Hostage crisis
To cut out a long boring back story, I've got bad IBS, so when when I'm suffering a hostage crisis, sometimes I just have to release them. Recently I've had a major stressful time, so its got a lot worse. My doctor got me this nice card that says "Please let me use your toilet, I have a medical problem", mean I can go in anywhere, flash it, and use their loo.

Now because of previously mentioned stress and problems, 90% of the time its kinda "soft" (by soft I mean, somewhere between melting cadburys fruit and nut bar, and the colour and constancy of stewed tea - no milk - ).

So anyway, I'm walking along local high street... and I've got to go... NOW! Hastily looking around to find an empty shop I can go flash my card, and release the hostages. Being saturday afternoon, naturally every wheres quite busy... but saviour, an over price ladies undies shop, (we're talking 50 quid for a pair of "panties" that have less material then a tea bag). So I pop my head in the door, no customers... Fooking jackpot!

So I walk up to the counter, politely yet with a sense of urgency I ask to use the loo (I think it went something like, "toilet... caniuseitnow...please!") I get a firm look from the lady who quite firmly says "NO, Staff only". At this point I'm thinking, "fine, I just unleash it right here on your overpriced skimpies" but I pull out the card, show her and hope for the best.

She takes one look and suddenly turns into the caring mother type, talking to me all nicey nice, which is all good, unless you need to unleash some chocolatey fury, and she's just holding you up.

Anyway, finally get to the toilet in the back, all nice and shiney and white. As you would expect from a woman's shop. I bearly get me kacks down when all hell breaks loose in the arse department... (think projectile or farting at the same time as having the runs). After a good 4 mins, its all over...

Standing up to survey the damage, the inside of the bowl is plastered... chocolate artex covered 90% of the back and most of both sides. Me being the considerate person, I look for a brush... alas... none... nothing... so I flush and hope for the best... wait for it to finished and still the bowl looks like some kind of modern art from the "novel scat exhibit".

If there not smart enough to have a brush, they can deal with that "shit".

So I leave the toilet, the nice lady was waiting for me, she asked "can you find you own way back?" here me thinking, that if I let her go in now, with me still in the shop... NOT GOOD. So I say, "not sure... was in to much of a rush to notice" so she leads me back to the shop floor, and then goes back from where she came (I'm thinking she either went to check or needed the loo herself, either way I wasn't sticking around) So I left.

I stood outside for a min or two, just to see if she would come back... but she didn't... I got bored and left... (not I great finish I know). I just hope she find it in her great wisdom to buy a damn bogbrush.

Beware us people with the blue card of power!
Apologise for Length
( SleazyMole Finally has an Icon WOO!, Sun 30 Mar 2008, 22:28, 3 replies)

floodlit shit
before anyone complains it was mrs spimf who suggested i post this

few years back when mrs spimf and i were courting, as old people like to call it, we had a nice wee drive up the coast from Dundee where i was at art school - marvellous course - utter arsehole of a town, i wont bother apologising to readers from Dundee because there is no such thing.

Anyway, we ended up at broughty ferry where we had a lovely day and decided to park on the seafront and watch the sunset. We found a gravel car park that basically meandered onto the sandy shore with no discernable boundary NB this is not a tide / car sinking tale.

I had a wee joint and got into that warm cosy, cant be arsed mode just as mrs spimf decided to wreak the moment with her now familiar plaintiff mumble - 'I need to go for a wee'.

I had a quick glance around and saw there were 5 or 6 cars dotted around the car park behind us filed with likeminded couples, by now it was also proper dark so I suggested to mrs spimf she go 'al fresco'. mrs spimf reluctantly whispered that it was 'not just a wee she needed'. I saw no real issue with this and said so - after she calmed down and smoothed her feathers she eventually agreed, but only on the basis i watch out for her - in case 'something happened' so we agreed she would go in front of the car in the dark and i would watch out for her 'safety' but not 'look' at her. i still dont understand that.

So there she is squatting down in front of the car carefully out of view of the other people parked further back.

It took a few seconds for me to rouse from my cannabis-induced stupor and realise the potential of the situation. I didnt drive at that time, it was mrs spimf's car. but I quickly jumped into the drivers seat reversed back a few yards, while turning left, then flooded the crouching, shouting and gesticulating mrs spimf with the full beam for all to see.

She wasn’t happy.
( spimf ™ is whoever you want him to be, Sun 30 Mar 2008, 21:44, 4 replies)

Holy shit!
I was in Italy staying with a local family when my alimentary canal produced something of a national sensation.

The familial toilet was one of those continental ones where you squat over a ceramic tray and place your feet on specified spaces. Not ideal - but I got used to using it. One day, after a particularly heavy Italian meal lasting three hours, I spent about 20 minutes on this crapper, shifting my weight about to keep comfortable. On standing, I was amused to note that the turd I had produced looked uncannily like the face of Lord Jesus, his countenance a vision of serenity. It was a passing thought and I looked for a bucket to flush the brownster away. No water - I slunk off to find some, hoping that no one would happen upon the soiled WC.

The next thing I heard was a wailing. Clearly, someone had wanted to use the toilet and found my mess. I raced back to the lav to discover the elderly grandmother on her knees muttering what I took to be a prayer and raising her eyes to heaven in thanks for the glory of my Divine dump. I made to wash the offending chod away, but I was roughly manhandled to the ground by the whiskery old cuss.

Before I knew it, the local priest had been called and villagers were flooding to view the miraculous scat I had wrought. "It's just a shit!" I complained. But they paid no heed. There were soon dozens of people prostrating themselves at my still steaming crap, which maintained its uncanny resemblance. If anything, it looked even more beatific. The 'bearded face' seemed to bestow a blessing on all who beheld it, and the eyes were full of compassion for a world gone astray. A tear came to many an eye, but this was due largely to the hideous reek of shite.

Well, the media were there by the afternoon and the Catholic church had issued a statement saying that the ceramic toilet tray was to be enshrined for all of Italy to see. In the coming months, enterprising locals would be selling tap water to gullible tourists as holy water. A crippled girl jumped out her wheelchair and did and impomptu performance of "Singin' in the Rain" as her blind mother suddenly read the barcode off a passing satellite. Serial killers handed themselves into the police all over the nation, and a t-shirt bearing the scatological image became a bestselling item.

Of course, I didn't get a thing. Not a word of thanks. It was my arse that had produced the miracle. Fortunately, after leaving Italy, I wound up in Jordan, where I was amused to shat out a calligraphic prayer from the Koran that made me an instant star, earning me my own TV show: "Frank Shits Miracles."

Happy days.
(frankspencer, Sun 30 Mar 2008, 20:30, 4 replies)

not for the squeamish
my friend waited until i was a eating a sandwich last night to go into great detail (he's a vet) about a ewe excreting most of its intestines.
(ladyintheradiator, Sun 30 Mar 2008, 20:24, 1 reply)

posh bird's house
whilst going out with a very posh lass and having a meet-the-fucking-grandparents sunday lunch at her place...

i felt the call of nature. so i opted for the toilet upstairs (there was a choice, the house was big, piano and the lot)

after doing my business, i had managed to lay a cable so large, it poked out the top

two flushes, no joy and a desperation washed over me, there was no proletariat plaggy bog brush to mash up my monster mess

panicking, i toyed with the idea of mashing it in my hand...no, there must be something...anything to chop up the log of doom

then: a brainwave. i spied the posh towel container: a picnic basket. i snapped out a twig and Zorroed the turd into salami-esque slices. huzzah

after wiping the twig, i pondered how to get rid of it. no need, i just widdled it into the basket

then i went back to the meal, and no i didn't apologise for the length ;-)

sorry Anna!
(Darth Vodka, Sun 30 Mar 2008, 20:07, Reply)

College toilets
When I started college, I thought "Brilliant!" on seeing the toilets. The ones at secondary school were shit with locks that either didn't work or didn't fit and you were liable to be walked in on at any minute by year 7 wankers. But at college it was different. They were immaculate.

One day in September last year I went for a piss. I always use the cubicles cos I'm not keen on the idea of some bloke having a look at my cock. In fact, I literally cannot piss at a cubicle if anyone else is around.

So I went to the toilets on the floor I was on, with just one cubicle. It was free, thank god, so I stepped in -

- only to be presented with the sight of a toilet caked in shit, tissue paper and I think even BLOOD all the way up its side and completely over the bottom.

I promptly exited and used a urinal.

On telling my friend, he didn't believe me so went to have a look. When he came back he said he would never doubt anything I ever said again.

Apparently, a few hours later it looked like shitty, bloody papier-mâché.
(ratthingbazzterd, Sun 30 Mar 2008, 19:37, Reply)

The Dordogne
Ah, the beautiful Dordogne river, floating downstream with topless girlfriend, past cliffs and castles...

We stop on a small beach to eat our lunch, which is mostly saucisson and camembert. Soon I can't bear it any longer and suggest to topless girlfriend that we should nip into the nearby woods so I can inspect her chest a little more closely.

But in the woods are some nasty little biting buggers, which have a very strange effect on me: they make me want to crap. I'm very quickly distracted from GF's tits and squat in the bushes squirting out semi-solid turds while waving ineffectually at more little biting bastard flies.

As we were canoeing, I'd cleverly worn swimming trunks. However swimming trunks and unwiped bum don't really go together. So I'm left with a very shitty arse. A little further down the river is a campsite, so I run into the toilets, squirt out a bit more poo, then use up all the toilet paper trying (unsuccesfully) to clear arse and trunks.

I waddle back to the canoe. Girlfriend (now tightly covered up top and attempting to hold nose whilst paddling) is treated to the smell of my shitty bum as we float downstream... Eventually I have the bright idea of standing in the water and pulling my trunks down. However the river's only about knee height so it's not very helpful, and I can't bring myself to wipe my arse with my hands.

Finally we reach the end point, where we are picked up by girlfriend's parents who drive us back to the pretty rose covered cottage, asking what the funny smell is.
(Smale is stuffed, Sun 30 Mar 2008, 19:31, Reply)

French Meat
Once upon a time I went on honeymoon with the mrs. Perhaps we lacked originality but we headed for Paris as this City is supposedly reknowned for it's romantic connections.

On the afternoon after we stepped from the plane we went to a posh restaurant for some scran and being a diehard carnivore I went for the steak hache et frites. Being a veggie the mrs had some veggie nonsense whilst I gorged myself on yummy cowflesh.

Now I don't normally get a gyppy tum, but on this occasion that undercooked burgery thing decided to inflict me with chronic gastric badness. For the next 72 hours every fart seemed more than likely to have aliquid component. I must have spent a fortune in portaloos fearing the effects of letting one go 'au naturel'. Luckily there was no escape of unwanted fluid, but it rather banjaxed the traditional honeymoon activities.

Ended up eating at MacDonalds in order to have something to settle my guts. Quelle horror!
(Mr Steve is jobless and fancyfree!, Sun 30 Mar 2008, 19:27, 2 replies)

when I was a kid
my dad made me laugh so hard that half a turd came out


I don't think he noticed
(ratthingbazzterd, Sun 30 Mar 2008, 19:20, Reply)

A QOTW I can answer!
When I was a wee lad, I had a medical condition that meant I couldn't poop.
I don't remember this one but according to my dad the Doctor was giving me a check up.
My parents were sat at the head of the bed.
The doctor came in with a nurse and closed the curtains behind em, the doctor proceeds to drop my pants and with abit of lube sticks his finger in me bum!
But I got my own back since I was a big ball of shit I exploded covering the Doctor the Nurse and most of the curtain in poo.
(Deadjinx, Sun 30 Mar 2008, 19:20, 1 reply)

An Ardour Dampening Moment in Llandudno.
Dont ask me why but in the latter part of the last decade I and my girlfriend decided to holiday for a week in Llandudno. Actually it wasnt the purgatory you may think it was, although the hotel food could've been a little kinder to my colon.

I hungrily devoured a plate of roast beef one evening, then as the meal passed, I felt a tightening in my lower half. I sureptitiously undid my belt, then my flies to releave the pressure on my digestive system, but nothing seemed to give me relief.

We returned to our room for an evening of doing what twentysomething couples (well I was a twentysomething and she was 19 so it was going to be full on gorilla sex or nothing, I can tell you), do in the bedroom.

I put on a pair of purple silk boxer shorts, whilst she went in to the bathroom to 'freshen up'.

I was lying on the bed when I cocked my posterior with the intention of unleashing a 'one cheek sneak', and got more than I bargained for.

An unstoppable torrent of foul smelling goo was unleashed from my quivering abdomen.
I leapt from the bed, desperately trying to contain the flow within the flimsy walls of my thin undergarment, and ran in one move into the bathroom, throwing my girlfriend asunder.

Picture the moment as a 19 year old fox had her moment spoilt by her beau running in, purple faced and emptying a sizeable quantity of foul smelling effluent into the toilet before settling himself onto the pan and evacuating his bowels to the accompaniment of a noise similar to that of a leafblower.

Any horizontal athletics had to be canned as I wrapped the boxer shorts up in a plastic bag and threw them into the wastebin outside the hotel.

I kid you not when I went out the following morning, I could still smell the faeces as strong as the night before, and there were two or three dogs sniffing expectantly around the bin.
I cant remember as well now, but I am pretty sure Dyno Rod put in an appearance that day as well.
(Vic Flange, Sun 30 Mar 2008, 19:09, 2 replies)

How To Get a Very Strange Look from a Famous Newsreader
(It's sort of taken as read, that you have a job with a large TV station, the name of which I dare not breathe, just in case...)

1) Eat a large sticky chocolate muffin, found lurking in the office.

2) Head for the lavs, in order to wash the sticky brown marks from your digits.

3) Decide to 'kill two birds' and have a quick Jimmy-Riddle beforehand.

4) Flush, emerge from stall, and stand at washbasin (complete with brown sticky fingers) next to said newsreader.

Click 'I Like This' if you think I should smile and lick my fingers next time...
(mellotron never could get the hang of Thursdays, Sun 30 Mar 2008, 18:57, 4 replies)

Dr Seuss would've been proud of this one
My old flatmate has 2 cats, who would shit anywhere and everywhere they wanted, so after a few weeks of moving in and a few weeks of getting fed up with it, i brought them a big cat litter tray which i put in the bathroom. Soon the cats got used to the idea, after a hell of a long time litter-training. One night a few mates and i go out on the piss, i invite them back to mine for more drinks, but we have to stay in my room as my flat mates room is above the living room. This was fine, but i thought to keep the noise down better, i'll shut the door to the living room plus for extra quiteness push the doormat under the door so no noise can seep through the bottom (i was very drunk!) and remember to let the cats out to do there business before i got to sleep.... I wake up the next morning with my tounge sticking to the roof of my mouth and a huge headache, that wasnt being helped by the banging on my bedroom door. Angrily i get out of bed and angrily open my door, to angrily find my flatmate, angrily looking at me. Then she uttered the immortal words. "Beano!, The cat shat on the mat!". I only got away with it, because i starting pissing myself laughing, that she found the funny side too.
(beano, Sun 30 Mar 2008, 18:55, 1 reply)

Student poo
In my earlier days, I lived for a time at Owens Park, a hall of residence in South Manchester. One of the more mundane features of life there was the weekly OP Newsletter, in which the warden often entreated his charges to try not to wreck the place too much.

"Please don't set off the fire alarm", "Please don't make toast with the kitchen door open (it sets off the fire alarm)", "The fire extinguishers are not a toy", and so on.

Perhaps the most disgusting tale to appear in its DTP-and-clipart photocopied pages was that of the poo left in the toilet.

Not, you might be thinking, the bowl, but instead a sizeable log deposited somehow (and I don't want to know how) in a cistern. The cleaners wouldn't touch it, and they were used to cleaning up after a couple of thousand students. It eventually took a "specialist cleaning company" to deal with it, which you can probably assume is a bloke with a big rubber glove and a strong stomach to fish it out and disinfect its former resting place.

Length? I'd hope the glove was up to his armpit.
( le brian, Sun 30 Mar 2008, 18:30, Reply)

One more, last one. Promise!
My roommate has the worst smelling shits ever. They smell like baby poop...you know what I mean.

The worst, though, is when I go to the bathroom after he's has taken a shower AND taken a shit. It's really steamy, really warm, and REALLY smelly.

It's like bathing in his feces.
(juliajuliajulia, Sun 30 Mar 2008, 18:23, 1 reply)

And a camping poop one too...
Before I started my freshman year in college, I went on an orientation camping trip with my future fellow students. The plan was to hike for three days, then spend the last two days white water rafting. This was my first "real" hike - with the fifty-pound backpacks and all.

This story occurred on the second day out on the trail. We were resting after getting to the halfway point of our 10 mile hike for the day.

During this break, one of the boy members of the trip decided that he had to go to the bathroom - and he needed toilet paper, since it was going to be one of THOSE times. Unfortunately, all except one of us forgot to bring toilet paper - and the one who brought some only brought a wad of it, rather than a roll. He kindly lent this wad to the fellow in question, though he did ask that the entire pile not be used.
So, toilet paper in hand, the fellow wandered into the woods.


...Half an hour later, he returned. Without any leftover toilet paper. He did have a big grin on his face though - and the first words out of his mouth were "You guys would not believe what just happened."

Apparently he decided to take a crap off the side of a log. This went fine until, when he stood up to wipe, he fell backwards into the his own pile of poop. That's why all the toilet paper was gone. That's why he was gone an entire 30 minutes.

This story is great because this was only the second day of our journey - our second day of knowing each other. He was truly a brave soul to man-up to a group of strangers about falling back into his own crap...
(juliajuliajulia, Sun 30 Mar 2008, 18:10, Reply)

Pooping by numbers
When I was sixteen I was assigned the task of babysitting my cousins: 7-year-old Alexandra and 5-year-old Jacob. Things went swimmingly; we ordered pizza, watched a movie, and had a nice little dance party. During dinner, Alex asked me if I could eventually help her with her math problems. Basically, I just had to be like "1 plus 1 is...?" So, throughout the night, I would toss out random addition and subtraction problems.

Finally, the night ended in watching TV in their parents' bedroom. The bedroom has its own bathroom, so when Alex got up to go potty, I didn't think anything of it.
10 minutes later, she was still in the bathroom. So, being a good babysitter, I went to check on her. My plan was just to call from the other side of the door, but Alex summoned me in.

When I got in, she was in the midst of taking a poop - which was fine, because she was old enough to take care of it herself. What makes this story worth telling is what Alex said next:

"Julia, can you give me some math problems while I poop?"

So, I stood there for five minutes in an increasingly stinky bathroom spouting off equations as Alex grunted through the answers.

Then, it turns out, Alex decided to regress to a younger self and I HAD TO WIPE HER BUTT. Talk about adding insult to awkward injury...

This is why I did not babysit much in my teen years.
(juliajuliajulia, Sun 30 Mar 2008, 17:54, Reply)

(s)cat
My girlfriend has 2 cats. The oldest had his little kitty testicles removed long before I met her, while the younger of the two arrived at her house as a 12-week-old kitten not long after we started going out.

In due course, it was time for her (the kitten, obviously) to get her ladybits removed (or whatever it is they do to girl kittens which is the equivalent of lopping off the cat-pods). This entailed a day or so without food, a trip to the vet, more time without food, then a week of taking it easy.

Cats being what they are, it's hard to explain concepts like "That's his food. You mustn't eat it", "Don't jump on her, you might damage her stitches" or "No, you can't go outside" (she'd started using the catflap a week or so before her op. The first time we locked her in, in a spirit of scientific enquiry, she attacked it with the desperation of a small Cambodian child accidentally locked in Gary Glitter's prison cell).

Thus is was that I took home a cat, a generous portion of catfood (Morrissons), litter tray and litter, and other catty acoutrements to keep the elder cat amused for the week he'd be safely stored out of her harm's way.

Soon enough, he'd eaten all the catfood he came with, and I repaired to the local supermarket to stock up on Tesco's catfood.

Travelling to a new house is probably quite stressful for a cat, even a well trained and generally well behaved one. Especially when you're used to popping out into somebody else's garden when you want to fertilise the roses, and you're instead locked inside with only a load of wood shavings (or whatever that stuff is) to do your business on.

Eventually, however, the seal had to break. And it broke in style. He waited until I got home, I suspect because he had an idea how bad it would be and didn't want to live in its fetid stench any more than I would. A quick clean-up was thus assured when he laid an almighty cat cable into the tray (and, inevitably, a bit over the side).

Even through the eye-watering nasal assault, I couldn't help but notice a clear line in the poo, a demarkation of the point where I switched him from one brand of food to another.

Tesco catfood comes out a darker brown. 100% scientific fact
( le brian, Sun 30 Mar 2008, 17:30, Reply)

fish
gives me explosive squits with a horrible metallic shimmer.
i don't eat fish no more...
(quibble, Sun 30 Mar 2008, 17:17, Reply)

Canada vs. Greece
A few years ago, we went to Canada to visit my uncle who, surprisingly, lives there. When out in the national parks of Alberta, I thought I had seen the worse public toilets I ever would (as, reading these answers, I don't plan on going to Asia). They were exactly like the ones in old western films: a wooden shack, with a bench, a hole and if you were really, really lucky, a toilet seat. One of the worst mistakes of my life was to accidentally look straight down an almost full one

I didn't think I'd see a worse one.

Then I went to Greece.

Now, I love Greece: the people, the country, the food and the history - everything. But the toilets on the some of the beaches are horrendous: a thing sort of like a small shower base set into the floor, with grooves for your feet and a hole in between. That's it. And most likely it'll be a lovely brown colour from people's poor aiming.

The first time we went to Greece, my sister was about 6, so when she had to go, she had to go NOW. She decided this on a beach.

"Are you sure?" my mum asked "It won't be very nice." She was positive, she HAD to go, and it wasn't the kind of thing she could just do casually in the sea.

So my mum took her up to dirt track to the public toilet, and as they opened the door, the first thing to hit them was the awful stench. The second thing to hit them was the sight that I described above.

Immediately, my sister stopped hopping about in desperation, stood very calmly and said: "I don't need to go any more."

And she didn't. The urge was completely and utterly gone. The fear of having to use one of those things hadn't scared the crap out of her, it had scared it back in!
(Applebite Uh! A cow!, Sun 30 Mar 2008, 16:39, 3 replies)

TMI
A few years back, I worked in a popular chain of stores that sells computer games.

My regular manager was out, so I had to call in during a particular bad bout of the runs. I spoke to a 'stand in' and explained that I was not coming in, because I had stomach difficulties. I was told this wasn't a good enough reason, and I would need to provide more details. I took a deep breath, and said, in a ranty, half-crying voice something similar to:

"I'm pissing out of my arsehole, okay? Okay? Literally pissing liquid fire out of my ring piece and it really, really stings. I've used up two toilet rolls, and soiled a flannel that I had soaked in cold water to soothe my arse. I can't drink anything, I can't eat food without wanting to to take a crap, and I'm just bloody lucky that I haven't shit myself. Do you want me to come in and shit all over the customers as well?"

It went very quiet, and I heard a strange noise on the phone. "He doesn't sound well at all, does he?" said an unfamiliar voice.

Yes, the idiot had put me on speakerphone when he was serving a customer... I've never let 'em forget that, and the rest of the time I was working there, whenever I called in ill (genuinely, I hasten to add!) they didn't ask what with!
(reech, Sun 30 Mar 2008, 16:20, Reply)

Once again, my dear departed cousin comes to mind.....
He had some funny ways, did my cousin. And he also had a complete inability to keep tales of these funny ways to himself.

One day, when we were working together, he told me of his recent visit to the toilet. Not what you want to hear whilst trying to digest a pizza crunch supper (which is difficult enough at the best of times) but he always liked putting us off our dinner.

Apparently, he had been locked in a battle with a bottom baby for a good half hour one day, and when he finally managed to lift himself off it, he was shocked at what he found peering out of the bowl at him. According to him, this monster was lodged round the u-bend, reared up out of the water and it's crown sat about an inch from the rim of the bowl. Being a bright lad, he knew flushing this beast would be like firing an air rifle at a rhino, but he gave the handle a few pulls, just in case the beast looked harder than it actually was. The creature held firm, refusing to join it's friends in the afterlife, so my cousin had only one option (it seemed, to him.... i doubt it would have occurred to me....)

My auntie's house is quite odd. Fancy, but odd. The toilet is downstairs, right next to the kitchen. So it was but a short journey for my cousin to retrieve a large tablespoon and begin sawing the monster into manageable chunks. Soon enough, he had dealt with the beast, and he thought that was that.

About a year later, he was an usher at my wedding. During the dinner, flushed with relief at getting the speeches over with, I noticed that from the choice of chocolate cake or strawberry gateaux, my cousin had gone with the latter while I had chosen the chocolate. "Scott!" I shouted across the room of assembled family members. He looked up. I held my plate up and slowly began slicing my chocolate cake into small pieces.... "Is the memory too much for you?"

Cue the 2 of us in tears of laughter while 2 bemused families wondered what the hell we were on about.

I told the ex later. She didn't think it was funny.
( baw__bag contains traces of nuts on, Sun 30 Mar 2008, 16:06, Reply)

For weeks on end
I've had nothing but the odd depressing tale for the QOTW.... this week? I have millions of the buggers.

I never realised my life was so bottom oriented until now....

Anyway.

You'll have to take my Dad's word for this one, as I have no memory of it. Billions of years ago, I was 2. I was a normal 2 year old, running around doing what toddlers do. However, my Dad noticed that frequently during my wanderings, I would go a strange shade of purple and run off and sit on the stairs. Why I was doing this, he did not know.

It took him a week of taking me to the toilet to work out that I hadn't taken a dump for a considerable amount of time. He checked that I hadn't done one while with my mum, and realised the strange truth.

I had developed a fear of doing the business for some reason, and each and every time I felt the now familiar feeling of needing to go, I ran and sat down on the stairs to hold it in. Slow but steady, like columbo, my Dad worked out his next move.

He watched me for ages, then when he saw me run to the stairs, he caught me and forced me to stand up. Apparently, I was screaming like a banshee as the seat of my little corduroy trousers bulged outwards and I almost became the first toddler ever to produce a full size replica of himself. I had, not to put it too bluntly, burst my arse wide open.

I was a bright kid though. I never held it in like that again.
( baw__bag contains traces of nuts on, Sun 30 Mar 2008, 15:49, 1 reply)

Punk Era...
...ah yes, London in the late 1970s. There I am in the 100 Club looking, by today's standards, very much like a twat; but 'tis the summer of '78 and I look no more of a knob than anyone else.

It started with a rumble from the tum, quite audible above the din of... a band called Gloria Mundi, I recall.

Realising that trouble was brewing, I headed for the bogs... which were decorated in black... and the lights were out. Nevermind, I found a vacant cubicle and allowed a fair quantity of evil-smelling crud to blurp messily into the bowl.

Mopping up operations were hindered somewhat by the total lack of toilet paper. I went through my pockets: my return rail ticket and an empty crisp packet. I chose the latter, reasoning (for some reason) to use it like a glove, and that turning it inside out would be a good idea.

Fuck. I wish I'd chosen anything except salt-n-vinegar flavour.
( MisterPunch did it that way on, Sun 30 Mar 2008, 15:29, Reply)

I'm always edgy
about having a number two in someone else's house. There is just some kind of taboo surrounding the act which just makes me try and hold it in for much longer than usual.

Last weekend though, I was invited to visit the in-laws and stay with the family to celebrate easter which meant that there was going to be an inevitable poo or two at some point.
Sadly, it came later rather than sooner.
This proved not to be a problem. I finished. I flushed. I then quickly realised that I had to flush again due to the sheer size of one of my mud-children. This wasn't good.
I then sheepishly grabbed my girlfriend away from her family to explain the 'shit-uation' and made her pretend to go to the toilet so another flush wouldn't seem suspicious. This carried for another 6 flushes (spread over the space of an hour and now involving her sister!) before it finally went. It wasn't long before relief was replaced with extreme shame.

Length: 7 inches and 6 flushes and a lot of apologies to save my relationship
(WillyNilly SillyBilly, Sun 30 Mar 2008, 15:01, 3 replies)

I had a big dirty poo...
on the toilet of a client. I do on site computer repairs and for three quarters of my hourly fee, I was pushin out a dodgy rogan josh I had only hours before. I felt the pain and set it to defrag even though it would not connect to the net. At the end of the hour, I connected the phone line to the broadband modem, which I noticed had come out when I walked in, then I collected my money for shitting poo out of my bum.

I will burn in hell.
(goonbreath, Sun 30 Mar 2008, 14:31, 2 replies)

This.......
uk.youtube.com/watch?v=b2bWDl_WFa4&feature=related

shows somebody dropping the biggest log I have ever seen.

and this

uk.youtube.com/watch?v=DeXsO2Tu9Mw

is somebody having a HUGE dump.

Length? Weight? Volume? You be the judge.
(tinypod will never learn. Ever., Sun 30 Mar 2008, 13:37, 3 replies)

Shitty Revenge
Years ago when I was a student I used to do various summertime jobs one of which was erecting steel and concrete sectional buildings around the London area, our team leader if I can call him that was a complete and utter wanker who spent more time on our backs than actually doing any work, this guy would only drink hot chocolate and this sparked an evil thought in my mind at the end of this job I offered to make him a hot choccie drink into which I dissolved an entire bar of a well known brand of choccie based laxative.
This he proceeded to chug down much to my delight I looked forward to a quiet day as he would be in and out of the bog I hoped, no he was still around being a tosser.
To say I was a tad dissapointed would be an understatement, until a couple of months later I bumped into his wife while out shopping and I asked how the wanker was, she then said that he had an unfortunate accident on the way home one day, yup the very day I made his hot choccie he was driving home when apparently had a desire to fart which he did, yup he shat himself, royally filled his pants ruined the velour upholstery and generally stank the car out, when got home she made him strip on the doorstep in full view of all the neighbours he had to put all his clothes in the bin and every time he moved he shat himself just a little bit more this went on for a couple of days so I had really fucked up his weekend, she then said if you want to come round I'll be only to happy to see you as she had kicked him out and was in the process of divorcing him
I wish I could have seen the result I have never laughed so long and so loud since.
(raith50, Sun 30 Mar 2008, 12:50, 3 replies)