» Shit Stories: Part Number Two

I told you I didn't want to go out
Only two people know this story, and now you lucky lot can hear it too. Apologies in advance for length, my brevity seems to have gone the same way as my bowel control.

Now this was around the time of my birthday a couple of years ago. I'd been off work most of the week with a condition which had me backed up pretty badly. I was spending my time lying in bed, watching Family Guy DVDs, eating ice cream and wanking whenever I felt too sorry for myself. On my girlfriends insistence I went to see the doctor and she prescribed me a senna-based product to ease things along. Not being familiar with the wonderful world of laxatives I imagined that on my gridlocked digestive system the effect would be to induce normal bowel movements once again. Oh how wrong I was. We'd planned to go for a meal with friends in the evening to celebrate my birthday, but I wasn't really feeling up to it. However, the missus insisted I come out. Not for the last time in that relationship, I really should have stood my ground.

So we're in Soho enjoying a curry (why?). After the big meal and a few beers I'm really not feeling too hot. Everyone else wants to go elsewhere and carry on drinking, but I make my excuses and leave, thinking I can get home and watch some more Family Guy. And maybe have another wank.

As I'm walking back to Charing Cross I feel a rumbling omen in my gut and a small *FFFRRRP* escapes my butt cheeks. Alright thinks I, I'll just stop into the crapper at the station and release this long overdue load.

A couple of minutes later and I realise the situation is rather more urgent than I'd previously anticipated when a sharp cramp hits me, causing me to stop and do that cross-legged, doubled-over pose as I try to rearrange the contents of my rectum into a less explosive configuration using my buttocks.

By the time I reach the station entrance I'm in serious trouble. Sweating like a paedo in a playground, I inch forward painfully slowly, as every movement of my lower body threatens to unleash the fury within with a comical *PARP*. Just a hundred yards further and I'll be ok. Other people arriving at the station are shooting me puzzled and pitiful glances as I struggle forwards, looking to all the world like a parkinson's sufferer attempting the tightrope. But I can make it, I know I can.

Just as I reach the main concourse, barely 20 yards from the toilet entrance, it happens. With an almighty bubbling roar from my lower intenstines--it felt like the depth-charge scene from U-571 was being replayed in my gut--I momentarily lose sphincter control and I feel my pants fill with a gritty warmth. There's no other option now, I have to make a dash for the toilet before this gets worse!

Bad idea. As soon as I start to run, the full force of the faecal flood smashes through my puny anus. Within seconds it's too much for my underpants as several days worth of shit makes its sloppy break for freedom. It's steaming in a raging torrent down my leg and as I run I can feel it flicking off my shoes. I think I hear a scream of disgust from behind me, but all I can concentrate on is the toilet steps ahead. Down the step and through the turnstile, I secure myself in the closest free cubicle, barely landing on the seat in time to expel the last remnants safely and I pebble-dash the bowl so violently it sprays back onto my buttocks. My groans and the *PRRRAAP-PRAAARRAP-PRRAAAAAARRRRP* trumpeting from my burning arsehole combine to make a terrible symphony for anyone unfortunate enough to be listening.

Exhausted, I clean myself off using an entire roll of paper. My underpants are filled and will have to be discarded. The legs of my jeans are completely soaked in runny, stinking shit. It's coated the backs of my shoes and even managed to find its way inside my socks. I am essentially a huge, walking shit stain. I start to rub at my clothes with the cheap, scratchy paper. It's not absorbing anything, so, dignity in shreds, I resort to scooping the crap out of my jeans with my bare hands.

It took me a full half hour to clean myself up, but you'd hardly notice the difference. I'd managed to get the worst off my shoes, but my jeans are still heavy with shit. My hands are stained a muddy brown colour. Then I realise I have no change of clothes, and still have to take a 25-minute train ride home. I feel utterly wretched, ashamed and alone and I sit back on the toilet seat and begin to cry.

The journey home is one I never, ever want to repeat. As I leave the toilet I take a furtive glance back the way I came and see a brown trail leading back towards the station entrance. Luckily (well I bloody well deserved some luck at some point in this story), my train is waiting on the platform and I am able to put my head down and quickly get on board. I'm terrified someone I know will get on the train and discover my shame, so slide down in my seat as low as possible to try and avoid being seen. The stench is awful and hangs in my nose, almost making me sick. Every time I move my jeans squelch and stick to my clothes. My spirit broken, I pray for the ground to open and swallow me whole, but then realise it would probably spit me straight back out again.

If you were the poor girl who sat on the seat in front of me for that entire journey, covering your nose and mouth with your scarf and periodically making retching noises, I am so, so sorry.

My girlfriend returned home somewhat later to find me (post-shower) in bed, shellshocked and hugging my pillow, the washing machine putting my dirty clothes through their second cycle of the night. "What happened?" she asks. All I can manage is to look straight ahead at the wall, still clutching my pillow for comfort. "I told you I didn't want to go out", I whimper.
(Mon 31st Mar 2008, 16:20, More)

» Evil Pranks

Poodollar!
This one is actually pretty disgusting. I'm disgraced at myself for being party to this. I don't know if it was actually invented by my friend, or whether he just introduced us to it. I never actually did the dirties myself but I went along for the ride and laughed my tits off.

The game was called "Poo Dollar". Basically you photocopy a banknote, say a tenner, as the bait for your trap. You then find a nicely steaming, newly deposited dog turd. Using a stick or other such implement, apply the poo liberally to one side of the "tenner", fold so as to hide the dirties from easy view, and place upon the pavement. Then retreat to a safe distance to watch some poor bastard come along and pick up the tenner, only to have his moment of joy at finding free money on the floor shattered most evilly by the fact that, a) it's not a real tenner after all! and b) he now has poo all over his hand!

This game later evolved into "Poo Phone" an infinitely more disgraceful trick to play on someone. The smart ones among you will probably have figured this out already, but for those at the back of the class... essentially you find a public phone box that have a good view of from a safe place (upstairs window, car parked over the road etc). You then smear dog shit over the receiver (we only did the earpiece. probably). Then call the phone from your mobile and wait for someone to come and pick up. Made even more enjoyable for a bunch of idiotic teenagers because you get to shout "YOU"VE GOT POO ON YOUR FACE!" down the phone at your hapless victim.

I'm actually feeling slightly sick typing that and I do feel very, very bad indeed (what if someone had caught something?). I feel even worse about the fact that at the time it was fucking hilarious. What the hell was wrong with me?
(Mon 17th Dec 2007, 20:44, More)

» Drugs

Tenuous pea
Not so much MASSIVEDRUGSLOLZ as legal-drugs-disaster. This was around the time of my birthday a few of years ago.

I'd been off work most of the week with a condition which had me backed up pretty badly. I was spending my time lying in bed, watching Family Guy DVDs, eating ice cream and wanking whenever I felt too sorry for myself. On my girlfriends insistence I went to see the doctor and she prescribed me a senna-based product to ease things along. Not being familiar with the wonderful world of laxatives I imagined that on my gridlocked digestive system the effect would be to induce normal bowel movements once again. Oh how wrong I was.

I dutifully necked the prescribed drugs and went back to bed. We'd planned to go for a meal with friends in the evening to celebrate my birthday, but I really wasn't feeling up to it. However, the missus insisted I come out. Not for the last time in that relationship, I really should have stood my ground.

So we're in Soho enjoying a curry (why?). After the big meal and a few beers I'm really not feeling too hot. Everyone else wants to go elsewhere and carry on drinking, but I make my excuses and leave, thinking I can get home and watch some more Family Guy. And maybe have another wank.

As I'm walking back to Charing Cross I feel a rumbling omen in my gut and a small *FFFRRRP* escapes my butt cheeks. Alright thinks I, I'll just stop into the crapper at the station and release this long overdue load.

A couple of minutes later and I realise the situation is rather more urgent than I'd previously anticipated when a sharp cramp hits me, causing me to stop and do that cross-legged, doubled-over pose as I try to use my buttocks to rearrange the contents of my rectum into a less explosive configuration.

By the time I reach the station entrance I'm in serious trouble. Sweating like a Pope in a playground, I inch forward painfully slowly, as every movement of my lower body threatens to unleash the fury within with a comical *PARP*. Just a hundred yards further and I'll be ok. Other people arriving at the station are shooting me puzzled and pitiful glances as I struggle forwards, looking to all the world like a parkinson's sufferer attempting the tightrope. But I can make it, I know I can.

Just as I reach the main concourse, barely 20 yards from the toilet entrance, it happens. With an almighty bubbling roar from my lower intenstines--it felt like the depth-charge scene from U-571 was being replayed in my gut--I momentarily lose sphincter control and I feel my pants fill with a gritty warmth. There's no other option now, I have to make a dash for the toilet before this gets worse!

Bad idea. As soon as I start to run, the full force of the faecal flood smashes through my puny anus. Within seconds it's too much for my underpants as several days worth of shit makes its sloppy rush for freedom. It's steaming in a raging torrent down my leg and as I run I can feel it flicking off my shoes. I think I hear a scream of disgust from behind me, but all I can concentrate on is the toilet steps ahead. Down the steps and through the turnstile, I secure myself in the closest free cubicle, barely landing on the seat in time to expel the last remnants safely and I pebble-dash the bowl so violently it sprays back onto my arse cheeks. My groans and the *PRRRAAP-PRAAARRAP-PRRAAAAAARRRRP* trumpeting from my burning arsehole combine to make a terrible symphony for anyone unfortunate enough to be listening.

Exhausted, I clean myself off using an entire roll of paper. My underpants are filled and will have to be discarded. The legs of my jeans are completely soaked in runny, stinking shit. It's coated the backs of my shoes and even managed to find its way inside my socks. I am essentially a huge, walking shit stain. I start to rub at my clothes with the cheap, scratchy paper. It's not absorbing anything, so, dignity in shreds, I resort to scooping the crap out of my jeans with my bare hands.

It took me a full half hour to clean myself up, but you'd hardly notice the difference. I'd managed to get the worst off my shoes, but my jeans are still heavy with shit. My hands are stained a muddy brown colour. Then I realise I have no change of clothes, and still have to take a 25-minute train ride home. I feel utterly wretched, ashamed and alone and I sit back on the toilet seat and begin to cry.

The journey home is one I never, ever want to repeat. As I leave the toilet I take a furtive glance back the way I came and see a brown trail leading back towards the station entrance. Luckily (well I bloody well deserved some luck at some point in this story), my train is waiting on the platform and I am able to put my head down and quickly get on board. I'm terrified someone I know will get on the train and discover my shame, so slide down in my seat as low as possible to try and avoid being seen. The stench is awful and hangs in my nose, almost making me sick. Every time I move my jeans squelch and stick to my clothes. My spirit broken, I pray for the ground to open and swallow me whole, but then realise it would probably spit me straight back out again in disgust.

If you were the poor girl who sat on the seat in front of me for that entire journey, covering your nose and mouth with your scarf and periodically making retching noises, I am so, so sorry.

My girlfriend returned home somewhat later to find me (post-shower) in bed, shellshocked and hugging my pillow, the washing machine putting my dirty clothes through their second cycle of the night. "What happened?" she asks. All I can manage is to look straight ahead at the wall, still clutching my pillow for comfort. "I told you I didn't want to go out", I whimper.
(Sat 18th Sep 2010, 20:14, More)

» Karma

don't mess with the big guy
Friend of mine just told me this story. He was visiting a church in Madrid. Wandering round, admiring the architecture he makes a puerile joke about Jesus (his sense of humour's about b3ta level) when...

*CRACK* a large piece of masonry had somehow dislodged itself from the roof and shattered on the ground not a foot in front of him.

He took it as a warning.
(Thu 21st Feb 2008, 21:16, More)

» Evil Pranks

matchbox kung-fu
Only ever do this to someone with a really good sense of humour, or someone you really don't like.

Take a normal box of safety matches, the kind with an ignition strip down each side. Now hold two matches to the sides of the box, with the heads against the strips, and place a third so that it is balanced across the ends of the first two, making a crossbar.

Now challenge your victim to break that crossbar match with a karate chop. You might want to throw in some pithy comment about how weak they are to draw them in. When they accept your challenge pass them the matchbox to hold, making sure they hold it in the same fashion as you. The force of their karate chop on the top match drives the side matches downwards, causing them to strike and burning your victim's fingers.

I've only ever done this once when I was 16. The poor girl who was my victim ran crying from the pub and I don't think I've actually spoken to her since.

I can be an evil bastard sometimes

EDIT: check replies for a (crappy) diagram of the setup
(Mon 17th Dec 2007, 16:47, More)