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Enzyme says: Tell us your tales of grot, grime, dirt, detritus and mess

(, Thu 2 Feb 2012, 13:04)
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Is it time for a pooroast?
Many years ago I worked in a scabby little nightclub in a scabby little town. The majority of the tales I have to tell from this time involve either stupid people, poo, or stupid people pooing.
I'm not sure if they are are funny, but they are all true, and they all stand as a testament to the utter mankyness of some of the poor pathetic souls who have darkened my life.
I think the easiest way to do this is in bite sized easily digestible chunks, so without further ado:
To start you off with an easy one, I once found a pint glass full of poo in the centre of the dance floor, with a cherry perched on top. It looked like some kind of Angel Delight dessert thing, though if any angels were delighted by it they need some serious psychological attention.
POO STORY NUMBER TWO...arf... ...number two...
The club I worked in was invariably quiet in the winter, especially mid-week. On an average Thursday we'd get about 30 people in, and most of them were of the older, more respectable persuasion.
This particular night we had a silly young scruff in who, for reasons that now escape me, we had to kick out. As he was frogmarched from the building he repeatedly informed us that he was going to "shit us up", giggling like a two year old on nitrous oxide all the while.
Skip forward a few hours, it's 2am, the club is closed, and I'm just about to get a lift home with the head of security (who, contrary to stereotype, was a bloody nice bloke).
We get in his land rover, shake off the drizzle, buckle up, he flicks on the wipers and...
...shit is lovingly, tenderly smeared over his windscreen, subtly filtered so that the lumpiest bits are clinging to the wipers and the smoother, more refined discharge is spread over the whole windscreen.
No prizes for guessing who was responsible.
No prizes either for guessing what happened to laughing boy the next time he came in. I've not seen a head flushed down a toilet since junior school...
On my very first shift I was informed that there was a mess in the gents that needed clearing. I had a nose around but couldn't find anything, and was just about to leave when it caught my eye.
An 18 inch steamy behemoth in the urinal trough.
Now, it wasn't the fact that someone had gotten their todger and their arse the wrong way around (I've seen it several time since, only now I have minions to deal with things like that). It was the fact that it was in a perfect straight line. Whoever had done it must've shimmied along as they strained their bowels, holding up the queue of wannabe pissers while he created his masterpiece. Sir, whoever you are: I salute you.
Somewhat inadvisably, there was a brief time when Friday evenings played host to a childrens disco. They were well behaved little shits, mostly, and we used to enjoy selling cans of 7up and packets of space raiders to them.
One night a little girl (who looked disturbingly like a ladybird) came up and said that her 7up tasted funny, so we replaced it for her and then investigated the contents of the can. It was slightly brown, and slightly sour.
Me and my fellow barmaid looked at each other and the same thought went through our minds: there would be no way of detecting the change of taste or colour if it was in alcohol. This little girl's been spiked.
I wandered around the room staring intently at the other kids, feeling like an unsubtle Gary Glitter impersonator, but to no avail. After about half an hour I checked in the gents and found six empty laxative packets. Six!
One of the little shitrags had been spiking the other kids with laxatives! We had a hurried chat with the manager and closed early that night to save our toiletsfrom the inevitable splattering. I still wonder if there was a reported outbreak of diarrhoea that week...
How do girls manage to break so many toilet seats? I mean, honestly ladies, it seemed like at least once a fortnight I'd have a nose around and find one hanging off it's hinges.
I had about ten minutes to replace this particular toilet seat before we opened, so I dig a new seat out of the store cupboard, squat in front of the bowl, and set to work, reaching around to unscrew the wingnuts.
Trying to distract myself from the brown-streaked porcelain drop-off point mere inches from my face, I look away and hum a little tune.
*Humming a little tune, humming a little tune, (squeak, squeak, go the wingnuts) humming a little t-
humming a...
humming a little...*

My fingers are covered in shit.
My fingers are covered in shit!
Some filthy, spiteful bint had deliberately smeared her own feces (hopefully her own feces) under the toilet seat, all over the wingnuts, right where you can't see it, right where someone's poor unprotected fingers are going to blindly probe the next time the toilet seat needs replacing.
I can think of no reason for there to be excrement on the underside of a toilet, other than the attempted spread of disease and unhappiness.
Again, another quiet night, and again, poo related carnage. Someone had presumably eaten something that disagreed with them because when the toilets were checked at the end of the night one particular cubical resembled a bowel-themed armageddon. I can understand someone not making it in time, but this seriously looked like someone had attempted to eat a prune and castor oil curry before trying out some Micheal Jackson style body popping.
There was runny, grainy pebbledashing to a height of 3 feet, with a 180 degree spread centered on the toilet, and for comedy value, there were two foot-shaped spaces on the floor that were clean and untouched where his feet had taken the brunt of the battering.
Thankfully I had the night off, so I stood back and pissed myself while my manager and assistant manager donned latex gloves and retched and gipped for 20 minutes...
And so we reach the pièce de résistance. The middle of summer, stupidly busy, the end of the night, and a toilet that smells worse that Satan's own starfish. The reason? A mountain of rectal produce that reached so high it left the bowl.
It took me and Jemma (in the unlikely event that you're reading this, I still owe you a pint for your help) about 20 minutes of tag teaming to clear it up.
We compared notes after, and, judging by the strata left by the various deviants and misfits, the events unrolled something like this:
Some funny, intelligent willy dribble thought that it'd be hilarious to push their empty beer can down the bog as far as they could. Fair enough. However, someone else later came along with the urge to evacuate their bowels, and they did so on top of the can.
Obviously it wouldn't flush, so they covered it with loo roll and wandered off. Unfortunately another like-minded individual arrived later and did likewise, leading to a properly clogged loo.
So far, so normal. At around this point someone with a weak stomach entered, and decided that the sight of two friendly turds nestling side-by-side in the same bowl was too much for their delicate stomach to take, and they proceeded to yark on top of them.
By now the mountain of bodily fluids had nearly reached the top of the bowl, so obviously one dumb shitstain, in their infinite wisdom, decided to add to it. God knows how they achieved it, but achieve it they did.
When I confronted the hideous monstrosity the top was a good three inches clear of the bowl. He must've stood up as he deposited his final food baby, or else it would've been gently brushing his nipsy like a caring mother removing smudges from her grubby offspring's face...
I had to cover my arm in a bin bag and remove handfuls of damp shit from the bowl to another bag Jemma was holding, with two or three vomit breaks. Not something I'd like to experience again soon.

No apologies for length. The one in the urinal was probably longer, anyway.
(, Tue 7 Feb 2012, 14:21, 10 replies)
Yay and woo.

(, Tue 7 Feb 2012, 15:16, closed)
shit story bro

(, Tue 7 Feb 2012, 15:37, closed)

(, Tue 7 Feb 2012, 15:45, closed)
Number 7 is too much number 2.
But I like!
(, Tue 7 Feb 2012, 15:54, closed)
I can assure you, from the bottom of my heart,
that number 7 was nothing like number 2.
Number 2 was just a runny beer poo in the well that houses the wipers on a car, whereas number 7 was enough shit and shit-related detritus to fill two large buckets. As was pointed out last time I posted this, it resembled a fecal lasagne.
(, Tue 7 Feb 2012, 16:18, closed)
sorry, I meant too much " number 2 ", as in too much shit rather than relating to your story #2.

Good on you for doing the arm in a bag thing, they usually leak.
(, Tue 7 Feb 2012, 16:27, closed)
Ah. I guess I should learn to read at some point, huh?
<Cleans grime from eyes>
(, Wed 8 Feb 2012, 0:35, closed)

bottom heart
heart bottom
(, Tue 7 Feb 2012, 16:38, closed)
"From the very heart of my bottom"
I'm going to have to steal that.
(, Wed 8 Feb 2012, 0:36, closed)
A thouroughly scatalogical memoire

*click* for you
(, Wed 8 Feb 2012, 16:28, closed)

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