Phileas Fogg was relaxing at the bar in his local gentleman's club with a glass of brandy and a copy of the Times.
"Hello Fogg," said Lord Cockwrench. "Have you just laid a honking great brown egg in the lavatory?"
"I dare say I have," replied Fogg sadly. "I do beg your pardon, but poor Mr Crapper's hand-flush toilet was not up to the job. I had to leave my excretia for the butler."
"Aha! I thought it was you, living up to your name as usual. It was a real steamer."
Sir Betsy spoke up. "I'd wager you couldn't go a week without blocking a convenience, Fogg, you brick-laying demon."
Fogg tried to defend himself. "Gentleman, I am most disappointed with your personal attacks upon such a delicate area. I cannot help it if I eat heartily and thus produce the largest and most solid defecation of all of you. Not like you, Betsy, you poo like a mouse."
Sir Betsy looked at the floor in embarrassment.
"Indeed," added Fogg, "I'd wager my turds are the grandest in all England. Nay, in all the world."
Lord Penis-Balls interrupted. "I like Betsy's wager. Fogg, how long do you think you could go without dropping a log?"
"It is a regular thing for me. I must empty my lower colon almost daily."
"Then how about a wager that you could not travel around the world without making less than one hundred brown bum-sausages."
Fogg looked thoughtful. "A most intriguing wager. But, Lord Penis-Balls, I think I could manage it in only eighty."
Lord Penis-Balls looked dumbstruck. "Are you sure you know what you're saying, Fogg? Not only would you need to travel around the world in around about eighty days, but you would also need to do it without getting the runs. When my cousin Boris went to Australia, he got a terrible dose of the Delhi belly. He must have pushed out a slug at least three hundred times, half of them in liquid form."
"Nevertheless, I will bet you 10,000 guineas that I can circumnavigate the world, and only drop eighty food-babies along the way."
The entire club fell silent.
The butler piped up. "How would you tell he wasn't cheating?"
Lord Cockwrench said, "We will use Dr McTavish's patented Clockwork Jobbie Counter. Also you will have a referee go with you, to inspect your ringpiece daily."
"Then, gentleman," Fogg raised his glass. "We have ourselves a bet."
"Hurrah!" they all cried out, downing their drinks.
This story has been cancelled on the grounds of being too silly and due to the danger of running out of words for faeces. If you would like to hear more, send £5 to Captain Sausage, The Butcher Shop, Dorking. DK1 8UM.