Pray for Pooflake…

This has just happened…

Backstory: I had a massive Chinese Takeaway last night…mmmm. With extra curry sauce. It was nom-tastic.

What I hadn’t had however…is a good, old-fashioned 'didgeridoo'...a 'grand Macca'...a ‘Thora Hird’ (or for normal folk, a poo)…for nearly three days now.

Therefore, my cunning scheme was to quaff said copious amounts of Oriental delights, in the hope that the heavy (and highly potent) level of such spicy devoured goodness might dislodge what was proving to be a rather stubborn squatter up ‘cack canyon’.

And lorks, In the name of Peter Stringfellow’s near-perfect teabagging technique, it certainly did the happy trick.

So I'm at work, and after some more-than-adequate warning blasts, the time rapidly arrived for me to awkwardly waddle along like John Wayne to the Dump Depository Department, letting off little trumps as I go; and ‘tutting’ in order to either mask the ‘quacks’ or trying to nonchalantly blame the noises on squeaking chairs, shoeleather and suchlike.

I finally reach the Lavs…kicking the entrance door open with fevered desperation…and…every cubicle is taken! FUCKBILGE! I curse the gods of toilet mercy, shaking my fist in the air, before dragging myself back to my desk.

And I wait...considering that five long, agonising minutes is well enough time for everybody to finish, I squirm uncomfortably on my chair…counting the seconds until my next opportunity for feacal evacuation.

Then I go back and try again.

Now, the toilet block where I work is always pretty busy…but three fucking hairy-total-bastard visits later and I am still unable to find a free trap where I can dig out this urgently nudging bum banana from my terminally strained sphincter.

I feared that if someone didn’t relent quickly, you would all soon be watching the news footage of a giagantic brown mushroom cloud over the centre of England, with me sat on top of it, watching the grotesque devastation and loss of life that would make the Asian Tsunami seem like a ripple in a paddling pool filled with pot-pourri.

Minutes pass…I’m sweating like a peado in a playground with a packet of Royhpnol-laced Polo mints, and I'm afraid to relax my stomach muscles in case there is any 'uninvited oozing'…God help me I even prayed…I then ventured one last time…

Visit number 4…STILL no cunting joy…and I feel like I am about to turn inside out, leaving behind nothing but a dishevelled stomach bag filled with semi-masticated noodle slurry and fleshy, flapping bundles of internal organs.

Yet suddenly, in my angst-ridden desperation, like a gift from God himself, I notice the little ‘glint’ of a sign…

…on the disabled toilet door.

It’s like it is calling me...letting me know that it understands I have no other option. Besides, I reckon the 'roomy' cubicle is pretty much fair game anyway, considering the only disabled person in the place is ‘Helen’, the boring admin clerk with the bandy, buckled dwarf-legs.

I weigh up my options and make my decision to use the disabled chod bin. I rationalise to myself that It would be a far worse crime to burst my twitching bowels all over the surrounding corridor…

So I thought of my colleagues…equality…the children…(Well, the kids that needed dropping off at the pool anyway)…

And, after a quick check around, I tentatively step in….

The place is like a goddam Poo-planting paradise!.

But I didn’t have much time to admire the artwork on the walls…My clouts have barely reached my knees when…:

”UUrrggghhh….NNNngggg….Grrrrr…….”

*Spla-DOOOOOOOOSH!*

A monumental turd bearing a more-than-passable resemblance to a slimy brown Oil tanker emerges from my prolapsing rectum.

Although my hopes weren’t high, I just knew that this was going to be a wiping challenge of biblical proportions…the very polar opposite of a friendly ‘ghost’ crap.

The resulting aftercare service is indeed painful, multi-textured and laborious on my puckered papper passage. There is even blood involved. Ew.

Soon after, drained, exhausted, and with the stench of my rancid own-goal beginning to make my eyes water, I know the time has come to make good my escape.

I heave up my trollies and survey the damage with a heavy heart, yet vastly lightened bowel.

It looks like a post apocalyptic warzone. The bogroll has intermingled with the effluence, blood and water to create a sort of ‘chocolate-raspberry-ripple’ effect…Oh, the horror…

For the good of mankind I must banish this beastly behemoth to the watery depths from it's porcelain prison...so I tug on the bog handle…but it merely rattles in my hand…It’s like it’s not attached to anything. No flushing. Nothing. Just a gargantuan, putrid lump of purest ‘Forrest Gump’, with it’s tapered end poking out from the top of the water level, and a spirited reluctance to leave the party.

Oooh fucking hell.

I think to myself: ‘Is there some sort of secret, ‘Mason’s-handshake-like’ way to flush a disabled toilet?’

If there is…whatever it is, I couldn’t figure it out…and as the mound of fetid feculence and spent bumwad was starting to growl at me, I begin to frantically push and pull everything that looks even remotely like a handle in a vain and increasingly futile state of intense panic...

But nothing…nothing is getting rid of the abomination and insult to humanity that was the backside-busting brown trout staring at me from inside the pan.

Hitting it on the head with the spikey brush only made things worse.

Eventually, and with a crushing inevitability I realised I had no choice – I had to ‘abandon shit’…

I stealthily listened at the door…waiting until there was absolute silence. Then, biting my lip, I delicately turned the door handle, and slowly peered around. Nobody. Thank sweet merciful bollocks! I step out…still nobody. I close the door and take one stride away… the relief now sweeps over me in an almost orgasmic fashion as the realisation finally sinks in…’I’ve gotten away with it!’

The perfect Crime!

Now, with my tongue firmly lodged in my cheek and a cocky little ‘spring’ in my step, I metaphorically pat myself on the back, congratulate myself for a ‘Jobbie well done’…and swagger around the corner…

Straight into the path of Helen…poor, poor Helen…and her innocent helper…who is escorting her to the bogs.

Ah.

I couldn’t even bring myself to look her in the eye as she cheerily said ‘Alright, Pooflake?’

I mumbled something about being ‘extremely busy’ and shuffled off, glowing with shame.

Just the knowledge that she was about to helplessly hobble face-first into a deluge of my unholy arse-produce has condemned me for all eternity.

This kind of thing always seems to happen to me around Christmas time.

So…going to Hell?...Bring it on I reckon. It couldn’t be any worse than how I feel right now…

( Pooflake braces for an onslaught..., Fri 12 Dec 2008, 13:33, 26 replies)

Good Grief!
I feel soiled now..
(darras jeg har en grevling i hodet. Grevling, grevlang, Fri 12 Dec 2008, 13:36, closed)

you conjure up such vivid imagery
with your foul words of repugnance

good job
( Vipros. clever got me this far, then tricky got me in, Fri 12 Dec 2008, 13:41, closed)

My sphincter is twitching in sympathy.
In fact, I may need to go to the mens' room here and turn it into New Jersey...
( The Resident Loon Not a demographic. Do not measure., Fri 12 Dec 2008, 13:41, closed)

Arf
Best story I've seen on QOTW in a long time - click :D
(DeactivateThisDisaster No., Fri 12 Dec 2008, 13:44, closed)

We have a winner
Brilliant timing though, 12 months almost to the day since you soiled your keks in the office and you very nearly did it again.
(Bazongaloid, Fri 12 Dec 2008, 13:54, closed)

...
That's a truely epic story.

I hope that one of Helen's disabilities is the lack of a sense of smell though.

*clicks*
( Cawl, Fri 12 Dec 2008, 14:08, closed)

She's old, black and disabled...

I don't know if she's a lesbinnum too, but if she is, she answers every single one of our entire company's 'equal opportunities hiring policy' in one go.

She's very nice though...which makes my actions even harder to bear...
( Pooflake braces for an onslaught..., Fri 12 Dec 2008, 14:14, closed)

Damn...
Well, as I've said to Herr Doktor, you're older than me, so save me a good seat.

I hope you realise that your own, personal Hell will have no toilets and only curry to eat...
( Cawl, Fri 12 Dec 2008, 14:16, closed)

So you've just got to hope
it doesn't turn into a scene like a school playground crime, when the headmaster (your boss) calls everyone to attention and demands to know who left this terrifying faecal monster in the disabled toilet, and we're all going to sit here in silence until somebody owns up...

I'm not a praying man, but hopefully my click will have the same sort of effect when thou art weighed in the balance.
(LongJohnBaldry, Fri 12 Dec 2008, 14:26, closed)

Good point...

I'm not taking any chances...I'm working through my lunch and leaving an hour early.
( Pooflake braces for an onslaught..., Fri 12 Dec 2008, 14:47, closed)

`Abandon shit'.....
....nice one! That certainly brightened up an otherwise grey day! *Click*
( DUMBLONDE is a rubber lover girl, Fri 12 Dec 2008, 14:26, closed)

I'm...
amazed you didn't wait in the bogs until a cubicle became free, but for the value of the story I'm glad that you didn't :)

*clicks*
(annexed, Fri 12 Dec 2008, 14:48, closed)

Ooh, I didn't want to do the...

'Swapping over' thing.

There's not a lot worse than the look shared between gentlemen at the prospect of handing over a freshly used turd recepticle.

Even Helen has the 'air of mystery' about who befouled her private throne.
( Pooflake braces for an onslaught..., Fri 12 Dec 2008, 14:51, closed)

meh
I've always held the attitude that equality goes both ways.

For preference I'll use a regular trap, but if they're all occupied then it's daft not to use a special one. All the designation means to me is that they're usually outfitted with extra space, handles (which, let's be fair, it sounded like you may have needed), and sometimes a sink; and that differently-abled should get "first crack" at them. Not some sort of restricted area that is only open to a few.

Yet as you say, there was only one other person who'd *have* to use that cubicle, so the duty cycling is sufficiently light to justify.

Shifting the blame, it sounds like your employer is negligent in failing to provide adequate staff welfare facilities. You should really have crappers waiting for people, not people waiting for crappers.

I'm sure there are specific rules on how many need to be provided, related to the number of employees and gender balance. But I CBA to look them up.
(The Incredible Sulk Finally remembered his password on, Fri 12 Dec 2008, 15:14, closed)

*applauds*
You sir are truly the master of poo related QOTW answers.

Just be grateful she didn't arrive a few seconds earlier though, to see you leaving the handlebar loo.
( Sonic James Doom forgetting the date since... umm..., Fri 12 Dec 2008, 15:21, closed)

*spaz-clicks*
I'm laughing like a happy mong.
(Bicycle Repairman "you're also a bit of a wanker", Fri 12 Dec 2008, 17:24, closed)

Not your fault!
Disabled facilities are not exclusively for the use of the disabled. Sure, they have priority, but if there's no other alternative then you have just as much right to take a shit in there as anyone else. If Maintenance can't keep the shitters working then that's their problem, not yours!
(keyboardman, Fri 12 Dec 2008, 17:37, closed)

It seems to me that your bowels are your nemesis.
Your daily struggles against this foe are now becoming legendary.

Stories will be carried down from generation to generation and your name will always be associated with poo.


I salute you.
( girlinthehole, Fri 12 Dec 2008, 19:26, closed)

I laughed
What with this and all the other tales of evil I've probably laughed myself into Purgatory, at least.
(Big D, Fri 12 Dec 2008, 19:29, closed)

fanfeckingtastic
If only because I know that outside the world I live in people are embarrased to use the extra log room seats
(magic the cat will someone please think of the kittens, Fri 12 Dec 2008, 21:42, closed)

Awesome
Just awesome.
And surely if you were in that much pain and doubled over trying to keep it in, you were temporarily diasbled?
( VandenPlas can't think of anything clever - no change there!, Sat 13 Dec 2008, 12:19, closed)

*clickage"
"I’m sweating like a peado in a playground with a packet of Royhpnol-laced Polo mints"

Could be the funniest thing ever written!!!
(Mr.Dog was in love again on, Sat 13 Dec 2008, 14:30, closed)

get a click for
the great descriptions
(Dr Zoidberg is going for a scuttle, Sat 13 Dec 2008, 17:40, closed)

poor poor Helen
Three days without a poo? I recommend branflakes, pooflake.
(laurasuper, Sun 14 Dec 2008, 1:53, closed)

Nice one Poofers!
A very richly metaphor-laiden piece you've written. Me likes!

Anyway, at work, per floor, we only have a single men's room, single women's room and a single disabled toilet. We always use the disabled toilet whenever the one we want is occupied.
( mistaspakkaman and the inedible shifting caterpillars, Sun 14 Dec 2008, 1:56, closed)

Yet again
you have struck brown gold, dear boy.

Have this *click*, print it out and keep it in your pocket for your next toilet emergency.
( chart cat has an itch, Tue 16 Dec 2008, 4:52, closed)