his arse sticking high in the air.  
  As I inserted the hosepipe to flush him out, another scream came from behind me. I turned to see my wife Mabel staring aghast, her hands clasped to the sides of her head, her mouth agape in horror. She had come out to see what all the noise was about only to find me working a garden hose up Bill’s backside and him shouting ‘Oh, that’s wonderful, don’t stop, please don’t stop.’  
  Poor Mabel let out a long despairing wail and fainted, flopping backwards into our fish pond. I left Bill to go and rescue Mabel but tripped over the damned hose and landed on top of her, cracking my head on an ornamental stone frog.  We were rescued by two policemen who appeared around the side of the house to investigate reports of a murder taking place that another neighbour had reported. They found me and Mabel unconscious, face down in the pond and Bill ramming the hose up his jacksie crying ‘yes, oh yes’ with great passion.
It took some explaining I can tell you. The coppers were roaring with laughter and it took them fifty minutes to complete their statement. They got through a whole box of tissues wiping their eyes.  
  Bill’s haemorrhoids haven’t itched once since that day but he’s still not talking to me, the ungrateful bastard.