Peanuts - scourge of the anus!
My mum once bought me a big bag of salted peanuts, half a kilo in weight. As a 20 year old I thought nothing of eating the entire bag in one sitting and this is something I'll never do again. A few hours later I'm doubled over in horrendous stomach pains such as I've never experienced before, and then I my body tells me that I need to visit the toilet - NOW.

So what d'you expect came out? A nobbly Snickers-style turd? Nope, I literally pissed a clear liquid out of my arse. I have no idea how 500g of salted peanuts cause this, but I swear I pissed a watery liquid from my arsehole with no bits of nuts in it at all. Didn't feel right for the rest of the day, either.
(DrDerekDoctors, Sun 30 Mar 2008, 12:00, 1 reply)

At a big party a couple of years ago,
abot 6 of us shat in our mate's blender.

then poured it on our mate's face while he was asleep.
(Brownpants From Liverpool to Manila, Sun 30 Mar 2008, 11:55, 4 replies)

Days of Thunder....
The worst few nights (and days) of turd-filled tummy rumbling ever, was encountered while backpacking round South East asia on my own. It went a little like this...

I had made my way down the east coast of Vietnam and found myself in Hoi An, a small village with not much to do but get clothes made and drink beer.
My first night in the place, I splashed out and got a lovely 5 course meal followed by several cold pints of lovely Tiger beer (which they serve on tap over there with specially chilled glasses *sigh*).
Unfortunately their food hygiene standards weren't quite up to the same standard as the UK, so later on in the middle of the night I was awoken my what felt like someone poking me in the guts with a sharp stick. I got up to the toilet, and it there it was again. a sharp stabbing pain in my guts.
I squished the cockroach that was scurrying round the bathroom floor, and jumped onto the toilet where my guts suddenly collapsed and I let out a humungous fart/shit combo followed by several more in succession.
The toilet bowl unfortunately acted like a megaphone, and as there was no Air-con, all of my windows and doors to the balcony were open - which meant that everyone in a half mile radius must have had, literally, almighty rude awakening. The worst part followed; the smell. Oh my god. It was like raw sewage. Not just any old turd now either, the air was thick with it.
This was accompaied with some real ill effects and sweats/aches/pains but I thought I was hard so I just assumed it would get better.

The next day I thought the best thing wouuld be rehydrate and get myself sorted out with fruit for brekkie, followed by local soup. I was later to find that this was the wirst thing I should do.
2 days passed, with no sign of recovery, so I thought I'd grin and bear it and go somewhere with a bit more nightlife to it. I popped a load of immodium to bung myself up, bought my ticket and went on what I can only describe as the worst bus trip of my entire life.

I thought an overnight 12 hour bus trip wouldn't be bad, you know, catch 40 winks and get there in the morning - but unknown to me, the main roads on the north east are more like ploughed fields, so it was absolute living hell, with me clenching my ass cheeks together as the bus bumped around and rocked violently from side to side all fucking night!
I kept letting out little farts, which smelt exactly the same as my megaphone turds the night before, so it was lucky that most of the people surrounding my were somehow asleep.
We stopped at a fuel pump with some toilets (it wasn't really a petrol station, but literally, a fuel pump with some toilets) and had to evacuate my bowels. The problem was, they were traditional Vietnamese "squat" toilets, which were back to back with big gaps just above head height - more or less open air.
I knew that if I went, it was gonna be loud and rancid, so I waited till everyone had been, then ran over for a shit.

NOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!!!! I screamed in my head as I saw one tiny shredded sheet of toilet paper left in the "cubilcle". I was a a ticking timebomb, I had to run to the bus open the side panels, rummage through my backpack and sacrifice a pair of socks to wipe my sorry ass with before exploding everywhere. It was expecedly load and honkin.

All I could wish for was that the 12 hours was up, but the torrential overnight rain had collapsed a bridge half an hour from our final destination, meaning we arrived 4 hours later than expexted. By this point my ass cheeks were so sore from clenching, I could barely sit on the rock hard leather seat.

After necking sevreal immodium again, I felt a bit better in the morning, and I thought that to celebrate my assumed recovery I would treat myself to a nice big Curry and a few pints! Wahay!
I've no idea what brought about this moment of insanity, as I'm sure you can guess what's coming next...

Yep, I hadn't recovered AT ALL and about an hour later, I had to leave the people I'd met and seek sanctuary in my new hotel toilet. This time the cold sweats and load stinking shitty-farts were accompanied by the aroma of shitty curry. Dear god, it was absolutely rank. At least a third of the night was spend hung over the bog, with turds that were akin to filling a shotgun with mud - the entire bowl was pebble dashed! Worse still, the extractor fan blew my stench into the hotel corridor!

Well, it turns out that after a doctors appointment that it wasn't travellers diarrhea, I'd contracted Amoebic Dysentery, which is not only a mingin disease caused by exposure to infected water, it can also kill you. Which is nice.
I had to get a big bloody syringe in my ass 2 days running and a host of 6 types of pills, various and powders to get me well again.

There is no real moral to this story, only "go straight to the doctors if you get ill while travelling". You'll soon regret it if you don't!!
(FroIain, Sun 30 Mar 2008, 11:36, Reply)

Piles of Shite
So technically not mine but my friends, although I bore witness to the beginning. Anyway, a few mates had scored a house in inner Melbourne, one of those old joints with an antique outhouse. So bathroom fun took place far away from the living area. My mates were the typical 18yr old home leavers, dirty, drugged and not caring too much about hygeine. So it happens that after a huge turd in the crumbling toilet, it blocks, and said depositor thinks that a few drunken pisses will break up the dreadnought and hence make the faecal problem wash away. But no, the shite was of such thickness it refused to budge and so the 4 mates continued their daily offerings knowing full well that the ever growing, and stinking pile in their loo was getting out of control. Fast forward a week or two and the guys are getting nervous, the rim of the bowl has been breached and a cone of waste is peeking out from the armitage shanks like some degenerate trophy. So instead of rectifying the situation the boys take to shitting into plastic shopping bags in their room and then depositing them in the bin. Apparently cleaning wasn't an option. Fast forward another couple of weeks and some friends dropped in to do a bit of acid and drink. one went to ask for the bathroom and was met with furtive, nervous glances and a nod when the outdoor commode was mentioned. Cut to a drunk, tripping bogan/chav being presented with a rancid pile of shit & piss over reaching the rim of the seat, henceforth it was decorated with an icing of spew and written down in the history books of the lowest point of bachelor living. A few days later the plumber was called in and took one look at said foulness and told the occupants, clear that fuckin mess out of there and I will consider it. So a couple of shovels and a very smelly garbage night ensued and the poo factory was no more.... Hate to be the bin men that day.
(neighbour of the beast 668 has watched you in secret on, Sun 30 Mar 2008, 10:53, Reply)

i am a bashful person
which is also why this post wont be about actual poo

as i mentioned, i am very bashful. so when i went to visit my exboyfriend, i did not let him stay in the room when i used the en suite bathroom as the wall of the en suite was a thin strip of plastic and might as well have not been there, soundproof-wise.

i also couldnt stay in the room when he went to the loo. so i wasnt aimlessly milling around the halls of his accommodation, he sent me on an errand to pick up a menu from his friend on the far side of the building.

i proceeded to get lost in the labyrinth of corridors and turned up twenty minutes later at the right door.

his friend was surprised to find me outside his door. later, when we were all sat at a bar he gave the ex an earful about sending me to get the menu when i didnt know my way around. we didn't explain.
(ladyintheradiator, Sun 30 Mar 2008, 10:48, Reply)

This is how childish I am....
At the moment due to the qotw, evertime I LOG OUT of B3ta I have to giggle.

LOG OUT, get it heh!
( girlinthehole, Sun 30 Mar 2008, 10:18, 1 reply)

Firebreathing
I've been known to indulge in the odd spot of firebreathing now and again. It brings out the exhibitionist in me. And, to firebreath, you need a fuel and my fuel of choice is paraffin (kerosene for you Septics).

Now paraffin tastes fucking awful - which is why I don't firebreath that often - but it also has another major drawback. It's the finest laxative known to man. If you swallow some, it coats the intestine with a thin film of oil which doesn't allow any liquid to be absorbed. This means that everything you eat and drink only has one exit - through the starfish.

So, during one show, I coughed and swallowed a mouthful. Tasted disgusting but I thought no more about it. That is until about four hours later when it's secondary effect made itself felt. So off I trotted to the bog and assumed the position.

It was like an upside down chocolate fountain. As I'd been on the piss after the show, the several pints of beer took the unorthodox exit closely accompanied by a kebab. And if that wasn't bad enough the whole ensemble was followed by the stench of paraffin mixed with poo. Just trust me on this one that it's not a good smell.

Business over I headed back to bed. I must have made about ten steps away from the throne when another convulsion in my guts stopped me dead in my tracks and into reverse back to the porcelain. And there I stayed for the next 24 hours.

The tedium was relived by my GF bring me books and the occasional cup of tea and, I was forced out a couple of times while the GF dropped a load off, but I didn't dare stray far and was soon back on the pot.

Still, it did teach me not to swallow when next I did a show.

And that leads me into the next bit of this tale.

A while after this incident I was doing a show outside a pub. The paraffin was in an old wine bottle and I was swigging this and belching flames into the cold November sky. Things were going well when a drunk staggered up to me and said in a thick Geordie accent:

"What's that yer drinkin'?"

"Paraffin mate - you wouldn't like it" I said

"'Gis a drink" slurred drunk

"It's paraffin mate. It really wouldn't do you much good.."

"Awww - gan on. Giz a swig"

Well I did try to warn him.

So drunk took the bottle from me and took a hefty swig. He swallowed three or four *big* mouthfuls and then handed me the bottle back.

"Man - that's fucking awful!" he drooled and off he staggered into the night.

I'd love to know how he spent the next few days. His arse would have looked like a blood orange.


Cheers
( Legless Mister Stabby - shanks for the memory, Sun 30 Mar 2008, 8:44, 4 replies)

EDUCATIONAL WHITE POO!
I was 8. Invited to my friends birthday party, and must of eaten something that didnt agree with my stomach.
Next day a beomoth of a white snake flowed from my bottom, as is the only time i produced white poo.
Mum took me to the doctors and I learned the proper word for poo was pheasis..
Educational poo is !
(The_artist_formally_known_as_alz0r, Sun 30 Mar 2008, 6:40, 8 replies)

unflushables
There are many mentions of huge unflushable logs this week but I've not seen anyone mention the foolproof way of getting rid of them. If it's in a public toilet, just walk away, let the professionals (the cleaners) sort it out, they handle that sort of stuff all the time and don't need the extra problem of some numpty blocking the loo by pelting the turd with bog roll in their panic/embarassment. However, if you're at home, put the kettle on, wait for it to boil, then pour the water down the pan over the offending monster. The various fats will melt and other bits dissolve, leaving you with an easily flushable slurry.
( SteamedCleaner, Sun 30 Mar 2008, 5:53, 6 replies)

not sure if this counts
but it does involve my ass and it just happened so i'm going to post it anyway.

i've just got in from a night out and i've stripped off the clubbing gear and am standing starkers in the bathroom taking off jewellery and makeup. except that i've put my illegally high and painful red heels back on because the floor is cold. this is the first bit of background.

the second is that i have NO idea how to work my shiny new central heating system. it has one of those digital thermostats and it's so far above my girly head that the heating comes on and switches off at whatever time and temperature it likes.

so, being mildly drunk and a complete fumbling twat, i manage to drop the butterfly back of my earring. it bounces over near the door. i scramble after it - i'm always losing the damn things - and bend down to retrieve it. but as i do so, the skyscraper heels throw me off balance and i stagger backwards. and accidentally sit on the heated towel rail above the radiator. with my bare ass.

i didn't sit on it for more than about 0.5 seconds. the pain is indescribable! now, i can't see my own bum from here, but i'm pretty sure that it's a very colourful sight.

and that would have been the end of the matter, except that, after much hopping around and cursing, i resumed taking off the makeup. i wadded up the 3 in 1 cleansing wipe and threw it at the bin, which is next to the radiator. again, being a girly girl who throws like a girl, i missed. walked across the room, bent down to retrieve it, with my front to the towel rail this time....

well, i can see my own boobs from here, and the right one has a big red stripe across it.

it is not a good look. anybody got any aloe vera??
( rachelswipe with a fork, Sun 30 Mar 2008, 5:40, 13 replies)

caught short.
doesnt warrant a topic of its own i ran out of bog roll today but only realised after id dropped off a nice creamy willy wonka chocolate waterfall. had to use an old pillow case to wipe my arse!

whats the worst/most humiliating thing you've had to wipe your but hole with?
(babyjak, Sun 30 Mar 2008, 5:31, 3 replies)

A True "Shit Story"
My Niece has just been in a singing contest in Nashville, Tennessee. It's called "Can You Duet" for those of you that get CMT (Country Music Television). Anyway, I am not a great 'travel shitter' and have, at least as far as I know, the record at The Citadel for longest period without a dookie: 14 days. (Freshman year there is a terrifying experience and you dont eat much, so I guess its not that big a deal)

So I dont like dropping the kids off at the pool in strange, untidy bathrooms. So with travelling, this was the case. I have made three trips to Nashville (from Maryland, about a 13 hour drive) in the past three weeks (thank God the contest is over now). So the last trip, I was doing my best to not drop the duece and finally, I had to give in. Fortunately the Gaylord Opryland Hotel (its REAL name) has great bathrooms.

So I dropped a dook and the thing was MASSIVE. I mean, it looked quite like a teenage anaconda popping its head above the waterline to see if anything worth eating was about.

So I text message my buddy a photograph I took of it and he replied "Looks to be about 6 Kourics!" When I got home from the trip, on my front doorstep was a small trophy with a note that said "Congratulations! You beat me by a Kouric!, Yeah Yeah Yeah Yeah! Love Bono."

I really need to look into finding some new friends.

Cheers!

PS(For those of you that dont get it, it's a Soutpark reference. Sorry. And honestly, its not THAT funny, so this is two craps in one story!)
( Citadel Because the world needs less morons, Sun 30 Mar 2008, 4:36, 3 replies)

recent
today i have told six people about my wee poo. its too liquidy to be called a turd. its my anus waterfall. it feels quite soothing as it happens actually, a bit like when you get your ear syringed. i hope i get it tommorow as well. *fingers crossed*.
(bernards bitch don't want to be known for a oneliner, Sun 30 Mar 2008, 4:11, Reply)

Big poo
I always remember as as a kid, about eight, I was staying round my auntie Janets. My aunt started having a go at my uncle about a giant shit he'd done that wouldn't flush away. She ended up having to use a fork to chop it up so she could get rid of it. I never would use a fork round hers again. Found out later that it was my younger brother who'd dropped it. He must have an arse the size of the Dartford tunnel.

Sorry for any length but I'm out of me nut.:)
(Tronn206, Sun 30 Mar 2008, 3:37, Reply)

Carpet poo
My niece did a massive poo while my mum was trying to change her nappy on the living room floor. It was kinda like one of those play-doh fun factory machine things, but with poo. It kept going for ages. She seamed very happy with her creation. I had to run from the room before I died from retching.
( P3te "the Meat", Sat 29 Mar 2008, 22:51, Reply)

Regular service?
Fuck 'regular service'! How about decent QOTWs?

How the hell are we supposed to successfully procrastinate at work if the b3ta QOTW becomes a factory of deja-vu and cringe-worthy puns?

I think I speak for a majority when I say I've had enough of this rehashing bullshit. I invite everyone to post a QOTW response to any suggestion posted here:
www.b3ta.com/questions/questionsyoudliketoask/

There are loads of decent questions there! How about for a start,
Revelations
What was your biggest revelation, when did you decide to dramatically change your life and why?
As suggested by Pointless.

See? Not done before, and actually has a chance of producing some decent cocking answers!
(tarbin tarbis, tarbit, tarbamus, tarbimus, tarbant, Sat 29 Mar 2008, 20:48, 2 replies)

Singed rings
I was an apprentice at Furness ship yard in Haverton Hill.

The crappers, under #2 launching slipway, consisted of an inclined trough with constant running water, and individual booths to squat in.

A favourite trick of the apprentices was to get in to the cubicle at the top of the sluice, bundle up some news paper, set it alight and send it along the trough.

This resulted in a Mexican wave of squatters, strong language, usually about the instigators parentage and steel toed boots up the arse (if the instigator didn't scarper fast enough).

This was decades before Beckhams golden balls and ring piece received a Brazilian.

Happy days.
(alanrbnsn, Sat 29 Mar 2008, 19:52, 1 reply)

Talking of pooing while fishing
Some lakes have floating restrooms - believe it or not they're actually really clean and it stops you pissing off the side of the boat.


( Batshitmentalist is sane for once, Sat 29 Mar 2008, 18:44, 1 reply)

Poo etiquette
The lake I mainly fish at has the tackle shop, some showers (for the camping people) and some normal toilets.
Out on the lake itself is a different matter - it's porta-potty time! When you've got a couple of lines in the water, and you're having an epic day slaying the trouts, the last thing you want to do is leave your poles and drive to the regular bathrooms so you have 2 choices - hold it in, or use the porta-potty.

The things are fucking disgusting. I went in one once for a nice wee after consuming many cans of beers only to be greeted with a steaming, 6" log laying on the seat, baking in the heat of the California sun.
( Batshitmentalist is sane for once, Sat 29 Mar 2008, 18:41, Reply)

Thank fuck for Gillian Mckeith...
If your having trouble pooing, lift your knees as high as you can while on the loo or put a small stool, (the type you sit on and not the type that comes out of your arse), in front of the loo and put your feet ontop. This action opens up the back passage to it's full extent and thus aids in expelling the excrement.

It works!
( girlinthehole, Sat 29 Mar 2008, 17:44, 7 replies)

Remembering my epic trouser-trumpet
has brought to mind another tale from my days in the sweet factory (a small family run one, but they sell to all the major scottish tourist resorts.... if you visited any historical sites in scotland around ten years ago, you might have eaten some of my handiwork..... fear not, I was hygeinic, even if the penny pinching bastards who owned the place were not.... but I digress)

The owner of the factory obviously had a very rich diet. There were, in total, 4 men (well, 3 men and a scrawny little me) who worked in the factory.... me, the handyman/dogsbody person, the factory owner and the manager, his son. So although it took a few weeks of staring at each other and looking disgusted, we soon figured out that it was the factory owner who produced an absolutely ungodly reek in the gents toilets on occasion. I have never smelt anything like it before or since, the man produced an odour satan himself would have boaked at.

It was fortunate for me that where I worked was at the other end of the factory to the toilets, as the stench he created regularly made it's way through 2 thick wooden doors and permeated at least helfway down the factory.... and this was a sweet factory... the air was thick with the smell of cooking fudge. Yet you could still smell it. The poor ladies who worked on the twist wrapping machines were stood a mere ten feet from the door of the gents and regularly got gassed.

It so happens, one of these ladies was a particularly attractive young thing. 2 years older than me, she was absolutley gorgeous.... long blonde hair, green eyes, amazing figure. I shall call her "E", as this is her initial. She was going out with the factory manager and I was engaged (and not the sort to cheat, poor fool that I am), and even so theres no way she would have been interested in a scrawny little runt like I was back then, but she knew I was in awe of her and it sort of made us quite good friends. We would have a great laugh at tea times, she would regularly stun me with her figure during summertime to the amusement of our other workmates (I once choked on a sandwich when she appeared in a crop top and cut off denim shorts in the tea room) and we got on very well. (I'm digressing aren't I.... she really was quite something)

So, when the factory owner had gone on one of his frequent holidays, the talk between us turned to his toilet habits. She was relieved to know he wouldn't be giving her his daily gassing, and we all had a great laugh about how vile he was.

Two weeks passed.

The nature of my job meant I had to take my breaks according to the stuff I was making..... I could have a break between boils or during a stirring period when no heat was being applied to the mix. This meant I often had to take my break alone too, which was rubbish. One day, after one such break, I returned to the factory floor and made my way to the clock next to the twist wrappers to clock back in. It hit me in the face like a frying pan. I was barely halfway to the clock and I swear he must not have shat for the whole two weeks. As I gagged, I looked up and saw, through the tears, E turning towards me with an insane grin on her face.

"He's BAAAAAAAACK"
( baw__bag contains traces of nuts on, Sat 29 Mar 2008, 17:09, 2 replies)

As a young chap
before going to college, and at the time of the whooping cough I had, I worked in a confectionary factory. Fortunately for me, I was taken on as the sugar boilerer, the guy who makes the sweets, and therefore dodged the life long tag of "fudge-packer", but there were drawbacks to this. Once fully trained, I spent the vast majority of my time alone, staring at a large steam powered pot. Not fun at all. I also had to time any trip to the toilet around making the fudge/macaroon/tablet, as obviously I could not leave the boiler unattended. So, as you would imagine, a bout of terrible guts was not particularly pleasant during that period of my life.

I had held it in all day. The whole of the previous night had been taken up with sitting on the pan as most of the liquid in my body made it's way back into the wild, and I knew the slightest release of pressure would result in slightly more than fudge being smeared on my whites. I started work at 7:30, and by the time it reached one o'clock, I was in agony... it hadn't seemed so bad during my first break so I had opted to spend it talking to the others in the tea room rather than straining at the pot. After we had poured the fudge (and I was well aware of the comedy connotations of that) and before clocking off for my break, I sprinted to the toilets, which were situated at the head of the factory, next to the twist-wrapping machines. In those days, we were not obliged to remove our protective clothes before going to the shitter..... I don't eat many sweets. Anyway, I hurriedly got the trousers down, threw mself on to the toilet and braced myself.

*paaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa.....*

A high pitched, completely dry fart emerged from between the pursed nippers of my ring. It went on.

*aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa*

It had been going for around 20 seconds, in all honesty, before I began to snigger.

*aaaaaaaaaaaaa-a-a-a-a-a-a-a-a*

The sound of this made me laugh even more, which made the force and pitch of this vast pocket of bum gas increase until it sounded like some insane midget laughing.

*a-a-a-a-a-a-a-a-a-a-a-aaaaaaarrrrrppth*

There were tears running down my face, the whole fart had lasted almost an entire minute. Not a spot of poo poo had emerged, but I felt a whole lot better.

Although the majority of the other factory workers were middle aged women, I still felt the need to relay the story when I emerged a few minutes later....
( baw__bag contains traces of nuts on, Sat 29 Mar 2008, 16:40, 2 replies)

places I've pooed
I'm a lucky girl. When I was in sixth form, my school (a rather nice one in Guildford) decided to raise the stakes for school-trip one-upmanship and take a few of us to Tibet for sight-seeing, hiking and fun.

Current affairs side-track: I've *seen* how Tibetans live. When people say the Chinese are nice to them and we should all leave them to it, they can fuck right off. Destroyed monastaries litter the country-side and the people live in absolute oppression. It's dreadful.

back to the point....

This trip afforded some amazing toilet experiences. So much so, that at the presentation we did on our return, I was made to speak for 15 minutes about the different lavs we'd seen, and attempted to use.

My favourite by far, was the al-fresco shitting.

In remote parts of Tibet, they don't exactly have access to sewage systems. They have to find alternatives. There are advantages to their locale though. The high altitude means flys are rare and the air is dry. Perfect conditions for storing poo. So that's what they do.

When they build a house, they have a room with no doors or windows and a lower roof than the rest of the house, so it can be accessed easily from the upper floor. They cut a couple of holes in the top and hey presto! Loo! They don't bother with a roof over it, but they do build a low wall to stop you falling off in excitement.

When the room's full, they fill in the hole and build another one. I think then after a few years they've got a room's worth of fertilizer, but I'm not sure.

We were fortunate enough to stay in one of these houses for a couple of nights while visiting Everest base camp.

Nothing will ever compare to the experience of leaving my bed in the night, fitting my head torch and heading out to the roof. Concentrating only on balance and aim, as I squatted precariously over the hole, I bared my shining white arse to hundreds of miles of the pointiest mountains in the world. A humbling experience if ever there was one.

if I get clicks I'll tell you the tale of the trough.
( catness, Sat 29 Mar 2008, 16:20, 2 replies)

Many, many years ago
I was a humble student in Motherwell. A few years previously, I had suffered from a bad case of whooping cough. When I started to cough quite badly again two years later, I was put on antibiotics as a precaution and they caused havoc with my digestive system. For 3 days I coped with the constant, gnawing cramp until I eventually realised whooping cough hadn't been as bad as this and stopped taking the pills.... fortunately, my cough had cleared up, but my digestive system still hasn't quite returned to normal and even now, almost nine years later, I get the odd cramp and unexplained bout of exploding arse syndrome.

However. Back then, at college, I was not at all used to them.

I remember that day mostly because of the pain. I had set out on the morning journey to college feeling fine, picked up my 3 passengers whom I charged not a penny in petrol money, being that I am nice, and made my way to the motorway. The journey was all going very well, the normal banter was flying round the car and all seemed fine. Then it hit me like a sledge hammer to the guts. No-one really noticed that I had gone very, very quiet and very very pale, but I was in sheer agony. By the time we made it to college, I was finding it hard to hide the excruciating pain I was in, sweat had begun beading on my forehead and I was more than a little worried..... you see, I did not feel like I needed a massive big jobbie, I just had terrible stomach cramps. I was already formulating my hypochondriac opinions as to what on earth could have gone wrong with me as we entered the building. We were bang on time. The first bell had gone, we were due in class. I gritted my teeth and prepared for the long wait until the first break.

The lecturer was late. THE LECTURER IS LATE! I knew this was my chance, and with a strained "If he get's here before I'm back, tell 'im I'm in the shunky" I jogged off to the bog. I still didn't feel like I needed to log off, but I had to try something or I felt like my lower half was going to detatch and burst into flames, so I chose a cubicle in the thankfully empty toilets, plonked myself down and braced myself for a long battle.

Almost immediately, I knew I had done the right thing. At first, it seemed as though somehow, a mighty redwood had become lodged up my bum chute at some point during the night before. I swear, it was kicking as it made it's way towards the light, and with a mighty involuntary heave, I launched it towards it's watery tomb. After giving birth to that monster, I sat there for a full minute as what felt like pints of red hot curry sauce poured from the blast zone where my poor ringpiece had once sat. When it was all done, and after a couple of minutes waiting for any further cramps had passed with no incident, I sheepishly cleaned up, flushed without looking and hurried back to class.

Next day, I had a bit of cramp in the car again. Nothing as bad as the day before, but enough to make me wince a little as I realised the lecturer was not late. I weighed up the options and decided to hold it til the first break, which I managed with ease. When the break came, I hastilly trotted off to the same toilets, looking forward to the sweet relief I had found the day before..... although I still had a bit of left-over ring sting from that episode. Being a creature of habit, I wandered into the same cubicle I had used the previous day......

And there it lay. Like some mighty felled beast, it lay lodged between the porcelain just at the water line. As many have said here before, it was around the girth of a coke can, but not quite as long, giving it an almost oblong appearance. One edge, I imagine what had been the "head", was smooth but not tapered, being as wide as the rest of the creature. The "tail" had what looked like roots extending from it, some as long as two inches. It was lodged there, a solid mass that no amount of flushing would ever shift, a monument to the massive forces that had slain it.

I left it there, had a substantially more normal shite in the next cubicle along and chortled to myself about it for the next few days.
( baw__bag contains traces of nuts on, Sat 29 Mar 2008, 16:18, Reply)

that picture is familiar
worked for a company that sold space to two turkish broadcasters, the first were westernised and good people. the second lot were some religious moslem broadcaster who weren`t very sociable.

I saw a more solid version of the scatter picture, John (?) the cleaner said it started after the scond lot arrived ( nearest loo to their offices) and reckoned they were standing on the seats, I think he was right. Not funny. they didn`t pay their bill on time and the man with a propellor up his arse was with them, as it stopped.
(tootired Is searching for a funny sig, nothing good so far, Sat 29 Mar 2008, 13:17, 1 reply)

Sometimes shit happens
and usually it's discovered at three in the morning by me.

img245.imageshack.us/img245/3830/toiletqd2.jpg
NOT for the faint hearted!

Funnily enough, the person responsible never admitted to this... Can't think why.

I do love my job.


EDIT: Better now?
(Spicy McHaggis Should have been doing work on, Sat 29 Mar 2008, 12:46, 8 replies)

The Hot Bag II
As a sort-of-prequel to this story of woe, it's time I owned up to another Tale of The Hot Bag.

The scene: Wembley Stadium's Hallowed Turf

The occasion: Genesis Live in Concert, some time in the late 1980s

The company: 80,000 people, equally divided between braying yuppies having the time of their lives at Phil Collins' oh-so-witty banter and pissed-off former Genesis fans who expected some music at some stage

I was in the latter camp, and enormously hacked off at being poisoned by a killer hotdog sold to me by a CMOT Dibbler lookalike on a street approaching The Venue of Legends.

Caught short in the middle of the Wembley turf, far too far from the toilets and the famous Wembley River of Piss, I did what any sensible festival goer would do: I shat in a carrier bag. An explosion of half-digested fecal matter containing meat from at least one named animal.

I admit I did something evil after this. There was a dreadful pink-Pringle-jumper-clad yuppie couple who had brought their own picnic, and judging by the pile of bags at their feet, had bought the entire official merchandise store.

They'd made everybody else's lives hell by elbowing in front of us, and then committing the Cardinal Sin of Stadium Gig of blocking everybody's view by hoiking his bird up onto his rugger-bugger shoulders.

So, as Collins prattled on with his mindless nonsense, I added my own Hot Bag to their possessions, and retired to a safe distance.

I can - as must you - only imagine the scene as they returned to their East London warehouse flat later that evening for a nice Chianti and a bout of joyless love-making.

I am not sorry in the slightest.
( Scaryduck LIKES EGG, Sat 29 Mar 2008, 12:44, 1 reply)