Evil Mangoes
I have been debating if to add this story. It represents an evil for sure (I am not sure of its randomness). However, it revolves around B3TA to such a degree that I feel compelled to share, even though I would ask you to keep in mind throughout, that it is a memory of extreme physical and moral anguish for me. It is my very own "KAAAAHN!!!" moment

I am in training for the London Marathon. My particular training plan involves waking up at 6 , four times a week and running anything between 5 and 13 miles. Two days ago I was due for an 8 miler

The afternoon before I was popping into the local chemist to simply get new razor blades. Now, to explain my next action, you must know that I am a (idiotic kind of) person who occasionally resolves to get the satisfaction from having a well stocked cabinet of any kind. You know that smug feeling of gazing at a full spice rack, or opening the 'big' cupboard in your kitchen and seeing tins of tomatoes, coconut milk, pasta, etc giving myself the impression that I am a connoisseur of life, ready to whip up a delicious meal & martinis in just a few minutes because some incredibly fashionable friends have popped by (This has NEVER happened, just saying). Well, I got that stupid desire whilst in the chemist and ended up buying bathroom tissues, bandaids, vitamin pills, hand lotion (with aloe vera of course) etc etc and a selection of OTC drugs like aspirin, milk of magnesia and (critical to the plot), pills for constipation called DULCOLAX

At home, whilst putting everything away, I was surprised at how small the pills were, then wondered what they tasted like, and absent mindedly popped one in my mouth. Didn't taste of anything, so I just swallowed

The B3TA element begins a few hours later. I am crashed out on my sofa after dinner and watch the first of 'Whats in Spock's scanner' by BLACKMOONSTUDIOS on youtube (if you haven't seen it, watch all three episodes... brilliant stuff). Chortling to myself and feeling pretty good about life, I felt like dessert and went round the corner to the local immigrant shop that sells everything. Keeping in mind that I wanted to be 'marathon healthy', I asked what they had that was not so bad for you and the shop keeper pipped up that he had a special offer on mangoes. COMPLETELY forgetting about the laxative pill lurking in my system, I ate 4 of them (buy 3 get one free) whilst watching episodes 2&3

Next morning, wake up at 6am, do a number 1 (number 2? no, doesn't work, too early), down a glass of water, get into my running gear and I am out the door with my iPod playing 80's hits & Gerry Anderson soundtracks (I find listening to Thunderbirds, complete with the countdown, does wonders for my pace). The 8 mile route is on a running/walking track that goes around a lake, and I'm jogging along with other runners all enjoying the morning air.

I must have done about three miles when I began to notice a heaviness around the lower stomach area...'Bit odd' I think and try and ignore it...doesn't go away.... 4 miles (and this route is a straight out & back) I stop and realise to my horror (and I mean I was standing there open mouthed), that the mangoes are wanting to make a very urgent reappearance, egged on by their evil partner in crime, the Dulcolax tablet

I had absolutely zero idea what to do. My first thought was from the story 'my left foot' by Pooflake (QOTW: "I should have been arrested"..also highly recommended) and looked around for a bush... no cover at all, and there are runners and early morning dog walkers every where

The panic in me released enough adrenaline that now my anus was at the absolutely edge of exploding, Krakatoa style, into my tight running leggings. I stood with both legs together, my arms rigid at my side and I gritted my teeth and focused my entire psyche on that one crucial muscle, the anal sphincter. The waves passed and I opened my eyes and gasped for air. Several runners ran passed me with mild looks of concern on their face

I still had no idea what to do. Do I run back ? (perhaps making it worse, but getting to a toilet quicker). Walk back? (longer), what?

I decided to jog back slowly and now my memory threw at me every poo story in B3TA that I have read and laughed at. Was this helpful? Please tell me something useful. As I jogged passed a bin, I thought of the scene from Bridesmaids (no, not useful). Every-time I could feel an attack coming on. I would again stand completely still & rigid and clench like my life depended on it. The effort was so grim, that several times I had my face to the sky, giving out a deep groan from deep within my soul. The same runners who by this time were lapping me assumed that I was bravely fighting some painfully pulled muscle and heard quite a few "Keep going mate", "Well done mate" as I stood there

The return home took me about 40 minutes of alternate jogging and stopping/clenching. The worst part was the last 100m... I walked very slowly trying to remain calm, deep breathing (in through the nose, out through the mouth) not wanting to panic and massacre my front door or pavement (never mind moving, I would have immigrated if that had happened)

But the last ten seconds had me opening both the apartment door and dropping my leggings simultaneously and throwing my body backwards onto an open toilet

Dear reader, the relief was orgasmic.

I end this story by posing deep questions about good & evil, Boethius like. Can anyone answer them? Alain de Botton? Brian Cox?

What is it about being a B3TA person that makes you consume drugs absent mindedly, completely forget about them and then get yourself into 'situations'?

Why does you poo-hole give you the feeling it will explode, only to go away, and again come back?

Why does that pressure build up to an intolerable degree even though you are 2 (crucial) seconds and 5 (critical) metres away from the bog?

Anyway, as I sat on the toilet in a 'post-coital' bliss, I did look on the bright side of the experience. It was training of sorts for the marathon. Now, I know I CAN keep going between porta loos, no problemo
(sabre32, Thu 23 Feb 2012, 10:30, 19 replies)

"Chutney"

(leviticus no longer likes the cut of your gib on, Thu 23 Feb 2012, 10:42, closed)

Emigrate, not immigrate.
Good story, but it'd fit this week's theme better if you were unrepentantly boasting about how you'd fed laxative-laced mangoes to an unsuspecting friend.

Also, whilst in hospital (post-stroke), my dad didn't poo for a few days. When he finally did, he declared to the nice nurse that wheeled him in, that a good poo was better than sex. Said nurse looked at him like he was an idiot. I think he'd be pleased to know that he's not the only one to feel "post-coital" after shitting!
( monster munch person, man, woman... camera... TV?, Thu 23 Feb 2012, 10:44, closed)

i didnt read it but i am going to call you a cunt anyway
( enoughblueskyforsailorstrousers, Thu 23 Feb 2012, 10:45, closed)

i clicked to make up for it
( enoughblueskyforsailorstrousers, Thu 23 Feb 2012, 10:52, closed)

It's oddly reassuring...

To discover that there are others who suffer from similar cack-canyon catastrophes.

Well done, my 'brother-from-another-mother'.

And I know only two well about the perils of laxatives...

www.b3ta.com/questions/unfinishedbusiness/post767227

*shudders*
( Pooflake braces for an onslaught..., Thu 23 Feb 2012, 10:52, closed)

i can't wait for the day you run out of arse-related euphemisms.

( janet aylia y'all motherfuckers need jesus, Thu 23 Feb 2012, 10:55, closed)

I'm afraid I'm on a mission...

To continue until I shit out another you.

EDIT. I'm sorry, I don't usually 'bite' to trolling. You are entitled to your opinion.
( Pooflake braces for an onslaught..., Thu 23 Feb 2012, 11:02, closed)

I can't wait for the day
when Janet does us all a favour and fucks off.
(King Nightmare, Thu 23 Feb 2012, 11:07, closed)

oh man, the BURN.

( janet aylia y'all motherfuckers need jesus, Thu 23 Feb 2012, 11:16, closed)

I don't see how
you'll ever recover from this.
( monster munch person, man, woman... camera... TV?, Thu 23 Feb 2012, 11:26, closed)

i'm going to have to leave the internet FOREVER.

( janet aylia y'all motherfuckers need jesus, Thu 23 Feb 2012, 11:32, closed)

Fucking Result!

( The Mock Turtle ™ --- Thinks you are a cunt, on, Thu 23 Feb 2012, 12:11, closed)

Informative and amusing
Have an 8/10 and a click.

Oh, and I suspect the 'pressure buildup' near the bog is due to the fact that we're (pretty much) all potty-trained. That is, we've been told its wrong to poo anywhere but a toilet (QOTWers excluded). That means, Pavlov-style, our bodies have come to associate the impending sight of toilet as a message to open the bomb-bay doors, as it were. So the closer you get to the bog, the more ready your guts get ready for evacuation.

Either that, or its one of those 'always find a lost item in the last place you look'-type things.

*shrug*
(SimianKid internet faffer, Thu 23 Feb 2012, 10:57, closed)

deep
*strokes chin*
(Monkeystrumpet monkey. Monkey, MONKEY!!!, Thu 23 Feb 2012, 11:15, closed)

*strokes monkey*
(SimianKid internet faffer, Thu 23 Feb 2012, 11:26, closed)

I can't help but feel
that the mangoes are being unjustly victimised in this story.

Have a click anyway.
( .Yeti. El amor en los tiempos del cólera, Thu 23 Feb 2012, 11:25, closed)

I smiled at 'orgasmic', so have a click :)

( drimble he'd been white, he'd been black, Thu 23 Feb 2012, 11:34, closed)

I had a similar experience
but no laxitive involved - it hit at the far side of a four mile circuit round York racecourse. I think I lost a couple of pounds in gut/anus clenching during that painful, sweaty limp-jog home.

Not enough random evil though!
(Che Grimsdale Best before:, Thu 23 Feb 2012, 11:55, closed)

How I pulled due to massive fruit-induced arse explosion
<pearoast>

This happened to me while I was attempting to charm my way into a young lady's knickers. In the middle of my suave, sophisticated conversation, I suddenly felt the unmistakable spasm of an imminent total-evacuation bottom event of truly porcelain-shattering proportions. So, in the middle of a sentence, I suddenly leapt up and headed for the door, calling over my shoulder that sorry, I had to leave.

Luckily it was only about five minutes to my house - though they were five of the longest, arse-clenchingly painful minutes I can remember, and were followed by several hours I'd rather forget.

The next day the young lady in question turned up at my door, curious to see why I'd bolted so suddenly. By which time I had recovered, thankfully; I may have been left somewhat pale and interesting, and even a little slimmer, after my ordeal of the previous day. And the rest, as they say, is biology.

tl;dr: I shat myself into bed with a laydee, but in a good way

</pearoast>
(moon monkey is busy making memories worth repressing, Thu 23 Feb 2012, 12:10, closed)