Don't eat the meat toasties!
Case #1

Place: Istanbul and Bodrum, Turkey

Probable cause : Delicious meat toastie

1st Remedy : Lemon Juice mixed with Nescafe Coffee


Result - Copious vomiting


2nd Remedy : Laying in bed and attempting to die


Result - Auditory hallucinations - an entire episode of 'Moonlighting' (remember that?) heard in English, followed the plot, got the jokes, the lot. Except it was in Turkish. I don't speak Turkish.


1st Comedy Moment : I'm in the bathroom expelling from both ends. Boyfriend of the time in the bedroom asking me to hurry up. Now. Please. Hurry Up! Oh Dear God!

Don't bother.


2nd Comedy Moment : I will not be beaten by this bug so I book a daytrip to Ephesus. Feeling much better, managed the entire coach journey with no problems at all. Reach the ancient site, get off the coach.

*Cough*

Oops.


3rd Comedy Moment : On return through Customs at Gatwick I am pulled over by the men in uniform. Why? I've just returned from a fortnight in the sun. I look like death - grey pallor, slightly sweaty, and who am I looking out for? My case has to be broken open - couldn't find the key. In an explosion of dirty knickers (eeww! But not *that* dirty) the Customs guys find……nothing but overspending. They fine me and tell me I'll be sent to prison if I do it again within five years. I cry as I watch men and women with healthy tans walk past wearing entire leather outfits and Turkish carpets strapped to their backs.


Final Results and Conclusion
I see my GP. I suggest I have Typhoid. He tells me I have Salmonella. I lose nearly 30 pounds in weight.



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

Case #2


Place: Tangier, Morocco

Probable cause : Delicious meat toastie

1st Remedy : 'Medicalcork' (that's the generic name, it's also known as 'Bungup' and 'Stopshits' ) from the local doctor.


Result - Stop producing pale brown fluid from both ends.

2nd Remedy : Eating small quantities of boiled rice


Result - entire bowel peristalsis is halted


Comedy Moment : I can't go. At. All. I try eating a little fruit. Nothing. A little fruit juice. Nothing. Two days later I feel the urge to go. I retire to the bathroom - a cupboard in the hotel room. I sit and wait. And wait. Then. Oh. My. God. I want to die. I begin to cry. My husband (at that time, #1) hears me, he comes and holds my hands. Slowly over the course of what seemed like hours I manage to pass a small white golf ball.






A golf ball.


( chickenlady b3ta's very own Elizabeth Taylor, Mon 31 Mar 2008, 16:16, 14 replies)

Garlic bum grease
One of the local pubs near me is renowned for having shitty beer, in that its very cheap but the quality is very dubious. Several times I've been there drinking and the next day I have had terrible bubble guts.

I had been in this pub one night drinking a few lagers and it was making me feel a bit rough. At the end of the night me and a mate walked back via a takeaway, grabbing the finest supreme garlic bread money could buy. Supreme garlic bread is basically a flat pizza bread absolutely slathered in garlic butter and cheese, folded in half and fried.

One of the problems with it is that the grease levels are so high, it slips straight through you. Combine this with several dodgy pints and it can cause you real problems.

I left the shop and said night to my mate, dashing off down the road to get back to mine as soon as possible to drop my bubbling guts.

It was a long walk back and the closer I got to home the greater my need to go. It eventually got so bad that I was almost doubled up in pain. It got so bad that I began looking around for somewhere to shit, anywhere out of sight of the road. There was nowhere. The only place I could find to go was at the entrance to what could have been either an old peoples home, or a small housing estate, on top of waist high bushes on either side of the doorway. I had an attack of conscience but the overwhelming need to let loose this greasy torrent meant that it was on the bush or in my pants.

So I pulled down my jeans, hitched up my jacket and let loose, squirting a hot steamy deluge all over the top of this box hedge. Pulled out a tissue from my pocket and cleaned up as best I could. Walked home and forgot about it.

Next day I walked down the same road, just to check it out. It was disgusting, like a brown blanket over the top of this hedge, right outside the doorway to the complex. Being the middle of the summer it was buzzing with flies and the stench was unbearable.

I did feel a bit guilty about it, but it was just neccessary. It only amused me more to think that people would have had to walk through this stench, in the middle of a blisteringly hot summer.

Bit of a cuntish thing to do, but it was unavoidable when it first happened and I could hardly go back with a bucket of water and wash it off could I.
(Stevie Ruggling, Mon 31 Mar 2008, 16:12, Reply)

I got married when I was about 4
Our neighbours a few house up had two kids, a lad about the same age as my older brother and his sister who was a couple of years older herself.

For some reason while we were out playing one day my brother and the sister decided we should get married, why I don't know, I hated him and he hated me. And we were about 4 and 6.

Anyway, our feeble protests were ignored, I was given a bouquet of daisys, he was made to go put on his good jacket and a tie, and the evil sister sent me home to try and find something white to wear.
I didn't have anything :D

WOO-HOO! FREEDO...oh, I can borrow your white carigan can I sister of my unwanted/willing fiancee? Joy

So there he was- all smartened up and sulking, there I was- wearing something borrowed that was long enough to cover all my clothes!
The ceremony was beautiful, he refused to look at me, I wanted to get it over with so I could go climb a tree, our siblings were making up random stuff that sounded vaguely official.
After a while I sat down in protest...straight in a pile of dog shit. All over her nice white cardy.

What a shame :)

She was convinced I'd done it on purpose to get back at her, and though I hadn't I decided to let her believe it in the end- one marriage is enough for any 4 year old.
( Jessie © needs pirate name suggestions, Mon 31 Mar 2008, 16:04, Reply)

Japan
A beautiful country full of contradictions. On the one hand ancient, the other ultra-modern.

Take the shitters.

One day you're squatting over holes in the ground, getting cramp in your legs and only avoiding a dunk in the pool by grabbing on for dear life to the bog-roll holder.

Next day you're in a restaurant with something that wouldn't have gone amiss on the Enterprise....

A shitter with controls! WTF? Button after button in indecipherable script. Soooo much curiosity..... soooo much fear as to what they might do. At the back of the "control panel" I spied a dial. Hmmmm - what could this mean? It's on about half-power - bah - pussies! Let's whack it up to full velocity.....

Having finished a perfectly average shit I was overtaken by curiosity. The seat was nice and warm, so I assumed that the dial was simply for lid temperature. What harm would there be in pressing that cute little yellow button there? Go on Mutski - press it, I dare you.....

Caving in to self-induced peer pressure I pressed the seemingly inoccuous button. It was a very bad idea. In an instant a jet spray of water pierces my ring-piece. How to explain the feeling? Like using a bidet with a car-wash jet spray. Fucking painful, believe me.

Action clearly had to be taken, and fast. Sadly, rather than thinking clearly (i.e. pressing the same button again) I acted purely on instinct and lept from the seat. Which left the jet spray to continue it's course towards the heavens - hitting the ceiling and spraying all over the cubicle. Shitty water everywhere.

Being the responsible man I am, I pelted out of the bogs (jet spray still going), grabbed my mates (who were just about to order), leapt into the car and sped off.

I have a picture of a similar toilet which I encountered later that same week. I may post it if enough of you are interested (although rather embarassingly I took the picture PRIOR to flushing, so it will include my fetid yellow piss in the bowl....)

Nice.
(Mean Mad Mutski, Mon 31 Mar 2008, 16:02, 4 replies)

Saw this at Glastonbury 2005
I took this pic and I thought it fitted the theme of this thread quite well. I took this the year of the 'floods'. Note how the toilets are just about falling over and that most of the shit would be in the water. This girl happily spent a long while swimming in the water off her tits on some sort of drugs. I pity anyone who shagged her that weekend.


(The Archduke of South London I'm in your Girlfriend eating her organs, Mon 31 Mar 2008, 15:54, 1 reply)

Cute little girl and the raspberry tarts
I'm blessed with two sickeningly cute nieces who always manage to carry off the illusion that butter truly wouldn't melt. The elder of the two; "H" is eleven years old, somewhat studious and has mastered the art of the acerbic retort.

I cannot for the life of me think where she might have inherited the trait from.

The younger of the two "A" (aged eight) is as cute as custard, with blonde hair and great big manga eyes in an innocent shade of blue. Although never accurately described as bashful, A is quite delicate of ego and an endearingly sensitive soul indeed and the slightest critique cuts deeply and can leave a red faced eight year old in floods of embarrassed tears.

Anyway, A suffers from an unfortunate affliction which has seen her prescribed some Bung-strength anti-wind medication by the family doctor which isn't wholly successful in quelling the raging hurricane blasting through her innards.

One morning the family is en route to Alton Towers when the air inside the car is turning a distinct shade of foul. Without a word, windows are lowered despite the aircon, but A is still managing to overpower the blast of three open windows.

At this point, A's sense of shame was palpable enough for her to blurt out "I can't help it you know!"

H, who'd been silent for the entire journey puts down her DS and says "Here's a hint A. Avoid the beans...."

"Whaaaaaaaaa!"

On the occasion of A's fourth birthday, I left work early so that I could make the party. The sight of A nearly melted my heart, for she was wearing a glittery pink dress with silvery wings on her back.

Everybody say "ahhhhh"

My sis in law announced that the party was given the go ahead at the last minute, for A had been suffering from a bit of a virus.

Halfway through the party, a somewhat unpleasant odour made itself known. Being the tactful creature I am, I gathered all the fairies, princesses and assorted juniors together and asked them "which one of you lot has just raspberry tarted?"

My enquiry was met with cute, innocent faces shaking heads and looking as angelic as possible. Even Aled Jones stroking puppies couldn't look as innocent.

The smell however refused to disperse. I was quite irked until I twigged that the whiff in question was following A around quite closely.

Yep, Tinkerbell had spectacularly followed through.
(Bicycle Repairman "you're also a bit of a wanker", Mon 31 Mar 2008, 15:53, 6 replies)

I really do have quite a lot of stories involving faeces.
Back when I was but a tiny little sack, in the first year of secondary school, I had a mate named Charlie. We were the usual kind of schoolboy mates, always play-fighting and ripping the ever loving piss out of each other, but Charlie had this curse. He seemed to be magnetically drawn towards dog turds.

I remember when we first noticed this. Sitting next to Charlie in registration, I noticed a foul stench which seemed to be eminating from under the desk. A quick glance revealed what looked like a scene from the infamous 2 girls 1 cup, with dog shit smeared all over the carpet, table legs, his schoolbag and even up his leg. He spent a good part of the following period cleaning it up (I remember it was maths, and I wasn't sure if he was lucky or unlucky at the time.)

But this wasn't Charlie's scatological high point. Oh no. That would come around a year later. Our School, sadly now torn down and replaced with a modern, soul-less building, was a bit of a landmark. Built on 2 sides of a road with an adjoining bridge, a large orange tube by which we could cross the road safely. On one side was the "new building" and the other, amazingly, the "old building". The old building was built partially on a hill, so upon exiting the rear (which was the way to the chip shop and bus stop) there were several tiered paths, a load of steps and some rather steep little hills. We were kids. We didn't use steps. Running out one day into the freedom and fresh air, we all began the daily ritual of half running, half jumping down these little hills. Barely had Charlie reached the summit of the first one before he skidded in something wet and slid feet first to the bottom.

Of course, you already know what the wet thing was. It was on both shoes, all up one trouser leg, all the way up his jacket and on his face and hair.

In a touching display of childhood pathos, we all erupted into furious laughter, and in that state of rage that can only be brought about by crippling shame, he spent the next ten minutes attempting to smear it on us.

Halcyon days.
( baw__bag contains traces of nuts on, Mon 31 Mar 2008, 15:47, Reply)

Have some truly brutal, doggerel verse
one day that i remember, on a morn in cold november
on the day that i fell over and smote my head upon the door

now I was bleary-eyed and sober, i was totally hungover
and weaved as I walked over to wash my clothes with soft lenor.

I felt an enormous pressure, terrible weight on my barking spider
And I realised with some horror that I was going to drop one on the floor

i could brook no hesitation, so I waddled with determination
my arse cheeks clamped in desperation against what my bowels had in store

with an animal cry of torture, I unleashed a concrete monster
that cracked the pan and parted water, like Moses from days of yore

quoth the drunkard, nevermore.



Meh, it was done in five minutes at work, you ungrateful bitches.
/coat
( Kroney, Mon 31 Mar 2008, 15:47, Reply)

Multi-shot
A mate of mine (which is how all my stories so far have begun, hmmm ...) who we shall here refer to as J went to this house party and there was this girl there who clearly thought she was the bees knees. She was v. pretty and wearing this short little skirt and generally getting attention of the male populous.

Imagine their horror then, when J's mate burst into the bathroom later on in the evening to find this girl chucking her ring up in the bathroom, thong on full display. Needless to say she drew a bit of a crowd. What the other partyfolk didn't know, was that the cocktail of drink and drugs this young lady had consumed was not only making her barf but was also playing merry hell with her bowels. As she was being sick, therefore, every time she retched, the force of the heave made nasty, stinky bum wee shoot out of her ringpiece.

Also, because her thong was bisecting her buttocks, it kind of split the stream of slurry, making her like a multi-way, twin-shot poo gun on one end and a barf-cannon on t'other. NOICE :)
( Droog is too orangey for crows, Mon 31 Mar 2008, 15:38, 5 replies)

Ocean spawning.
As a geezer, I’m never going to experience the joy of giving birth, but last Summer I had a pretty good taste of it.

September, a very quiet Greek beach, miles from anywhere, and the urge to purge is upon me. Now I had picked a spot to spend the day at the foot of some cliffs and there was no fucking way I was climbing back up, leaving my kit on the beach, picking my way through the minefield of gorse bushes to find a clear spot to lay the cable. No, sod that.
Similarly, there was no way I could unleash it on the beach itself, there were about a dozen people dotted about, so I’d have to search for a suitable place, but I didn’t particularly want to pollute that fantastic sandy area..

So what to do?

Weeeeell, I decided to go for a swim and think about it, which was where I had the fantastic idea of “tagging a Loggerhead”. I swam up and down for a bit, in front of my bit of beach, checking out how far away the neighbours were, how much attention they were paying etc, before rolling on to my back and doing the deed (thankfully I was doing the nudist thing, so had no trunks to wrestle with).

They say that dolphins and humans may have evolved from a common ancestor, a theory to which I now subscribe following the way I gracefully expelled the stool whilst in the water, truly magical, just like the timeless miracle of birth. I could imagine David Attenborough, whispering in awe at the spectacle he would have witnessed, had his camera crew been in attendance.

Which is why I started laughing.

Now, together, laughing and swimming in the sea are not to be recommended, it kind of interferes with your breathing. Which makes you choke, which makes you splash about a bit…….which makes the whole fucking beach look up from their paperback to see exactly WTF is going on.

Couple this with the fact that my new-born was reluctant to leave and find its own way in life,it must have looked like I was being attacked by a sea-lion. Well, it felt like that, anyhow, as I shooed it away, flailing at it with my feet and trying to swim casually back into the shallows.
Reaching safety, I triumphantly turned to sit on a rock….only to find the bastard had followed me.

Not wishing this Exxon Valdez of a steamer to wash up on the shore, I had to swim back out, sloshing water to push it ahead because I didn’t want to handle it. (Just like a young bird, fallen from the nest, touch it and you can’t return it to the wild, it will be rejected)

Some way out I managed to give it the slip whilst it was distracted and headed back inshore.
I sat in the shallows in a patch of seaweed, slyly wiping up with this handy natural alternative to Andrex, giggling to myself again, before heroically striding up the beach, knackers a-swinging. I really thought those German chicks were impressed with my tackle, they were agog, I’d dry off and make my move.

Which is when I discovered I had a long Godzilla tail of kelp dangling from my arse.
(Rsoles, Mon 31 Mar 2008, 15:35, 3 replies)

Poisoned by a Celebrity
I'll give you a shit story.

Oyster based food poisoning on top of haemorrhoids.

Never, ever have I known a pain so great.

You know that horrible burning sensation on the ring after having the squits for a couple of days? Try it with a haemorrhoid. It's like shitting glass shards. And the blood. So much blood.

And the shitting (and vomiting) was from a meal cooked by Master Chef winner 2006, Peter Bayless. On Valentines Night 2007. We had to cancel the luxury spa valentines weekend we'd booked for the following weekend.

Instead we got to fight over the toilet and the mop bucket. I shit the bed and Mrs Smurf shit on the sofa (not deliberately I should add, it was one of those "I thought it was just going to be a fart" instances). Thank god she was wearing pyjamas.

You're a git Peter 'Dr Crippen' Bayless. A GIT.
(Big Smurf Brush me daddy-O, Mon 31 Mar 2008, 15:21, 1 reply)

The one that wouldn't
Other half's parent's house, a Sunday afternoon, feel the urge. Opt to use the downstairs toilet.

Now their downstairs toilet is rather like an American toilet, shallow bowl, high water level, and a flush so weak that throwing a cup of water in the bowl would have been more effective. The cistern also takes a good 5 minutes to refill. Being lazy and somewhat naive, I ran the gauntlet.

I produced one to be proud of. A smooth admirable type 4 requiring little wipe-age. It was one of those that is maybe a couple of mil larger than the bore of the balloon knot requiring a solid effort in birthing, and it sat proudly in the bowl.

My pride was cut short by the thought "god-damn, is this thing going to flush?!"

With crossed fingers I pulled the handle, and watched with relief as everything disappeared around the u-bend. I finished washing my hands and glanced back at the toilet.

The turd was back in the bowl again. "What ... the ... hell...?"

After waiting for the cistern to fill I flushed and I kept watch this time. Everything disappeared again but as the flush subsided the turd reappeared slowly and smoothly from around the u-bend, like some sort of disgusting eel, swaying in the current. I swear it had a grin on it's face.

Dammit, Dammit, Dammit. It was brush time. I thrust downward into the water, in the hope I could just break it up a bit. I pulled the brush out again to find I had merely dented it, it's grin now upturned into a grimace. Another flush, the same slow ominous reappearance. More bashing, more flushing, and still the thing re-emerged, merely dented. It was like I was playing a perverted, scatological game of whack-a-mole.

I needed to slice this thing some how, but in the small room all I had was the toilet brush. I couldn't go and fetch a spoon/knife/hanger as I would have to walk past confused girlfriend and parents. There was only one option left, the hand...

I pulled up my sleeve, swathed my hand in toilet paper (thankfully it was the posh double ply stuff), reached in to the depths and clawed the thing in half. I was surprised at how dense it was, like clay or plasticine. It took quite some effort to break it.

Towelled off my arm (the toilet paper had made a surprisingly good glove), another flush, this time no movement. It was stuck to the bottom of the bowl where I had clawed at it. I may have started crying at this point.

In my anger I grabbed the toilet brush again, and in a desperate frenzy thrust, stabbed, twisted and churned the bowl. The water went murky and with one last flush everything disappeared and stayed disappeared. I breathed a sigh of relief, washed up and left what had been my temporary dungeon.

Now I just had to explain to girlfriend and her folks why I'd been in the toilet for 45 minutes...

genuine apologies for length!
(stubbledchin, Mon 31 Mar 2008, 15:21, 4 replies)

Pop!
Heard this story from my friend Scott, who went out one night with his wife. Shortly after arriving at the pub, his wife came out of the ladies' with one of her friends, chuckling, but retching at the same time. "You've got to have a look in there", she said, shoving him into the lavs. "Go on, it's in the second cubicle".

So in he went, and sure enough, on the floor of the second cubicle was a steaming mound of runny shit. It was also all over the walls, the toilet and the cistern. "It was like a horse had reversed into the cubicle and lifted its tail", he told me later.

It turns out that an elderly lady had emerged from the toilets some time earlier, and mentioned to her friend that she was going home because she'd "had a wee accident".

The 'wee accident' was actually that her colostomy bag had burst, apparently in the manner of a 50lb WWII bomb. But rather than telling anyone about it, or even making the attempt to clean up some of the mess, she just buggered off home.

The thing is, it wasn't like she was too embarrassed about it, because after going home to clean up and change her clothes, she came back again!

She's dead now, so at least it won't happen again.
( K2k6 has a proper job these days, Mon 31 Mar 2008, 15:19, Reply)

Heavy poo
For years, I'd suffered from a problem whereby I found it difficult to swallow (yes, yes, haha) and fairly frequently (once a week or so) would choke on my food. I was used to it so it didn't really bother me, and anyway my mum had told me since I was a kid that it was all psychosomatic, so I never did anything about it. But after one particularly spectacular episode in a restaurant, my wife insisted I get it checked out.

My GP was completely nonplussed, but sent me off to see a specialist, who in turn sent me to have a Barium swallow, where they feed you something that has the consistency of thick paint while you're stood in front of an x-ray machine.

They didn't warn me about the after-effects however: primarily, your shit turns white and doesn't flush. And I don't just mean it's a bit stubborn, I mean it sinks to the bottom of the u-bend and will not shift. And don't bother poking it with the loo-brush -- it'll just break up into smaller pieces which still won't flush.

In the end it had to be retrieved manually...yes -- rubber gloves on, I fished the bits out and disposed of them in the bin.

'Grim' doesn't cover it.
( reallywittyname veraciously conspues lexiphanicism on, Mon 31 Mar 2008, 15:18, Reply)

Dog dirts
When she was a little girl, my best pal went for a bike ride with her dad and sister.

They got to the local park, where there was a big hill that they loved to run down, so they dismounted and she and her sister began the climb.

"Last one down's a rotten egg" they (probably) said, and started running down the steep incline with all the glee a pair of little girls can muster

The glee was not to last, halfway down the hill, my mate slipped on one of those 'tan' coloured dog-eggs (you know the sort) and, as the momentum carried her on down the hill, it was smeared all up her leg, side, arm and even in her hair.

She howled tears of sheer stinky misery all the way to her nan's house, where she received a good scrubbing, but nothing could clean the stains from her memories :(
( Droog is too orangey for crows, Mon 31 Mar 2008, 15:17, 8 replies)

Urban Myth?

This tale was related to me in the time honoured friend of a friend guise.

-----------------------------------------------

To spunky youngs chaps called Daz and Neville (I've forgotten their real names) were in thailand looking to expand their minds, brown their skin and find multiple comfy places in which to put their pump action yoghurt rifles.

On the first night they strutted into a hostel on the edge of town spurning the more touristy joints on the strip. As they checked in they noticed a large pot of money on the desk with a crudely and badsly spelt messge proclaiming that the contents of said pot were up for grabs if a person could complete the simplest of tasks.

"We could do with some more smash" qoth Daz, "Let us enter this competition, whatever it may be two intelligent and athletic chaps like us are sure to triumph!"

Enter they did. They placed their entrance money into the pot and were taken outside to the arena.

Expecting some sort of test of strength or perhaps drinking prowess they were surprised to see and thai lady lying on her back on the floor.

"You shit in her mouth!" yelped the owner with a tootless grin.

"Excuse me!" exclamied our travelling heros.

"You shit in her mouth now!" cried the demented demon of defeaction!

Seeing no way out Neville, the more deviant of the two stepped up, droppped his kecks and slowly crouched over the face of the woman.

She lay perfectly still like an viper waiting for the moment to strike!

Neville groaned and grunted, it's not always easy to lay a cable with people watching, but Neville persevered and he began to feel his barking spider open to release his load into the poor womans mouth.

Just as his bomb doors opened the women blew a short sharp burst of sir right up his anoos causing it to clamp shut!

"You lose!" cried the master of ceremonies, "You money is mine, mwah hah ha haaa!"

Foiled the boys headed to bed defeated and dejected that they had fallen for such an obvious tourist trick. Quietly Neville was plotting revenge.

Several weeks passed, drugs were taken, frankfurters were deposited in sausage wallets and a good time was had by all.

Towards the end of the trip a canny observer would notice that Neville was really very much into his spicy food giving him quiet a digestion job to deal with.

On their last day his told Daz of his plan and they headed back to the scene of their earlier failure. This time Neville was prepared, several coconuts and packet of Polos and some high strength laxatives meant he was sitting on a concoction of Krakataun proportions. The owner didn’t recognise our heros and gladly took their fee.

Neville rushed to the arena and low and behold the air blowing asp was in wait. Already knowing the form and feeling himself far to close to blast off for comfort Neville disrobed and quickly squatted over the unfortunately lady.

She didn’t stand a chance.

A week of spicy curry, shitty local water and sweet revenge poured forth from Neville’s tortured sphincter covering the poor ladies head. This result was met with a stunned silence; the only sound to be heard was the gentle popping of bubbles as the now shit covered woman continued to blow out air in a pointless attempt at belated self preservation!
( Naked Ape call me Caitlyn, Mon 31 Mar 2008, 15:09, 5 replies)

Using my initiative
Whilst still a student me and my friends used to frequent a rather dodgy club in Luton town centre called Mirage. One of the main reasons we used to go there was the availability of bottled Carlsberg Special Brew behind the bar, a godsend when you have hardly any money as when it's ice cold in bottles it doesn't taste too bad - and it certainly did the job with regards to getting us pissed.

Anyway, we were in Mirage and were imbibing said Special Brew with the sort of gusto you normally only see tramps display. We were totally ruined - dancing like morons, leching on all the girls.... it was a travesty. That was until I found a set of car keys on the floor. Keys that had the car's registration number attached to it via a key fob. In my drunken mind I started hatching a plot to have a bit of a joyride as the car was most probably parked in the multi-storey car park across the road. This was a stupid idea considering 1) I had never driven before, and 2) I could barely stand.

Not one to be deterred by these facts I left the club in search of the car these keys belonged to. I think I managed to search for about 20 minutes before I felt the first rumblings in my stomach. I upped the pace of my search as the way my stomach was feeling I might need to take a dump in the back of the car! I think I made it another 10 minutes and then the need to shit became so urgent that I had to make a dash to the stairwell to try and find a place to shit.

Once I was perched at the top of the stairwell I crouched down and let rip. Once I had finished I looked down at my work and was horrified - this was a work of pure evil. It didn't resemble a log at all, it was just a huge pile of steaming shit. It was all over the floor with some light spattering against the stairwell wall for good measure, God knows what mess it had made of my arse on the way out.

I searched frantically for something to wipe my arse with but drew a blank as there was nothing to hand unsurprisingly, and broadening the search would have only spread the chocolate further. A two mile walk home with that much fudge on my arse cheeks didn't bear thinking about. Suddenly, I had a novel idea of a way of wiping my arse. I parted my arse cheeks rested my caked balloon knot against the cold steel handrail... and slid down, transferring the shit from my arse to the handrail in one effortless movement. Thinking I was onto a good thing )and wanting to make sure my arse was spotless) I then slid down the rest of the rails, all the way to the bottom of the stairwell.

Apologies for length - 6 flights at the last count.
(kabukisteve, Mon 31 Mar 2008, 15:06, Reply)

Half of the posters here don't know the meaning of a bad shit
When I was a young lad of nearly 17, I noticed one day, with some small alarm, that I could not shit.

Could not. At all.

I had recently started a mind-bogglingly boring desk job as a programmer in an engineering firm, which meant I was essentially sitting on my arse from 9 to 5 without moving, eating only the rubbish from the company cafeteria.

The dual factors of an incredible lack of movement and the cardboard, fibre-less diet conspired to bestow the contents of my bowel with the consistency and flexibility of carbon steel.

For the next week I strained, guzzling laxatives, curries and herbal remedies left, right and center - to no effect.

My intestines were cemented solid, painfully reminding me of this fact by causing me agony every time I touched my tender midsection or moved in the wrong way.

It was so bad I could trace the concrete log from the beginning of my Sigmoid colon to the middle of my ascending colon with my fingers - I was decidedly unwell. I began to smell it on my breath, trying to hide it with mints did nothing. It began to hurt when I sat down.

Three weeks of sitting awkwardly in a chair designed for someone considerably smaller than my 6'5" frame and the resulting lack of bowel movement had given me the dreaded Roids. My walk, already reduced to a painful shuffle by the iron-hard turd occupying my large intestine, slowed further to a pitiful crawl.

I couldn't get away with it any longer, people noticed and started asking questions. Had I gotten appendicitis? Was I suffering from Curry-overdose? Was I pregnant and going into labour (I am a man, I believe the asker was taking the piss)?

Eventually I crawled into a doctor's clinic and gave him my sad tale of fecal calamity, a full 23 days since I had last passed anything through my agonized anus.

He took one look at my stomach - and I swear you could actually SEE a bulge outlining my large intestine - and immediately deduced that I needed a shit. All the other problems - the bad breath, the back pain, the headaches, the cramps, the insomnia, the nausea and piles were all due to my inability to unload.

It was at this point I was expecting some sort of violently effective industrial grade elephant-sized dose of laxative, or failing that, invasive surgery to remove the offending blockage. At that point I would have welcomed the latter if it got rid of the pain.

But instead he produced two tins. Of Fruit.

In syrup.

"Pineapple or Apricot?" he asked my convulsing form.

Apparently, eating a load of fruit in syrup - and then drinking the syrup - is one of the most effective (and best tasting) laxatives known to man. The extraordinary amount of sugar is passed into the gut, bringing the water with it, and this loosens the flow, so to speak.

On the way home, I ate the entire tin of Pineapple, drank the syrup and immediately felt the evil, solid mass inside me shift.

I believe at one point I was running so fast I actually exceeded the speed of light, as I arrived at house and got to the bog before I left the clinic.

I tore my jeans apart trying to get them off in time, ripping through the denim like a man possessed before I removed my boxers so fast I still have the friction burns on my thighs.

What followed next was 5 minutes of both mind-rending agony and near-orgiastic pleasure as I literally lost 20 pounds in weight.

Several witnesses attest to there being a violent shaking in the foundations of the building, along with a sound resemblant of an elephant giving birth. I actually lifted off the seat with the force of the expulsions.

And when I had finally finished, I hobbled onto my feet and turned to flush. I was staring the bastard thing in the face. It rose not only out of the water but was nearly above the seat, an evil shade of black with a texture like bitumen.

As a side note, never use drain-cleaning acid on poo. It works, very well, but the stench of sulphuric acid eating through three weeks worth of turd is something that no words can ever adequately explain.

And after this I had to deal with the Roids until they subsided a week later.

An entire month of agony because I got a desk job. Never again.

Apologies for length, but the fucking thing weighed 20lb. I didn't weigh that much when my mother shat me out.
(DarkLite swallowed my entire undercarriage, Mon 31 Mar 2008, 14:54, 3 replies)

this
raymondo.chickennation.com/index.php?6
( willenium Fist bump for verification, Mon 31 Mar 2008, 14:44, 1 reply)

i'm really bad at maths
but even i can do this equation:

dark, wet, rainy night + slimy stinking canine/human turd on the pavement / slightly pissed lawyer running in high heels to get out of the rain before hair goes curly = 1 x bruised bum, 1 x stinking and ruined suit, 1 x laddered tights, 1 x total loss of dignity

it was NOT a good end to the night.
( rachelswipe with a fork, Mon 31 Mar 2008, 14:42, 7 replies)

Doggy decoration
It's one of my pet hates, dog poo left on the pavement, but this morning, I spied something unusual.

Not the usual boring old brown dump from a canine friend - this was multi-coloured. The first couple of blobs were brown, followed by a couple of white blobs, then another brown! Strung out in a big line.

I was so impressed I nearly took a picture, but a car was coming and I didn't want to look like a complete weirdo. Mind you, it begs the question,

"What the heck are they feeding the poor thing?"

Or, were two dogs synchronised shitting?
(TheWeeWitch hasn't been here much recently .., Mon 31 Mar 2008, 14:36, 3 replies)

Porridge
Kiss me's story of WW1 reminded me (not sure why) of a story told to me by a guy called Pete that I worked with at McDonalds back in early 80s. He was a top bloke and nice as pie despite the fact that his other job was burglar. He told us many stories but the one that fits with this topic was about his experiences in Brixton jail.

Aparantly, believe it or not, there is a fair amount of inter-inmate trading going on in our fair prisons. In fact, anything that exists can be traded there though, aside from drugs, the favourite commodities are tobacco and sugar or sweets. The cells that Pete was in were on the landing above the cells with the remand prisoners and the yoof. The accepted way of trading was to dangle the said items out of your cell window in a sugar bag held on a long bit of string, enabling you to swap items with the guy below/above. The normal trade was snout for sugar/sweeties - some of the youngsters still had a sweet tooth and hadn't started smoking yet. The guys upstairs would arrange for the youngsters to put their baccy rations into a dangled sugar bag, it would be reeled up and emptied and then the sweet stuff would be put in, lowered and the yoof could pull it into their cells....only, the bad men upstairs would sometimes put a poo into the sugar bags and dangle them not quite low enough for the lads to easily reach into them. You can picture the disappointment on their poor little faces as they 'lucky dip' for a Mars bar and end up with something not dissimilar in colour, but less appetising - and un-wrapped - in their dirty little mits.
(Che Grimsdale Best before:, Mon 31 Mar 2008, 14:19, 1 reply)

Once upon a time
there was a bloke called Bob who worked in the sewers. He'd done sterling service for forty years, keeping the subterranean passages clear and working efficiently, and he had been nominated for some sort of civic award for his services.

After receiving his award at a lavish ceremony, he invited the mayor to visit his workplace to see what went on. So the day of the visit arrived, and the mayor duly climbed down into the sewers where he was greeted cheerily by Bob. He started to give the mayor a tour of the sewer system.

"Doesn't it get a bit depressing down here?" asked the mayor after a while.

"Oh, not really", replied Bob. "There's lots of stuff to keep you interested. For example, it's possible to identify people from their excrement."

The mayor found this hard to believe, and asked Bob to show him what he meant.

"Well, see that one coming down now", said Bob, pointing to a dark-coloured, dense stool floating towards them. "That's the butcher's".

"How can you tell that?" asked the mayor.

"Well, it's dark, so he's a heavy meat eater, and if you look carefully you can see little bits of sawdust stuck to it, which must have been transferred from his floor into the toilet. Definitely the butcher."

"OK, so how about this one?" asked the mayor, indicating a rather softer log making its way down.

"Ah, that's one of Jez's, from the craft shop", said Bob. "You can tell because it's quite loose, full of seeds - he's a vegetarian, y'see - and there's a little bit of raffia stuck to the side."

The mayor was by this time quite impressed. "Right then Bob, here's a challenge. Whose is this one?" and pointed to an anonymous looking turd just appearing at the far end of the tunnel.

"Ah, that's easy", replied Bob, smiling. "That's my wife's".

"How on earth can you tell that from this distance", asked the mayor incredulously.

"No problem", replied Bob. "It's just gone 12.30 and my sandwiches are tied to it!"

/coat
( K2k6 has a proper job these days, Mon 31 Mar 2008, 13:58, 3 replies)

American Idiot
I spend quite a lot of time in the USA, and am enamoured of many things about American life - Cheap Beer, Good food, delicious lassies at every turn. However, their plumbing displeases me.

For the uninitiated, US crappers are shallow pans full of water, I mean practically full to the brim, with a small exit hole to the back of the pan/ This doesn't represent many problems, true, pissing froma height is annoyingly noisy as there's no porcelain to aim at for silent pissing mode, but the worst thing is that fact that they can't take a good ten pint and a curry evacuation.

Picture the scene, you've guzzled your way through 10 or 12 pints (US - smaller) of Yueungling and treated yourself to a spicy Thai meal on the way home. Next day your hungover guts are straining at the leash, so you dart into your girlfriends Mother's Khazi and drop your load.

Noise? Minimal. Splatter? Not too bad, mostly solids, bit of pebble-dash. Stench? It's been worse, let's face it, and modern sprays are excellent, so it seems onthe face of it that you've got away with it. That is until you flush.

Normally the US flush carries away the business in a noisy flash, none of the 'circling the hole' business we associate with the UK, but oh no - you've shat too much, or used too much bum fodder, but either way the murky brown waters are rising as the damn thing refills - in a couple of seconds your curry-damned stools are going to be floating out over the floor involving a clean-up job you'll never get away with.

Plunger? None. Bog brush? Yes!!! You jam it in the hole trying to dislodge whatever is impeeding the flush and mercifully, the foul tide subsides, just in the fecking nick.

The trick? Shit, flush, wipe, flush ;-)
(Jay Tea, Mon 31 Mar 2008, 13:49, 3 replies)

Bungle
A not-so-bright lad from my home town, called Bungle, was larking about with his pals in a local copse one day, when, for reasons unknown, decided he was going to have a shit from up in a tree. In front of said pals.

He sat on a branch, dropped his trousers and underpants, hung his arse over the back of the branch and proceeded to deliver his payload.

Sadly at the crucial moment his balance faltered, and to correct this he swang his legs back just in time to catch the turd in his pants.

He then fell out of the tree and ended up in a shitty heap on the ground below, to howls of laughter from his audience.

Poor old Bungle.
( Monty Boyce, My cheese game is strong, Mon 31 Mar 2008, 13:47, 2 replies)

Thomas the Jedi
This relates to the home for the handicapped I lived near (mentioned in previous post)

When I still believed in the Easter bunny, Santa and God I used to play with a boy called Thomas. Thomas was a great laugh and a great friend, he loved star wars and was convinced he was a Jedi. He was mentally handicapped – during birth he was strangled by the cord and suffered some brain damage. The thing is he was incredibly clever. He was just completely tuned into his surroundings and very aware. Even at the age of 6.
I don’t understand the science in all this, but, he couldn’t control parts of his body which we do automatically. You sometimes had to remind him to breath, drink, blink and go to the toilet. He also had problems sitting still – no ADHD (don’t think it was diagnosed then) - he just had to be constantly active. Give him a puzzle, game, anything and he would be lost in it for hours.

Anyway – one day I jumped over my back garden fence and walked into the day centre to play some Jedi sword fights with Thomas. We wandered around the garden and found a sutible stick each and they quickly became light sabers in our child minds. For an hour we battled in the garden, in the hall, up the stairs and through the wards.

We were surrounded by storm troopers intent on killing the last two Jedi warriors, but, the force was doing all kinds of crazy stuff to us and WE.WERE.ON.FIRE!!
As I sliced through two more storm troopers – Thomas ran for the landing to take on the fresh attach which was darting up the stairs. With the grace of a decapitated chicken he span round and cleanly removed the heads of another two badies. I ducked down under some laser fire and made a forward roll towards Thomas.
We stood back to back, panting slightly out of breath, and looked down the stairs.
“Darth Vader must be down there” I said “I can feel the dark side”.
In a flash Thomas jumped on the banister getting ready to slide down.

Something was wrong though – his face contorted slightly and then I heard a very wet and bubbling fart. He burst out laughing and started sliding down the banister leaving a very fresh coat of shit all the way down.

However shocked I was and however bad it smelt – I always, always remember laughing my head off at the sight of a Fierce Jedi Warrior painting a white sanatised banister with a dirty brown smudge.

When he reached the bottom he shouted up “may the force be with poo”.
To a young boy – this is about the funniest thing you can hear.
( KISS.ME.WHERE.I.POO Signed the sex offenders register on, Mon 31 Mar 2008, 13:41, 3 replies)

Rollin' rollin' rollin' ...
One fine day, some friends of mine went for a nice, wholesome bike-ride around the country. All good fun.

One of the party who we shall call Nick (for that is not his name) started to experience that disquieting feeling in the lower abdomen which heralds the arrival of a jobbie in the bowel.

The jarring motion of the bicycle over the many rocks and crannies of the rustic country path and the hard seat pressing hard against his biz-hole only served to accentuate the contractions of his gut and the general discomfort being experienced in his lower body half.

Eventually he could stand the pain no longer, and sweating, he called his friends to stop, saying that he was popping into the woods along the side of the path to give birth.

After walking into said woods a few paces, he was dismayed to find that the ground gave away sharply to a steep decline, with the trees barely clinging to the soil. "No matter" thinks he "for here is a tree with low boughs that I can cling to"

And so he did just that, dropped his kecks, grabbed onto the lowest branch, crouched and let go of a nice big earthy log

What makes this tale especially pleasing to the listener, is the joy that young Nick experienced upon looking over his shoulder, and seeing his babb roll gently away down the hill like a wagon wheel.

I like to think that the poo is still rolling to this day over pastures new, wearing a bandana like a kind of fecal 'Littlest Hobo' :)
( Droog is too orangey for crows, Mon 31 Mar 2008, 13:39, Reply)

I don't have one but..
does anyone recall Operation Good Guys? The Mockumentary?
Bones was churning his own butter and it gave him the most horrendous splatter bottom ever and ended up having a very horrible and runny one in the camera crews'bag?

I chuckled.
(Siouxfan I'm not staring at you, I am just short sighted, Mon 31 Mar 2008, 13:18, 1 reply)

Recycling the same old shit, part two...
More scuba-diving poo related shenanigans...

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

For the last 10 years I have belonged to a local scuba diving club (not that I’ve done any diving for the last 2 years, but that’s another story). Now, the club has had its fair share of ‘interesting’ members in the past, and ‘Dave’ was no exception (not real name, obviously).

But first, some background.

Our club is based in the north east of England, and therefore we do most of our diving off the north east coast. Not exactly tropical, but surprisingly there are some stunning dives to be had. There’s some absolute shit as well, but… Anyway, as the water temperature varies from ‘bloody hell it’s a bit nippy’ to ‘AAAAAAGGGHHH IT’S FREEZING’ we wear dry suits, and several layers of thermals underneath.

A drysuit, for the non-initiated, is exactly that - it keeps you dry. It’s made of heavy duty material, like neoprene, sealed at the neck and wrists, and most of them you have to climb into through a zip at the back. You’re then zipped up by someone else, and away you go.

Back to Dave. At the time the club had its own boat – an 8m, rigid hull Tornado inflatable – bloody fast, probably the fastest boat of its type anywhere on the north east coast. A troop of hardy divers had headed out to sea for a day’s diving. Good weather, decent sea state, all very jolly and nice. Most of the divers are down scrabbling on the bottom of the north sea, leaving Dave, the cox and another diver on board.

‘Christ’ says Dave, 'I’m dying for the bog'.

‘Well, just go off the end of the boat’, says the cox.

‘I can’t do that’ says Dave, ‘what if someone sees’?

‘Dave, we’re 3 miles out to sea and there’s not another boat in sight. Who’s gonna see you’?

‘Yeah, but you never know’, bleats Dave, shifting uncomfortably from foot to foot.

‘Look, no one is going to see you, there’s only three of us on the boat, the rest aren’t going to be back up for a while yet, just go off the end of the bloody boat will you? Do something daring for once in your life’.

Panic and desperation setting in, Dave reluctantly decides to go off the end of the boat. Once unzipped from his dry suit, he clambers up onto the engine housing and ducks under the A-frame. The other 2 on the boat, either in deference to Dave’s shyness, or possibly just indifferent to his plight, continue to scan the waters for signs of divers off the bow. However, they are alerted to an odd sound from the back of the boat, and thinking Dave may have slipped, turned to look…

…To see Dave, drysuit round his ankles and holding onto the A-frame, curling one off into the depths of the north sea.

Thank god there were no divers surfacing at that point. I would imagine the sight of a 16 stone, hairy arsed diver having a shit off the end of a boat could be quite disturbing…
( Davros' Granddad a voice of calm reason in a world of spastics., Mon 31 Mar 2008, 12:44, Reply)