Recycling the same old shit, part one
If Humpty, Legless et al can do this then so can I...

**********************************************

It's October 2001, and I'm in Thailand with the ex. Phuket, to be precise, part of a 3 week tour of the far east.

Having booked a day's scuba diving, an early-ish night is on the cards, as the dive company are picking me up at 7am. So we decide to have a romantic meal at the hotel and retire early.

"Ooh, that sounds nice, I'll have that" says I, and orders what sounded like heaven. Baked sea-bass, done with ginger, lime and garlic.

And, it transpired, chili, which wasn't mentioned on the menu. It was so fucking hot it stripped the skin from my lips. Hmm. Scuba diving in sea water, with no skin on my lips. A little like a sub-aqua Mason Verger, if you like.

That wasn't the worst of my problems though. As is sometimes the case when I have spicy food (which I do love), the next morning my stomach was doubled up with cramps and the first thing I have to do is go and lose a bit of weight. Fine and dandy, I thought.

Oh no. This continued on the dive boat, with its primitive toilet facilities - a very basic toilet with a pump action flush mechanism. Trying to get rid of what seemed like several tons of barely-reconstituted sea bass was no easy task, but somehow I managed.

And then came the dive. So there I am, with salt water stinging my lips in the Andaman Sea, with 20 metres of water above me compressing my insides to buggery, and still with what felt like a whole fucking fish working it's way remorslesley through my intestinal tract. Having a piss in a wetsuit is one thing, this was an entirely different ball game...

I don't eat spicy food before a dive now. Lesson learned.
( Davros' Granddad a voice of calm reason in a world of spastics., Mon 31 Mar 2008, 12:43, 2 replies)

Meet the grandparents
Having just got engaged to my now wife she decided that it was now time to meet the rest of her family all of whom stay in the Glasgow area.

We arrived late at night and hadn't had any tea so we went to the local chippie for a couple of haddock suppers which to be fair were very tasty and filled us up nicely.

Next day, her aunties, uncles and cousins all arrived at her grandparents where we were staying in their small one toileted ex-council flat and i decided that now was as good a time as any to alleviate my bowels of the fishy treat.

After having what i considered at the time to be a relatively routine dump i turned to inspect the end product to be confronted by what appeared to be a pick axe handle staring up at me from 3 inches above the waterline and no amount of flushing would move the bugger.

15 flushes later and my fiancee at the door asking if i was alright i started panicking. I did the only thing short of calling the fire brigade i could and reached in and broke the blighters back in several places hoping this would help.

Several flushes later and it was gone but the sweat and paranoia remained especially as you could hear the pipes vibrating everytime someone flushed.
(Harold's hip man!!, Mon 31 Mar 2008, 12:40, Reply)

My favourite poo graffiti
At a place where I used to work somebody hung this sign up in the cubicle.

"Do not bite seat or scratch door and walls"

Obviously for the benefit of someone suffering from a vein-busting, can of Glade type poo.
(oneinthepink is at your cervix m'lady, Mon 31 Mar 2008, 12:34, Reply)

less of s story
More of a question - this guy (http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Michel_Lotito) appears to eat airoplanes for a living. I find myself wondering what his richards are like?
( DarkSon a time and date will follow this username on, Mon 31 Mar 2008, 12:34, Reply)

Shit Speling
When I was i primary school, about year 5 or six, there was a time when the toilets would be blocked off regularly for a couble of days pretty much every week. they told us that is was because they needed to be cleaned.

One lunchtime, I walked into the toilets, they were open at this point and hadn't needed to be closed all week. the smell hit me like a punch in the face and then I saw the reason why the toilets were so regularly closed and so vigerously cleaned. someone had been writing swear words on the walls.

in shit

one particularly large "Fuck" had a whole kidney bean in it. it was horrible. I told the teacher and the toilets were swiftly closed and cleaned again.

I often wonder who that person was, and what kind of thing screwed them up enough to start writing swear words on the walls in their own shit.
(Katzilla Follow Me! @Kat_Zilla (I don't promise funnehs), Mon 31 Mar 2008, 12:12, 3 replies)

The biggest poo, ever
I had been granted an audience with the Turkish Prime Minister. Recep Tayyip Erdogan was to come to our luxuriously appointed hotel in the centre of Istanbul to answer questions on his country's national day.

The trouble was, as I sat on the throne in my 12th floor suite, I had a turd that wasn't going anywhere.

"BLUUUUUUMPH!" it had gone and emerged - not word of a lie - a good eighteen inches long, a testament to the rich Turkish diet.

It sat there, scowling at me, in the toilet, refusing to disappear. Flush after flush - the thing was made of ferro-concrete and even defied a good thumping with the toilet brush.

In the end, I arrived - only seconds late - for the PM's arrival, with only one thing on my mind: The Black Sea Monster, which remained, unflushed somewhere on the hotel's top floor.

I got back to my room an hour later, and it had gone. Instead, there was a note. It was in Turkish, which I showed to the waiter in the rooftop bar.

He laughed.

"What? What does it say?"

"You dirty, dirty bastard dog!"

Woof.
( Scaryduck LIKES EGG, Mon 31 Mar 2008, 12:12, 4 replies)

pizza hut induced
a few years back a friend of mine at uni and i were trying to decide where to go for lunch when i casually suggested that we should try and get a few people together and have a pizza eating contest at pizza hut. he said

"why dont we have one now?"

18 slices of pizza and a bloated stomache later i was crowned the victor and all was normal until the following monday, i started to feel a little pressure about lunch time and i thought i could hold it til i got home, just before setting off from uni at about 4 in the afternoon the cramps set in and i had to rush for the bogs at the uni because i knew i would not be able to manage the walk home

what followed was an odd experience, i could feel my arse being stretched by the log as it was making a break for freedom but i could not feel any movement at all, i didnt hear a splash or anything not even a noticeable smell.

once my arse felt like it was relaxing i had to satisfy my curiosity and have a look i was faced with 3 logs about 4 to 6 inches in length each and about 3 to 4 inches thick

i wish i had taken a picture
( Reme Philips laid an epic dump on, Mon 31 Mar 2008, 12:06, Reply)

child poo
A friend of mine asked me to look after his young toddler daughter one evening. Why he asked me at the time - 20 something bloke with very little children experience - I dont know but anyway, she was a nice kid. His parting words when I asked about, you know, 'changing her', he said, 'probably wont happen in the next couple of hours, but if it does, *you'll know*.' I casually wondered how exactly would I know.

I sat in the lounge for a couple of hours quite anxious. Little girl running about playing with matches, knives, all usual toddler stuff apparently. I worried about how I would tell if she needed to go, would it smell, would it leak through, would there be a patch, did someone call me and let me know? I dunno, i've never really done this.

Suddenly she comes running in clutching a bag of pampers, "Uncle Cokey! I've made a poo for you!". "Oh! So thats how i'd know". Problem 1 solved.

My initial, Ah bless! descended into Ah bollocks as the next problem was suddenly realised.

She ran into the bedroom and I reluctantly followed a few moments later. I found her lying on the bed, legs sticking up in the air, on a towel she had laid out, with her nappy undone and was smiling, thrusting a wet wipe at me. She actually talked me through the whole procedure and laughed at my genuine reaction to her toddler doo doo. She thought I was just joking when in reality, I was trying to work out whether I could actually disable my olfactory system with the power of thought. After wiping up what seemed like a never ending amount of browny-blacky sticky shit and probably all the wet wipes, I finished cleaning. I did well on the nappy and she seemed to be slightly impressed. Which made me happier. She jumped up, pulled up her trousers, gave me a kiss and said thankyou, skipping off to play again. I was quite chuffed.
( I have run out of coke is a little sweaty, Mon 31 Mar 2008, 12:04, 13 replies)

shittin ell
I was once off my tits on drugs in a club.. went for a shit, went to wipe up the shit and somehow slipped my hand and got sludgey shit all over my hand.. at which point some people pushed the door open.. to see me with eyes like fuckin plates, chewing my face off with shit on my hand..

It must have looked fuckin atrocious.

messy
(binarymilk Rossz csillag alatt született, Mon 31 Mar 2008, 12:00, Reply)

WHSmith Syndrome
Whenever I haven't been to the loo for a number two in a while all that it takes is for me to visit a bookshop. I'm talking about going from completely bunged up to needing a shit desperately in under a minute here.
Even if I've done a number two recently, it'll still work its magic on me.
Smiths/Waterstones/Other, they'll all do.
However what this also applies to is a library and being a law student makes this rather annoying.
(Evilweevil is covered in bees, Mon 31 Mar 2008, 11:45, 2 replies)

Germapult
My Great Granddad, Patrick “Newtie” Newton, was one of the lucky few who survived being in the front line trenches during the First World War. When my dad was a little boy, my granddad would tell him story of the war. Most often they would be stories of extreme British Courage or sacrifice, but, there were sometimes stories about the fun and foolery they all had during the more peaceful times.

For seven months Newtie was stationed at a point know as “shake hand alley”. It was called this because the apposing trenches were so close that it felt like you could almost shake hands with your enemy.
Being this close was, of course, incredibly dangerous. Tunnels were being constantly dug and filled with explosives, Snipers had it very easy and there were constant raids to each trench. A man serving in shake hand alley was a man walking with death.
The men knew this. The constant reminder of death made them search for ways to lighten up the mood. One of the favorites was the Germapult.
The Germapult was a large wooden catapult which had been built by the many carpenters out of spare wood from the trench walls. Over the years it had been there some men had become expert marksman with it. My Great Granddad admitted that the Germapult was about as lethal as cotton wool, but, nothing boosted morale more than knocking off a German officer’s hat with a dead rat.
Anything that could be used as ammo was;

Rats – dunked in lamp oil, set alight and flung
Legs, arms, heads of fallen Germans.
Cups of piss (left to ferment over summer)
Letters tied to rocks with lovely messages like “fuck off”
And, of course, SHIT. Lots of British shit.

Being born a Newton comes with many positive and negative hereditary points.
1. We all have great eyes and ears
2. We are all good with numbers
3. Our shits stink. REALLY REALLY STINKS!
With this in mind, mixed with the less than choice sanitation, my Great granddad was often not too popular in the trenches. He could stink out an entire half mile with the foul acrid smell of his anal devastation. In his own words “you know when I had taken time out because everyone had a tear in their eye”.
One day, after a particularly pungent defecation, the wind changed direction. Instead of blowing the nuclear fumes along the trench – It blew it straight across no-mans-land into the German lines. Within seconds the British could hear sequels of pain, after a minute they could hear the distinct call of “Gas” from their German enemies. It took at least half hour for the panic to subside and normality to flow.
An British officer noticed this and approached my Great granddad
“Son, that was disgusting, your bowels truly are a place of living hell. But, if you can recreate that panic every time nature takes its course, the Germans moral will be crushed”

My Great granddad was then positioned right next to the Germapult. Every time he needed a dump he would do it on a scrap of cloth, place it on the pult and an expert would fire it straight into the trenches. Sometimes they would scream GAS, sometimes they just screamed for the war to end. As this was obviously killing the German moral, my granddad was given sprouts and other Veg to further intensify his odour.
He claims that this extra food and the shelter of being by the Germapult saved his life. He also claimed that they fired a large amount of his shit at a machine gun post minutes before a big push. The gunners were so busy wiping the pain from their eyes that a few hundred british (including my Gread granddad) made the push and lived to fight on.

I have one memory of the man from when i was about four and it was walking into the toilet straight after him.
( KISS.ME.WHERE.I.POO Signed the sex offenders register on, Mon 31 Mar 2008, 11:44, 8 replies)

i seriously thought...
that it was only us Plumbers who took such great delight in matters of a scatalogical nature! just goes to show how wrong it's possible to be. anyhow, i've more than my fair share of poo stories which i'll try to condense for you good peeps, so watch this space and i shall try to squeeze something out for you all over the next couple of days...
( blaireau69 , the Cumbrian Travis Bickle., Mon 31 Mar 2008, 11:37, Reply)

A Tale of Two Shitties
This is not my tale (for as we all know, girls don't poo) but one told to me by an esteemed former colleague who we shall call Ben (for that is his name). I only hope I can do it justice, for it is surely they best poo story ever related to me.

Once upon a time, Ben and his mate went a-traveling, and their journey took them all across Morocco. A beautiful country to be sure, but not one known for it’s fecally-stable cuisine.

One evening they were treated to a meal by a group of Moroccan pals, which consisted chiefly of tasty meat dishes and with plenty of alcohol and weed on the go. The following morning, feeling dainty in the gut region, and after being told that the goat curry could be a bit volatile to the uninitiated bowel, they were advised to eat a particular type of cactus fruit (forgotten the proper name) which had a stoppering effect on the excretory system and would therefore give the lads a few days grace and time to prepare for the evil hatchlings currently incubating within. Ben was uneasy with this plan, thinking that the ‘better out than in’ mantra was the sure way to go, but his chum thought the cactus fruit was a marvelous idea.

They had quite a bit of traveling to do over the next three days, and an arsegravy attack would have been most inconvenient in this time, so spurred on by this and feeling a little saucy, Ben chowed his way through three of the ‘bum plug’ fruits, while his friend wantonly devoured five of the buggers.

True to the Moroccan’s word, the churning in their poor bellies was silenced, and for three full days there was a peace in their innards.

The following night they stayed in a small hut in a quaint rustic Morrocan village at the edge of the desert, Ben went to bed with a vague disquieting feeling in his bottom, but thought little of it and settled down for the night.

He awoke early that morning, bathed in sweat. All was not well. A Richard of mammoth proportions was attempting to worm its way from his straining ringpiece. Now, this being a somewhat old fashioned village, the toilet facilities were rather lacking. So much so in fact that going to do one’s business meant trekking out into the desert and dropping one’s fudge behind the dune of your choice. Ben frantically set about finding the only toilet roll that they had between them (and which could in fact have been the only toilet roll in the entire village) and, upon finding it thanks to the thin light of the early dawn, bolted out of the door and headed desert-wards.

Now, while the strains of his arse were causing him some alarm, he knew that this was going to be a turd of great majesty, and therefore a good squatting place was required to make things just right. He climbed the highest dune he could find, squatted, and let go.

What followed was the birthing of a chaddy of such gargantuan proportions that Thor himself would have been proud of creating it. It was one of those rare beauties, coated in a silky gossamer skin like a newborn foal, and required hardly a thrutch to push it into this world. Crouching there, dropping this turd of the gods, while beholding a breathtaking desert sunrise, a feeling of such joy and satisfaction washed over the young man that this tale could probably have warranted an entry into the ‘beautiful moments’ qotw. There wasn’t so much as a crack in this divine, textbook log.

After wiping and stretching, he leisurely strolled back to the hut, waving hello to the other morning shitters (most of whom were crouching behind the nearer, more obvious poo-dunes and who were reading newspapers, yay!). He was eager to see his friend and to tell him of his euphoric turd, only to be met by the man himself as he approached their hut, and who was scurrying towards him with a look of alarm.

An enquiry into his wellbeing was met with a squeal of “GIMMETHEFUGGINBOGROLL”!! And snatching the bum-wad from Ben’s outstretched hand, he hastened out into the desert with that distinctive waddle of one who is about to shit himself.

He came back a full twenty minutes later, looking pale and shaken. Upon relating his tale of woe, it turns out that he, too, woke with a feeling of imminent crapping rather more urgent than Ben’s had been. In desparation he had searched for the bog roll (for the twitchings in his abdomen told him this was to be a messy blighter) and panicked when it was nowhere to be found, before taking the ‘beggars can’t be choosers’ chain of thought and fleeing to the desert, thankfully encountering Ben and the bog roll on route.

Sadly, he had barely time to get to the privacy of a sand dune before he felt the ‘here it comes ready or not’ twitch in his nether regions, and only just managed to get his trollies down before a grotesque kettle of feeshus cascaded forth from his poor tortured sphincter. His face, I imagine, registered only pure horror and pain rather like the main nazi bloke in Indiana Jones right before his face melted. Thusly:



Eventually, the brown wave passed and after gingerly dabbing at his shit-spattered arse and hoiking up his mercifully unsullied trousers, he turned to face the demon which he had unleashed (well you’d have to have a look, wouldn’t you?)

Imagine, if you will, a sand dune with what looks like a pint of hot, strong black coffee thrown down it, and smelling rather worse. Lamentably the urgency of his evacuation meant that he had shat right at the back of someone’s house/hut, and the evil rivulets of doom were making a course to the back garden of the residence. The proprietors must have thought him an awful bastard.

The following week the friends left Morocco. One of them weak and traumatised, having learnt a valuable though painful lesson when it comes to eating dodgy goat dishes, the other with a big Hannibal Smith cigar-chewing grin, well pleased that his fecal plans had come together so beautifully.

Length? About 12 inches long, 1.5 inches thick and coiled over on itself like a pretzel.
( Droog is too orangey for crows, Mon 31 Mar 2008, 11:25, 3 replies)

There's been a number of times.
I've not checked the public bog paper situation and had to resort to my socks.

I'm dreading the time in summer when I'll be wearing sandals and don't have that option. I know it's coming..... :(

My brother in law is a right one (He has work odd shoes to work before, and wondered why he was walking funny)

Apparently he was walking towards the bus stop to go to work. After a weekend on the lash, he's a bit windy. Forcing one out he shits himself, and feels it running down the back of his legs. Going home, he opens the door and tells his wife she's going to have to give him a lift into work. Without batting an eyelid she says "You've shit yourself haven't you?"

I've done something similar once. It was on a works night out, and we went for an italian. Fairly decent meal, pretty bland, although it tasted a bit odd, but not unpleasantly so. I was on the 40 minute buss ride home, pretty drunk and my stomach starts grumbling at me.
"Hmmm, that's a bit loud, and by christ, it's churning pretty badly"

Things very quickly go from mild amusement and childish sniggering as I fire off fart after fart, to gripping the handrail in front, eyes rolling and pouring with sweat with a small ball of burning ice in the front of my gut. I can remember the point it stopped being funny. It was mid fart where I just reined it in, in time. The "Oh oh. This isn't feeling too good" moment.

I was three stops away from home. There were bushes around a public park next to two lakes. I really don't want to go outside, but that option is no longer an option. It's going to happen, it's just a small matter of time.

As I get off the bus my waters broke. My gut clenched as I couldn't last any longer. I now start to feel really, really sick and figure it'd be better to get home. Involuntary spasm after involuntary spasm forced what I can only assume to be food poisoning out of my system. I've never felt so dirty in my life, walking the rest of the mile or so home with my abdomen clutching, ensuring the rest of the bad food was expelled. It was like a sine wave of filth. down - *phhhhtttt* "Oh jesus", over the worse, top - *pthhhhh* "oh come on.... please...." - down *pthhhhhh* *sobbing*

It was when I threw up down my front that things went from bad to worse. :(
(Rimfeast, Mon 31 Mar 2008, 11:24, Reply)

Tales from travelling
A few schnit related tales from travelling (both in Thailand actually)

Mount Pooji
Staying in Phi Phi, I hadn’t laid a Bungles’ finger for about a week, while still consuming a vast quantity of green curry, rice and beer.

I was on the beach happily sunbathing when the gripes hit with supreme ferocity. Now our beach house was actually up a huge and steep flight of wooden steps. So I waddled over to the nearest beach-side café. Unfortunately, they only had a small squat toilet with no paper, which I knew wouldn’t suffice. Cue a mad crab-walk up the steps, me cursing repeatedly. I just managed to get to our little hut, burst through into the toilet, sat down (door still open) and proceeded to lay down the almightiest of shits I’ve even seen! It seemed I had actually emptied my entire colon in one sitting. The turd (which didn’t even break into two) was sticking well above the water line about an inch below the rim; it was about as thick as a coke can and dark black in colour.

I felt proud at my achievement, but slightly sad that no-one was around to share in the glory. I didn’t even have my camera on me to take a trophy picture.

The shit-laser
Another one from Thailand. I caught a nasty dose of Delhi-belly at the beginning of our stay in the land of the ladyboys. I thought I was over the worse and went to have a shower. I thought I’d risk a cheeky fart, but some of the wet stuff unfortunately came out too.

Here’s the lucky part. It came out with such ferocity, that it must have literally shot out in a straight line. It completely missed my board shorts and leg and just hit the floor in a little brown puddle. Even better, the shower and toilet where in a wet room, so no nasty mopping to be done. I was so happy, I even told the GF what had happened (much to her disgust and to my delight).
(Deskbound You insignificant speck of dust, Mon 31 Mar 2008, 10:23, Reply)

Woolworths Accident
Back when I worked in Woolworths, about 6 years ago, I saw a lot of weird stuff. pink puke in the sweets aisle last thing on a saturday night, a used condom in the kids clothing aisle *shudder* I even sat on the tills and watched as a couple of kids casually walked in and unplugged a massive TV and walked out! all I could do was ring my bell and laugh. But nothing prepared me for the day a colleague of mine was caught short at the tills!

I was supervising the tills at the time, and everything was fine, it was a bit busy, but with 2 tills going, there wasn't a problem. then I smell it. it was truly foul. I thought it was a fart, as no one seemed to be reacting, but the smell still lingered and in fact got worse. once the customeres had gone, she got up from the till and casually strolled up towards the staff area.

the staff area is at the back of the store in the middle. the quick way is to go through the middle of the store to get there, but we had been told to use the so called "red route" covering the corners where people steal things. This woman had not decided to go the quick way, she had used the 'Red Route' leaving behind her a trail of liquid shit.

Had this been me, I would have cleaned myself up in the toilet, found a spare pair of trousers (we had spare uniforms upstairs) and left the building never to return. Instead, she asked my (male) boss if there were any spare knickers, got some spare trousers and returned to work after someone else had had to clean up her mess.

The wasn't the cleanest of people in the first place, and for the rest of that day, she smelt bad. really bad.

oh, and its not called the 'red route' anymore, its the 'brown route' now...
(Katzilla Follow Me! @Kat_Zilla (I don't promise funnehs), Mon 31 Mar 2008, 9:54, Reply)

Caught short while urbexing
I've done a little Urbexing recently (if you're not sure what that is look at 28dayslater.co.uk) and whenever I do something like that I always seem to want a poo, no matter if I go before or not.

Anyway this one time I was doing a full photo shoot in an abandoned building using the HDR technique (again, look it up). I really needed on and couldn't wait. So, an old carrier bag was on the floor, I moved it to a corner and did the business onto it.

Didn't seem like a big one, I thought "is that it??" but when I looked round there was a massive single turd complete with yellow sweetcorn. I was so impressed I took a picture in full HDR detail.

I then picked it up in the carrier bag and put it out onto the roof through a broken window 1) because the smell was bad and 2) because I didn't want evidence of anyone being there.

I have the picture if anyone wants to see it.
(horrgakx, Mon 31 Mar 2008, 9:30, 7 replies)

Tower turd
Isn't Greece a funny place? Mankind has a lot to thank them for but you can't flush paper down the bog. Not nice when you've got a bag full of streaky paper right next to you...

Anyway, a very short story but one that will live with me for ever. On holiday in said Greece with the lads - 4 of us sharing the same apartment. Just after we got to the hotel I did a great big log in the toilet. I'm not known for my iron-like shits whatsoever, but this was the most amazing thing I've seen. Straight as a broom handle and just as hard. Stuck up clear of the water by a good 4 inches. It took 3 days of all of us trying to weaken it with jets of piss before it started to disintegrate, and when it did a cheer erupted which could be heard down the corridor.

For the next 2 weeks we all had the runs. I was glad to be back on solids 2 weeks later when we returned to England.

PS - same holiday, we got a bit of a reputation... having an afternoon nap one day (in between beers) we heard a clip-clop-clip-clop of shoes down the corridor and cockney girl #1 to cockney girl #2; "Vats where vem pissed ap geordie blaaaks live".
(horrgakx, Mon 31 Mar 2008, 9:25, 1 reply)

FFC
Or Fecal Fat Collection to you, sir.

If they are testing for fecal fat, it's usually for a reason. Fatty stools produce some of the most ungodly, foul, gut wrenching, diabolically gag-inducing stenches known to man. I routinely apply maggots to wounds and it doesn't bother me, but fecal fat? Please God, no no, if you love me, no!

For the FFC test, the nurse is given what looks like an empty paint can and a plastic Flying Nun hat. The hat goes upside down in the toilet to catch the patient's crap. Every single time he curls one out, the nurse has to come in, pry the top off the paint can (which involves hugging it to your body. There's no other way, I've tried) and somehow shovel the shit into the damn thing to store it. Shovel not included. We have to regularly expose ourselves to this utter miasma of plague fumes for:

seventy two hours
(TDub Nunc id vides, nunc ne vides on, Mon 31 Mar 2008, 9:07, Reply)

Ah, back in the day...
We don't do this anymore, but when I was a young nurse, there were actually recipes for different enemas depending on how long and with what you were stopped up. There was Triple H (high, hot, hell of a lot), saltwater, castile soap, mineral oil, coffee plus warm olive oil and oh yes, for the hard core bunged up guts my fave, milk and molasses.

We had to mix them ourselves. So here you are, warming up cheap sugary blackstrap molasses on the hotplate (before microwaves) and stirring in milk, testing the temp on your wrist like it was some fiendish baby formula until it's ready to pour onto the bag. You try not to spill it on your white shoes 'cause it stains forever, hook the bag over your head while the sticky solution runs down your arms into your pits and glues your hair to your uniform, thus ensuring painful depilation later and force viscous goo up this poor guy's ass. He holds it as long as he can then you help him in to the toilet.

Guess what? Coming out, it smells exactly like shitty oatmeal cookies.

To this day, I can't eat oatmeal cookies.
(TDub Nunc id vides, nunc ne vides on, Mon 31 Mar 2008, 8:21, Reply)

Poke *SPLAT*
As some of you may know, elderly dogs, especially collies, sometimes need to be "unblocked" by the vets when their anal glands get all full up of goop. My dog is no exception bless her, and she hates going to the vets with a passion. Can't say as I blame her, really.

So, one day whilst the dog is knocked out to have a biopsy, the vet decided to have a poke around and clear things out a bit for the benefit of my dogs behind. The trouble was, that as the vet was poking around, she was having a conversation with one of the nurses. And then, whilst the vet was knuckle-deep in my dog's barking spider, the inevitable happened. In much the same manner as a mousetrap being set off, a sudden release of pressure resulted in a jet of liquid dog shit going all over the vet's face.

For some reason, the vet expected sympathy from me for this!
( jim_bob can herd cats., Mon 31 Mar 2008, 7:28, Reply)

Not me but...
my mate. he was walking to work and he saw this old man. moustache, pipe, the lot. he was stumbling around a bit so my mate avoided him (cos hes really nice)

the old guy then went into some bushes, said a very posh "bloody hell" and let fly something that can only be described as epic diareaha (spelling). the best part is he wiped with his hand, smelled it, and walked on as if nothing happened

all the while my mate was throwing up at the sight of this old man take a poorly disguised shit
(Mr. Noodlehead, Mon 31 Mar 2008, 4:27, Reply)

My favourite Graffito
Scrawled in permanent marker on the stall wall:

"Wow! I just did a triple coiler!"

That is all.
(TommyShanks, Mon 31 Mar 2008, 4:13, 1 reply)

working in
a large well known pub chain, i am required to check the toilets hourly. this normally involves making sure there is sufficient bog roll and occasionally flushing after the people that always had their mummy wipe and flush for them. another common problem is people using too much toilet paper and blocking the toilet or deliberately blocking the toilet for the purpose of crimping one out one top (but why??)

this however involves the largest poo i have ever seen. it was as fat as a pint glass and very resistant to flushing. i gave up flushing after 5 tries and left it for the cleaners to deal with in the morning.

girls are equally disgusting though. i've seen glasses put down loos on top of shit and worse.

length?? - must have been round the bend, but it's all about the girth....
(33% longer is struggling to think of a witty comment for here, Mon 31 Mar 2008, 3:56, Reply)

My ex wife told me this story
so it would be advisable to take it with a pinch of salt (trust me, it would) but she said she witnessed it with her own eyes.

She was/is a nurse, and on returning home one evening, she regailed me with the tale of a fellow nurse, also a lady, who had been on the phone during her break. While on there, whoever she had been phoning had presumably said something funny.

"HahaERK" is the noise I imagine when I think of the scene, as the nurse erupted in laughter which was choked off seconds later as an entire turd fell out of her trouser leg and rolled across the floor.

As I say, pinch of salt, but imagine if it were true!
( baw__bag contains traces of nuts on, Mon 31 Mar 2008, 2:53, Reply)

has anyone ever had the joy of babysitting toddlers?
they think its so funny when they poo in the bath. its not.
(ladyintheradiator, Mon 31 Mar 2008, 1:54, Reply)

The joys of eastern Europe.
I've briefly touched on this before, but I'm going to excite you all with the gory details of a Belarussian, middle of nowhere, dirt poor toilet.
It was in a summer camp in a tiny village, and took about 20 minutes to walk to from the place we were staying (shitting in a self dug hole in the ground is not an option when your neighbour is on constant watch).
The toilet was essentially a wooden cabin with two small rooms, each with a hole over a 10/15 foot deep pit of crap. The smell was like nothing I've smelt before or since. Imagine 57 peoples' shit being roasted in piss. This is what happens in the boiling Belarussian summer.
On the particularly fragrant days, if you looked closely, you could see the maggots softly pulsating in the sludge beneath you. It was stragely comforting to think you weren't alone.
Of course, there was the time when I heard my team leader pooing into the pit next to me. It was HORRIBLE. I heard every strain, every splat, every bodily function.
And a fly landed on my bum.
I may have cried.
In hell, I will be trapped in that tiny cabin forever.

My dad also visited family in the Ukraine and had to wipe his bum with ripped out pages from books as they couldn't afford toilet paper. I like to think they had the faces of Soviet leaders on them.
It's sad really.
(reducedfatLOLcat, Mon 31 Mar 2008, 1:02, Reply)

This just happened at 1am.
I was just about to sign off for the night and head off to sleep. But i needed to pee first. So I went to the toilet and did my deed. When i flushed it the bowl overflowed and pissy water went all over the bathroom! ARghhh

So i moppped it all up. By this point the bowl had mostly gone down. So umm shit what do i do? Err. ah bog brush. So plunged that down the fucker only for it to drag up the earlier super turd i had done. Shit my earlier turd had blocked the toilet.

By this point, the water had turned from a pissy yellowy colour to a liquid shit. The earlier beer and curry induced shit smell was now assimilating the room. As i pulled out the toilet the blocked up shit had clung itself to the brush. Crap crap crap.

This was a proper shit situation. I flushed the bog again and the bowl filled up. Oh damn this is blocke.d Oh no no no stop stop stop stop ARGHHH F*CKKEJHFEIJHFEHFNJEWNIENEIWN!!!!!
The bathroom floor was now shit stained shit lumped. Just shit. THank god its not a carpet. Not only that i got no socks on either and i felt the clammy wet crusty turd stick between my toes. ARghhhh.
So mopped the floor again, scooped the excess from the bog. And then had the grim task of cleaning the toilet brush.. with my bare hands..
Google is god, so i found out what must be done.. Hmm put some domestos down there and boiling water and eventually FLUMP GUGGLE GURLG. The super turd is no more! hahaha I defeated you!

Shame i now stink like a sewage worker and the entire house like a sewage farm.

Urgh I hate toilets.
(Miggyman, Mon 31 Mar 2008, 0:05, Reply)

Norovirus
Winter Barf disease, Vinterkräkssjukan, or whatever you know it as...

I suppose I should make a note on this illness.

We in Sweden take it in our stride. Not because we're tougher than evereyone else, but because we're simply used to it.

Keep a bucket near your toilet. This is for a simple reason. The Norovirus is usually referred to as one that causes vomting. Infact.. the vomiting point is usually heavily laboured. This is because noone wants to concentrate on the fact that you turn into a human shower of shit at the same time.

When fighting to control your sphincter (believe me, the time will come) you tend to have only one thing in mind: Sphincter control. Failure to control the surge of rectal pressure will result in a deluge of liquid shit escaping - no, Rocketing - out of your body, invariably catching the rim of the toilet and splattering back over your nuts, thighs, (or mimsy) and all.

All of your poor ill mind is taken up with the control issue... so you usually fail to notice the "surprise vomitting event" approaching fast. There is - I'm pleased to say - A sense of smug satisfaction to having the bucket ready; you feel as though you have cheated the illness.

******************

My first bout of Vinterkräkssjukan (sounds like vinter-cr-air-k-swoo-kan) saw me in my first litte flat in Malmö about 4 years ago. The Bathroom was big enough to fit 2 baths in. While this initially sounds like a bit of a boast, allow me to point out that the bath on this particular bathroom genuinely took up ½ of the floorspace. Next to it at one end of the bath was the toilet, and the other the sink: a Square bathroom, who's door came in between sink and toilet.

I knew I was ill, and knew what I had. Following advice from friends (and the lass who'd kindly given it to me) I put a bucket under the sink (opposite the toilet) in readyness for the fabled day.

It struck while I was drunk. In a bold move that most single blokes and students will recognise, I'd resaoned that illness's nemesis was Alcohol. If it burnt in a cut, it'd kill viruses. This lack of sense may be confusing, but previous posts may alert you to the fact that I'm not a Biologist, and I only sink to such levels of logic after I'm already well into the "treatment".

Anyhow. I digress. (It might be prudent to point at that I'm treating myself for the flu at the moment. Single Malt treatment - while not the most effective - is particularly fine and stylish.)

It hit while I was drunk. With my left knee aginst the bathtub and my right knee against the doorframe, I hitched up my towelling dressing-gown and planted my ass-cheeks on the throne. Too late to do anything about it I noticed that the seat was up. A slightly pissy (and most-likely hairy) toilet rim was cold against my thighs as my arse spewed a geyser of liquid excrement all over the porcelain.... true to legend, as the second wave hit, my guts started to heave.

Feeling that something was going my way I grabbed the bucket, and grimmaced as the warm vomit drummed into the bottom of the bucket.....

- At these times I like to imagine mysef on a children's roundabout in a park: Joyously naked and spewing vile liquids from each end... sometimes in my mind there's a group of burberry-clad charvers surrounding the roundabout, getting covered head to foot in rejected bodily fluids... but that's just me. choose your own "making vomiting fun" image -

...I'd beaten it. Gasping for breath and trying to snort the puke out of my nose I surveyed the scene: My bathroom was clean, and despite spewing, it was all under control. I was an Adult. I could deal with this. It was going to be all right. Ha!

and.... I was out of toilet paper.

Dammit.

Not a big deal really: The toilet paper was on a shelf just outside the bathroom, just within reach. I opened the door, leant out and stretched for the roll....

Alcohol does not improve your balance.
Bathmats don't offer good friction.
Toilet rims are not stable seats.
Cheapo plastic buckets don't survive being kicked against bathtubs,
Splintered plastic will (and does) cut your foot.
and while towelling dressing-gowns DO soak up vomit, wearing them at the same time is less than fun.

A final point... If you end up in this situation: drunk, lying half-in half-out of your tiny bathroom with shitty thighs and a wearing a vomit-soaked dressing gown... Take my advice: It probably IS worth the un-stable slippery nightmare that is "getting back on the toilet".

Hindsight is a wonderful thing, and I really miss that dressing gown.

.
( Humpty Dumpty was Pushed Is unaware of having any limits., Sun 30 Mar 2008, 23:07, Reply)