There seem to be a fair few grim toilet stories, so here's mine:
My in-laws own a few classic cars and steam engines, so a fair few of our weekends in the summer are spent camping out in fields for steam rallies, country shows and the like. These things normally involve a beer tent, stocked to the brim with quality local beers & ciders, burger vans, and some sort of fun fair with the usual vomit-inducing rides and such. Taking place in the middle of the countryside, this becomes a beacon for all the local youngsters to go out and have some fun with something other than a tractor or unfortunate livestock.

Over the years, I've learnt not to venture near the portaloos nearest to this part of the site. Thankfully, this is usually easy as the organisers are normally good enough to locate the exhibitors camp site the opposite side of the field, with our own bogs hidden away behind the engine line up. One of the first years I started going, however, this was not the case. We were camped right next to the fairground. I woke up one the Saturday morning, having partaken of a bit too much of the good old gutrot cider myself the night before, and had to run to the nearest loos shortly after sunrise, before the cleaning fairies had made their visit. There were four of them - one was occupied. The first one I tried was coated in burger-van-vomit. I could see half-digested onions and streaks of melted cheese. Right, so, swiftly on to the next one. This one was smeared in an inhuman amount of rancid, dog-food consistency shit, with the lovely finishing touch of the perpetrator's shitty boxers neatly hung over the pump handle for the flush.

Third time lucky, then - well, god knows how, but that one was plastered pretty much floor to ceiling with used sanitary towels, with a fringe of used tampons tied around the edge of the ceiling. I can't begin to imagine the level of co-ordination required to arrange that one. However, I was never going to make it to the next nearest set of loos, and this seemed like the best option. I had to spend a good half an hour in that tribute to menstruation, only to find that when I was done, all the bog roll was gone. Thank fuck I still had a piece of only-slightly oily rag in my overall pocket from the previous day, as the only other option open to me was too grim to bear.
( useful_idiot, Mon 6 Feb 2012, 15:32, 2 replies)

I have mentioned my mate dave on qotw before
Well one evening, him and his mate John went camping next to a pub in the Welsh vallies. They put the tent up and started drinking in the pub and decided to order some food. Dave ordered a sea food tagliatelle which he polished off before continuing drinking. Later they staggered back to the tent and fell asleep.
John woke up early in the morning and found Dave was hugging him as he had spewed all over his own sleeping bag and all over John's face, which was covered in liquid spew, half-digested prawns and tenticles.
He had to bolt out of the tent and rub his face in the dew on the grass.
Nice.
( DumbMonkey The penis mightier than the sword, Mon 6 Feb 2012, 15:08, 2 replies)

Urinal Cakes
I'd just finished having a piss at work, when the general handy man John walked into the toilets.

He was moaning about how the management had reprimanded him for not replacing the worn urinal cakes. As he was talking, he was poking away at the very same ones I'd just pissed on, saying "These look OK, don't they?".

I made sure never to shake his hand after that...
(Kliper Filllets Getting noticed by twats on the internet since, Mon 6 Feb 2012, 14:33, Reply)

Glastonbury 2005

(The Archduke of South London I'm in your Girlfriend eating her organs, Mon 6 Feb 2012, 13:09, 6 replies)

Head to toe
One of my earliest childhood memories is of walking into the churned up muddy/cow shitty bit by the gate of field on a farm. I was on my own. My boots got stuck, I slipped and fell. I staggered back up the yard with my boots slopping over, full of crap. My mental image is of stepping into the farm kitchen, covered head to toe in a stinking mixture of cow shit and mud, and my mum and her sister laughing and saying that at least it would make me grow, while I burst into tears. Needless to say, I had the last laugh, as I was 6'4" by the time I was 16.
(Smale is stuffed, Mon 6 Feb 2012, 11:35, 6 replies)

I was 14, and working as a pot-boy in our local, rural Somerset pub, and my sister worked behind the bar.
One day, a chap my sister's age came in, on R&R from the army. He decided to teach me how to drink, to impress my sister.

This consisted of feeding me Snakebite & black, until I floated out of the front door, and was violently sick down the drain near by.

Or rather, thought I was violently sick down the drain near by.

What actually happened, as I discovered at 7am the next day, when I was called into work, and handed a hose connected to the hot tap, in order to melt the huge, now frozen puddle of purple, acrid, appley-scented vomit, is that I'd missed it by a good ten feet. Combined with my first raging hangover, this was the very epitome of a character-building experience.
( Je suis un vagabond is an unfunny, up your own arse middle class knob, Mon 6 Feb 2012, 10:56, 5 replies)

It's not sweetcorn in turds
It's small nodules of undigested fat. Or at least, that's what I've been told. The red bits in vomit are carrot, though.
(ubergeekian, Mon 6 Feb 2012, 10:51, 14 replies)

Saturday Night Antics
Seeing as the subject is mess:

The wife and I (I was on logistics) spent 9 hours on Saturday baking an engagement cake for my brother and his missus to be. In between football matches I popped in to see how she was doing. She had used almost every utensil, bowl, plate or cup in the entire house. She also had icing sugar everywhere and cake crumbs all over the floor.

At the party they had a cheesecake and tiramasu for people to dig into, keeping the nice cake for family. At the end of the night there was almost a full 12" tiramasu left. My brother tried to carry it home and proceeded to tip the entire sloppy thing all over a table, seat and the floor in the venue..... "just leave it" was all the owner could say. he looked pretty gutted cos he was going to have it.

After the party I was carrying balloons and whatnot to the taxi outside. 1 step onto the ice and I went sideways and smashed into the deck. The girls skidded over to pick me up and fuss about my well being, while I lay on my back and watched 6 heart shaped helium balloons drift off into the night
(Monkeystrumpet monkey. Monkey, MONKEY!!!, Mon 6 Feb 2012, 10:44, Reply)

Get your act together There’s no excuse.
Minging feet? Don’t wear flip flops. I don’t want to see your fungal toe nails or smell your flaky athletes foot. Buy some foot spray or go to see your Doctor. I don’t care how you tackle the problem just do so and keep your feet covered up until you have.

Clean your teeth. Halitosis is disgusting and (unless you have some sort of mouth related medical condition) preventable. Brush your teeth at least twice a day, floss and use mouthwash if you need to. Don't breathe in other peoples direction until you've got this sorted out.

Shower or bathe every day. Soap and water are cheap. You don’t have to buy expensive brands.

Wear deodorant and change your clothes frequently. Smelling your B.O. when you are packed in next to me on the tube makes me want to punch you in the face.
( Fucking hell Jeff I am not a robot, Mon 6 Feb 2012, 7:28, 22 replies)

Scary shared washrooms
I used to work for a small local paper, and we worked in an office building where we shared a toilet with several other suites. One of the other offices was that of a chiropodist. I noticed that when she used the washroom, she never washed her hands. I mentioned it to other colleagues, and they said they'd never seen her wash her hands either. Pretty gross for a doctor, especially since she was touching people's feet all day long. I hope she had a tap in her office :/.
(BlackArmadillo Avoided writing that article on, Mon 6 Feb 2012, 4:52, 5 replies)

Let's give the lady a hand.
EDIT: ALT:"Right that's it. The gloves are off!"
Not mine but my missus.
As has been stated before I used to work with people with mental and physical disabilities. So did my missus. She stopped about a month before the birth of our daughter.
Now she worked in a group home with a lady I shall call Rank (for reasons best known to us and soon to become apparent).
Rank had CP and also she had been diagnosed with pica-ism. She would eat anything. *Yes I do mean anything - she didn't have any real gag reflex and if she could fit it into her mouth then in it would go*. I had woken Rank on a number of occasions to have to pull half a single-bed sheet out of her gullet. My missus and I sometimes worked in the same house but never on the same shift. In this house gloves were used fairly regularly for hygiene reasons but as we had 2 clients who would put stuff in their gobs you were always careful to dispose of your gloves promptly.
On her very last shift before going on maternity leave my missus got an extra special surprise.
Whilst helping Rank bathe in the shower in the morning (mostly repeated prompts) my missus noticed something poking out of Rank's bum. She gave it a slight tug.
Out of Rank's butt slides a latex glove covered and partially filled with shit. My missus apparently laugh-spewed for quite a while. Great ending for her last shift tho - nice for her to know that she wolud never have to face that ever again. Sadly not the worst thing that anyone pulled out of Rank's bum tho.
(Misery McUglywife an attention seeking sociopathic fuckstain., Sun 5 Feb 2012, 22:33, 2 replies)

Hand Hygiene
Sorry for the second post but had to share this one.

When I worked for the Civil Service we shared a floor with a recruitment agency and dependent on how much you paid the landlords they would fit a kitchenette in the office, where you could get water, make tea and coffee, etc. If you went for the cheaper option you had to get any drinking water from the men and women's toilets. The recruitment bosses were tightwads and their staff had to get any water from the toilet. You'd see them every day dutifully filling up large plastic bottles and nearly killing themselves hauling it back.

There was one guy however that used to do it for them and if the people in the office knew what he used to do first I think they'd bring their own supplies. Before he used to fill up, he'd take the empty bottle into the cubicle whilst he'd have a really noisy shit. Once finished he would then not wash his hands and fill up the bottle, which he'd then take out to his unsuspecting colleagues.

It came as no surprise that nearly the entire recruitment office staff one week were written off with the Norovirus.

Nasty.
( Hardfarter Following through since 1978, Sun 5 Feb 2012, 20:55, 7 replies)

Urinal Surprise
Many moons ago my mum used to work as a cleaner in Tescos in one of the more upmarket areas of the city.

She's seen her fair share of dirty habits that people have and has dutifully cleaned up after them but one day there was something that even made her dry heave.

Near the end of her shift one evening she went into the men's toilets to clean up but what she saw in the urinal made her nearly throw up. "Some dirty cunt" had took an absolutely massive turd that hung over the lip of the urinal and to top it off they must had been eating sweetcorn and peas as its whole length of it was studded with them. the coup de grace was a thoughtfully shoved in cigarette stump where it's mouth (if a turd had a mouth) would have been.

She flat out refused to clean and her supervisor had to "break it's back" with Domestos and hot water before shoveling it down the nearest toilet. Her supervisor told her that this isn't the first time he'd seen this and it certainly won't be the last.

To this day my mum nearly vomits when she sees a plate of sweetcorn but her taste for peas stays undiminished.
( Hardfarter Following through since 1978, Sun 5 Feb 2012, 20:21, Reply)

Fruit and Vag.
My third answer to this weeks QOTW has me wondering if perhaps my life is a little too grotty.

Many years ago, as a teenager, I had a weekend job working for a supermarket in the fruit and veg department. On the Saturday I'd have to start at 6am, unloading the delivery truck before putting out all the fresh produce. The early start was a bit of a pain in the arse, but as with most young men of that age, Friday night beer didn't really affect me in the way it does today.

This one particular Saturday morning, whilst unloading the lorry an unsavoury odour was noticed but my colleagues and I dismissed it as the work of a beer/curry/physical exersion/fart combination on behalf of the driver.

We were wrong. Once the stock was off the lorry I loaded up the trolleys and wheeled them out onto the shop floor. It would all come in these collapsable green trays, and loose veg would be in a black polythene bag inside one of these trays that you'd slice open and tip out.

Not today though. I sliced open a bag carrots and was immediately hit with the stench of farmyard excrement. Not just excrement though, there was an artistic bonus too. The tray was packed with horse shit and someone had rather thoughtfully layed out eleven carrots on top of it spelling out the world 'CUNT'. This wasn't a spur of the moment act though- these carrots were massive and whoever had performed the act must have been saving these carrots over his shift, which I imagine was his last.

Truth be told I really admired his artistry- the slight itallic lean in the capital letters and the choice of word itself- this farm worker had clearly had enough and was going out with a bang.

So Mr Unhappy Carrotpacker, if you ever read this and have wondered after all these years just where your handywork ended up, It arrived at Hertford Waitrose one Saturday morning and caused one of my colleagues to dry wretch repeatedly for about 90 minutes before eventually throwing up in the cardboard box compactor out the back.

For that I salute you.
(FartThroughAWalkieTalkie wished you were dead in ditch on, Sun 5 Feb 2012, 19:34, 2 replies)

My gran's steak and kidney pudding...
(On the topic of urine...dare I triple post? Yes, but I'll be brief)

My gran once made my dad a steak and kidney pudding while we were staying at her house. She hadn't prepared the kidneys correctly...I'm not sure if you're meant to soak them in milk first, or maybe they'd gone off..but dear God! She turned the bowl it had been steaming in upside-down, and lifted it off, releasing the most vomit-inducing cloud of pissy-ammonia steam. Being a heavy smoker she didn't even notice until a 5-year-old me started retching in the corner.
( guffguff fuckes your gradeds balls!, Sun 5 Feb 2012, 17:21, 2 replies)

My brother's student flat.
(sorry for the double post, my previous story reminded me of another)

My dad told me a rather disgusting story about my brother's old student flat. My bro was moving out at the end of his studies, and my dad was giving him a hand. They finally got to the bathroom, where there was a pile of newspapers and magazines next to the toilet. My dad went to pick them up, to find they were sodden, before nearly vomiting up his intestines.

What had happened was my brother and his housemates had gotten into a bit of a weekend routine. They'd go out on the Friday, get drunk, stumble home and take an inaccurate piss into the toilet. Some splashback, and spill-over would inevitably surround the toilet area. This would repeat on the Saturday. Then, on the Sunday, regular as clockwork, one housemate would get the newspaper and read it on the toilet, then place it down in a pile. As the routine continued, the newspaper stack became layered with piss splashes, while also soaking up floor spillages and general condensation from the shower. Over a matter of months, the pile had gone rotten. Black to the core with mold, and stinking of ammonia, it was removed from the bathroom in strata and double bagged in bin liners to avoid anyone vomiting.

Urgh...pukatronic.
( guffguff fuckes your gradeds balls!, Sun 5 Feb 2012, 17:14, 2 replies)

An ex-housemate...
was by far and away the most grimy and filthy person I've ever known. He never washed anything - his laundry, his dirty plates or even himself. He was an utterly repugnant person, both in terms of his hygiene and his character. Tall and thin, his back hunched like an old man, despite being in his early twenties, with a weaselly, screwed up face to match. His hair was matted at the back where he hadn't washed it, and his face was bright red, greasy and spotty.

I literally don't know how this guy was alive. He went out drinking every night, smoked like a chimney, and ate a diet mostly consisting of junk food. I came home one day after lectures to a smoke-filled kitchen, and an acrid smell of burning. I walked into the dining room to see him eating a plate of what looked like lumps of coal. It transpired he'd found some chicken in the fridge a week over its sell-by-date, and decided it would be safe to eat if he cremated it in a frying pan and smothered it in chili sauce.

He used to come home drunk most nights with a pizza, which he'd eat in his room, and then dump the box on the floor. Only, it never went directly on the floor, because his floor was covered in his old dirty clothes. He'd then wake up the next day for lectures, fish out an odious item of crusty clothes from under the pile, and repeat the cycle. Slowly the greasy boxes became layered between the clothes, along with beer cans and juice cartons, and plates, knives and forks from downstairs. He also had a shelf above his bed where he would put his cups and glasses, often with a finger or two of milk or coke at the bottom, which were at various stages of decay. Every month or two we'd ask him politely if he knew where all the knives, forks, and crockery were, and the next day the sink would be full. To his credit, he would occasionally wash them for us, but knowing his hygiene-levels we'd do them again to be sure.

Possibly the most disgusting encounter was when he came downstairs while we were all in the living room watching TV. He took his top off, and asked us if we knew what the red patches on his skin were. We told him to go to the doctors, where he found out it was a fungal skin infection, and was prescribed a special shower gel and cream to use. I'll never forget the combined look of disgust on all of our faces when he came down from the bathroom, after 6 months of living together, and asked us how to turn on the shower. I can only assume he'd never used it. After a week of frequent washing, I was surprised how well his complexion cleared up. Despite this, once the rash disappeared, he slipped back into his old routine.

Needless to say, he was an utter filthbag.
( guffguff fuckes your gradeds balls!, Sun 5 Feb 2012, 16:58, Reply)

Sometimes people just get carried away.
One such time was a faithful night in the airport. Now, all of the breakrooms were on the fourth floor and were very bust during the day. But throughout the winter when traffic was slow the floor would be dead at night cause all the workers were either sleeping or off duty.

The airport had recently introduced new security measures after 9/11 and one of these was the ASU (airport search), who had there break-room located beside ours and also came with a lovely tiled mosaic window which let in plenty of light from the fluorescent bulbs in the corridor.

At the start the unit was staffed by a mix of workers from other departments and new recruits but as mentioned above traffic at winter was light so their night roster reflected this. And this brings me to the coupling of the bucktoothed ASU and "rusty" the cleaner. He wasn't called rusty because of hair color but rather, as one of the girls put it, it looked like he could give you a nasty infection.

Anyways on this faithful night I had woken hungry and went to the vending machine and on returning found Bucky and Rusty at it like mad dogs, Buckys ample frame spread sickeningly across the tiled windows, their distorted effect wreaking havoc on my bleeding eyes. Rusty was so engrossed in his sausage stashing that he failed to notice my warbly image on the other side stealthily slink off to alert my 10 to 15 other co-workers.

The plan was to give the pair a jolly good hurrah for their endeavors but what transpired could not have worked out better. You see as we were congregating for our cheer Rusty spluffed and upon doing so raised his head to see a crowd had gathered to witness Buckys Clam Baptism. I can tell you Rusty CUMS LIKE A MAN but squeals like a girl. And the resulting hysterics must of been to much for poor bucks as she wasn't seen again but Rusty would often get a cheer (or squeal) in the corridor and take it in good humor.
( dazbrilliantwhites has been meaning to change this..., Sun 5 Feb 2012, 14:55, Reply)

Sunstroke part two
Part one is here: www.b3ta.com/questions/vomit2/post608555

I just remembered part two which came during the night.

My dad and I got home, my car was still covered in sick and I went to bed.

The details are hazy. Whether I was still suffering from sunstroke and my head wasn't working right or whether I'd got up for a drink of water, I just don't know. Whatever the reason, I found myself at my dad's kitchen sink throwing up.

This, in hindsight, was bad enough. Why I thought throwing up in there was a good idea, I just don't know. Perhaps I was avoiding waking my dad by going to the sink in the house that was furthest from his bed. Perhaps I just needed a larger target.

Anyhow, this gets worse. During this exercise my stomach rumbled and I farted. Only, given that I had sunstroke, I didn't. The fart was rather more liquid than is normal.

So there I was. A sink full of sick. My pyjamas full of diarrhoea and me stuck in the middle of a brown puddle on the kitchen lino.

I couldn't move to get something to clean up the kitchen or myself. I would have had to have left the safety of the lino and spread brown nastiness on the living room carpet. There was nothing in the kitchen I could use to clean up.

I had to call for my dad. I can think of a dozen different things I could have done but back then I was stuck and out of options. I needed help.

Thankfully, he came down and helped me. It couldn't have been nice for him. It certainly wasn't for me.

Despite this all being due to me being in the sun too long, my head still blames all this on the last thing I ate in Nottingham. Ironically it is chocolate gateau.
(BearWithLittleBrain, Sun 5 Feb 2012, 14:09, Reply)

My dog
On New Year's Day 1998, my father and I took the dog for a walk at the local park. He was off the leash in the designated area. From a distance we saw him enthusiastically rolling around in something. This is never a good sign so we approached with caution. The smell was unbearable. The park had hosted a New Year's Eve event the night before, and we were 100% sure that the dog had, in fact, rolled around in human shit.

On realising this, Dad was furious and began yelling at the dog. Still unleashed, the dog knew he was in trouble and presumably decided that he'd already done his dash so he might as well have a little fun. He rocketed away from us. He ran up to people and jumped up at them, and they would try to pat him until they realised there was a problem, while we futilely screamed to warn them of the danger from 200m away. He sploshed around in the muddy swamp water. I believe he even picked up a dead bird and ran around with that for a while. It was like some kind of scatological version of 'The Loaded Dog'. The large majority of those that he encountered were probably horrifically hungover. Oh, and did I mentioned that I live in Australia and it was around 30 degrees?

Anyway, Dad did the honours of cleaning it all up. I couldn't pat the bugger for a week afterwards.
(ridethefader, Sun 5 Feb 2012, 11:12, 2 replies)

The extended family from hell
So I'm working in Sainsbury's as a student and this huge foreign family comes in. Not sure where they were from, but they looked Arabic and were all dressed in long brightly-coloured robes.

And they stank, as if the only eau-de-cologne available to them was made from rotting badgers and the-morning-after-a-night-on-real-ale squits. We could smell them four aisles away, which was even worse than the mad catlady who came in on Saturdays at 5pm (she wore a fur coat covered with catshit, yet she smelled like roses compared to this lot).

Anyway, they mooched around the store for half an hour or so, picking up the odd exotic vegetable, and eventually the manager had to ask them to leave because they were driving out all the other customers.

However, just before they did so, one of the little boys chundered into the cheese display and we had to throw away about 100 x 250g blocks of cheddar, luckily not the expensive Canadian stuff.

I still wonder if it was some kind of "Beadle's About" stunt.
(rogerzilla, Sun 5 Feb 2012, 10:01, 13 replies)

That's a shitty hand. No bluff here.
WillF's post reminded me. And I'm sure many parents can relate having experienced similar.
Changing a pooey bum in 6 easy steps.

1. Prepare change table, have fresh nappy unfolded, shuggled & ready for use. Have powder, cream, unguents, nappy-crap sack/bin, wipes & whatever else deemed necessary within easy reach.
2. Place bubby on table, undo nappy. Grimace. Clean up with wipes, chuck nappy into the rubbish to slowly breakdown and cause untold problems for future generations. Feel slight sense of guilt. Get over it.
3. Reach over for fresh nappy. Notice turtle-head rapidly escaping baby's bum. Shriek. Place hand under baby's bum to catch fresh shit 'cause nappy is now fumbled out of other hand and dropped in haste to get it.
4. Stand there, resigned to the fact that baby is now shitting in your hand. Look lovingly at child, store memory away for telling at child's 21st (& possibly to be posted on dodgy website). Chuck baby poo in the loo, wash hands really fucking vigorously.
5. Repeat steps 1 thru 3 using fresh nappy retrieved off the floor.
6. Scrub hands till bloody whilst trying not to retch.
(Misery McUglywife an attention seeking sociopathic fuckstain., Sun 5 Feb 2012, 8:54, 10 replies)

The Animal of Twizel
Twizel may well be the grimmest town in New Zealand - built as a workers' dormitory for dam construction projects, and unaccountably not abandoned, its inhabitants tend towards the bored and brutal. A mate of mine spent his formative years there, and befriended a character known simply as the Animal.
It came to pass that my mate was at a typically feral party one evening and found himself being pestered by an annoying and drunk middle-aged woman ("What's your star sign?" That sort of nonsense). Hoping to distract her, he summoned the Animal and quietly asked him to work his rough charms.
This the Animal did - some 5 minutes later, he was seen leading the woman into the host' bedroom. Well and good, thought my friend, giving it no further theought for another 10 minutes, when suddenly was heard a high-pitched shriek.
The guests all piled into the bedroom in a state of high glee, to behold the woman staggering from the bed in her knickers, her body dripping with runny shit and urine. What had happened was that the Animal had been standing astride her trying to will an erection. In his drunken confusion he managed to lose control of his bowels instead. Of the great man himself there was no sign, only an open window.
(mudskipper, Sun 5 Feb 2012, 8:48, 1 reply)

Smelly man.
The king of smelly men tried to buy a load of food with an empty wallet in the local supermarket. There was a big confrontation involving the supermarket manager. I believe the police were called on this one, although I did not stay to see the end. He was too smelly. I love shopping where you see such interesting people, including the madman who liked to pick up and eat likely looking bits from the pavement. I haven't seen him lately. Perhaps he died or was finally taken away to a nursing home.
(uncle_bud is not the jelly roll king., Sun 5 Feb 2012, 3:46, Reply)

A corny story.
As I mentioned in my previous post, I was a security officer at a large hotel in Daytona Beach. As part of their nightly procedures the evening shift went around locking the doors to the outdoor bathrooms at 10 pm, as we'd had numerous problems with drug addicts and homeless using those bathrooms for unintended purposes. At 6 am, the night shift (my shift) would unlock the bathrooms. During a morning unlock one day, I found something the evening shift had missed when they locked the door: a gentleman had needed to use the facilities quite urgently - so urgently, in fact, that he had barely made it inside the bathroom door before his poor sphincter could hold no more. He left a trail of brown liquid from the bathroom door, all the way into the nearest stall where he had managed to decorate most of the toilet before actually sitting down. Having obviously soiled himself on the way in, he decided to leave his stained tighty-whiteys hanging from the handrail in the stall.

And now for the explanation of this post's title, if you haven't guessed already. The entire trail, from door to stall to commode, contained copious amounts of whole, undigested corn kernels. Even the underwear which he'd so kindly left behind still had some corn in it.

It was quite some time after that before I could eat corn again.
(WillF http://www.flickr.com/photos/silverfischdotnet/, Sun 5 Feb 2012, 0:47, Reply)

Tents! Vomit! Laconism!
An interuniversity sports event, some years ago now, was (and still is) held over a weekend. This of course meant rocking up on the Saturday morning, competing all day, drinking all night and passing out in a tent on a rugby field. Nowadays there are close to 1000 folk who turn out for the comp, but in the early days there were probably 50 or 60 max, and only three from my own fair institution.

Competitions were duly competed in, however the drinking all night didn't happen so much. After a barbecue (I think) we headed off to the beer marquee to watch the sorry sight of failed attempts at interpersonal/interuni relations.

Whether it was the barbecue, the beer, or something in the air... somethign wasnt' quite right. After 2 pints (scout's honour) I was feeling properly ropey so drifted off to bed, as did L, leaving W to chance his arm (and whatever else he could) with a lovely young lady who was alas well out of his league. Would that he had succeeded, as he would then have been spared the horror of our tent that night.

After a couple of hours sleeping, I awoke with the sort of ambiguous feeling in my guts - do I feel sick? should I get up? After wrestling with the horns of this particular dilemma for 10 or 15 minutes teh dice finally fell in favour of getting up to do something about it. Not easy in a sleeping bagg zipped to the top and with the hood well cinched about my head (you can probably see where this is going).

At last out of the sleeping bag, sit up, try to open the door of the tent, time is running short, find the zip, pull it down... too late - projectile vomit all over the door of the tent, all over my sleeping bag, all over L's sleeping bag. I staggered out and made my peace with my stomach somewhere near the touchline. Eventually I felt human enough to return to my foetid pit. As I lay there mulling over the amount of cleaning up I'd have to do, in the morning and in the next few days, I drifted back off to sleep.

I was awoken about an hour later by L, whose tent it was and whose sleeping bag I had liberally drenched in vom, expecting a bollocking I was pleasantly surprised to hear "C, I'm so so sorry, I've thrown up everywhere, I'm so sorry, it's all over your sleeping bag and everything, I'm so sorry..."

"Don't worry about it love, not a problem" I rolled over and went back to sleep.

I think she burned the tent in the end as it was far from recoverable.
(Cocococho, Sun 5 Feb 2012, 0:40, Reply)

(not so) white shirt
Many years ago, I worked as a security officer for a large hotel in Daytona Beach. One fine afternoon, I had just showered in preparation for work and put on a white undershirt when my then wife asked me to change our son's diaper. I laid him down on our bed and cleaned him up, and was holding his ankles up with one hand while sliding a fresh diaper under him with the other when all hell broke loose.

For those of you who have not had the pleasure, let me take a moment to elaborate. Imagine the worst poo you've ever done after a night out in the pub followed by a stop for Indian food. That smell that you're mentally picturing is pretty much standard for every diaper filled by a small infant. Add in the fact that said diaper was fueled by mother's milk, and the smell mutates into something awesomely inhuman. Additionally, the innocuous-seeming milk turns shades of green and black that most people would not think possible.

Just as I leaned over to slide the clean diaper under his bottom, he let loose with a pressurized stream of the Devil's madness, which hit me directly in the chest. Startled by the sudden spray of liquid poo, I jerked backwards, baby ankles still in hand. My sudden motion changed the angle of the stream, propelling it upward - up the side of my face, up the wall behind me, and onto the ceiling.

Needless to say, I was a little late for work that day.
(WillF http://www.flickr.com/photos/silverfischdotnet/, Sun 5 Feb 2012, 0:25, Reply)

Swarfega is strong stuff...
My first job was in a studio that was part of a small print firm in EC1 way back in the 70's. In 1976 (one of the hottest summers on record), staff began to notice a foul smell coming from the (only) toilet. For a short time it was blamed on the boss as he had a reputation for creative toilet smells. This particular smell though not only lingered, it got steadily worse. Gallons of various cleaning products were dropped down the lav to get rid of the smell, but to no avail. And as the temperature increased so did the foul aroma. Eventually, a specialist drain cleaning company came in and nuked the toilet, again without effect.
After two weeks it's origin was finally discovered when one of the printer's went to the sink to wash his hands. Printing ink needs more than just soap and water to remove it so about a gallon sized tub of swarfega lived under the sink that the print guys reached into to use to scrub up with. The tub was running low so he pulled it out from under the sink and found that a mouse had got into the tub and couldn't get out. It slowly sank into the thick gel and drowned/suffocated. As the weeks went by it began to liquify in the swarfega and as the contents of the tub got used up, what was left of a rotting mouse and the liquid it made were exposed to the summer heat. All that was left was it's head, tail and skeleton - the swarfega ate the rest.
(Ripley isis spelt backwards is sisi, Sat 4 Feb 2012, 23:45, Reply)

Shitty man
Bloke brought into casualty in his armchair. Cemented in, in his own shit. He died.
(Doktor Egg, Sat 4 Feb 2012, 23:39, 1 reply)

My boss told me this one
but she had to do it in instalments because she had to go and puke half way through telling me.

Someone she knows and describes as a 'fucking dirty bastard' has a small child, baby size. The baby had a cold and was struggling to breathe so FDB put his mouth around the baby's nose and sucked as much snot out as he could.
( His Popiness the Hole Invaded Poland on, Sat 4 Feb 2012, 21:35, 12 replies)