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This is a question Shit Stories: Part Number Two

As a regular service to our readers, we've been re-opening old questions.

Once again, we want to hear your stories of shit, poo and number twos. Go on - be filthier than last time.

(, Thu 27 Mar 2008, 14:57)
Pages: Latest, 21, 20, 19, 18, 17, 16, 15, 14, ... 1

This question is now closed.

As I mentioned earlier
Japanese toilet control with a special button for ladies.

The two buttons on the top are for big or small flushes. The forth button from the left is to wash your lady garden.
(, Tue 1 Apr 2008, 15:19, 8 replies)
I was stoned earlier on
And I went for a shit. During the process of wiping, somthing - somewhere - went horribly wrong.

Cue me ending up washing shit from my hand to my elbow. I'm still puzzled as to how this happened!
(, Tue 1 Apr 2008, 15:12, 3 replies)
As a child...
We used to smear dog shit on the under-side of people's car door handles with a lollipop stick while they were in the shop buying something.

Imagine their suprise, and our hysterics, when they returned to their car.
(, Tue 1 Apr 2008, 15:11, 3 replies)
Polystyrene floats
not the kind you use in the swimming pool though ...

My friend's wee boy can't be left in a room with polystyrene. He eats it. God only knows why, but there you go.

That stuff is completely indigestible, and comes out the other end the same way it went in. My friend discovered this when her wee boy ate a chunk of the packaging their new telly came in.

His poops were unflushable for days afterwards - they floated too well. Eventually, one of his parents (they refuse to divulge which) had to don the faithful rubber glove and scoop out the floaty white bits. The rest had broken up and gone to join Nemo in the ocean.

That one is guaranteed to come up the first time he brings a girl home.
(, Tue 1 Apr 2008, 14:53, 1 reply)
Who Wants To Be A Millionaire (inspired by Frankspencers post)
Ok, this is for a million spounds:-

Question: What kind of shit comes out of a pigs arse? Is it

A) Dog shit
B) Pig shit
C) Bird shit, or
D) The Cutty Sark

You have two lifelines left, you can phone a retarded friend or ask the audience who all have the mental age of seven. You used the other lifeline up when I asked you your name and occupation, but we would only have taken away the two least likely answers anyway.

I will now procede to undermine your confidence by asking you repeatedly "are you sure" and reminding you how much money you could lose whilst sniffing my fingers.

Just as you feel ready to answer the question we will cut to a break.
(, Tue 1 Apr 2008, 14:52, 6 replies)
Bad song
I am really quite glad not to be able to post much to this qotw! It does however bring to mind a really bad song I used to know about the 5 constipated men in the bible. I won't quote it all, but the men in question were:

Cain (he wasn't Abel)
Baalam (he couldn't move his ass)
Moses (he took the tablets)
Solomon (he sat for forty years)
Samson (he brought the house down)

At least you didn't have to listen to me sing it!
(, Tue 1 Apr 2008, 14:51, 3 replies)
Mrs Devlin
was one of my R.E. teachers, she was fairly young, average looking, with short, dark hair, and she was from Northern Ireland.
Most of our lessons passed by without incident, she taught us all about the five pillars of Islam, the Easter Bunny and Vishnu. None of us were actually interested, but it passed the time.
Until the day that she announced in her broad, Irish accent, that 'Approximately one turd of all...' I can't remember the rest of her enlightening fact, but I do remember that every ear in the class pricked up.
Every child's eyes widened, as they couldn't quite believe what they'd heard. Had they heard it? Had they misheard? -Of course not, this was just the Northern-Irish pronunciation of the word 'third'.

But now every boy in the class made it their goal to get Mrs Devlin to repeat the word,
'Miss, what percentage of european Jews were wiped out in WW2?'
'Miss, can you name a fraction lower than half, but more than quarter?'
'I had a race with two of my friends Miss, they both beat me, i guess that makes me...?'
They'd all ask, getting the same answer every time, 'A turd.'

We'd all try hard to stifle our laughter, and hold back the tears of merriment, until we could explode with mischievous delight outside of the classroom.

Until, one day, a certain Leslie Nielsen released a sequel, the likes of which have never been seen since...

'Miss, what's the name of that film Leslie Nielsen's in at the cinema..?'

'Naked gun,' she said, and we all waited with baited breath, 'turty-tree and a turd.'
(, Tue 1 Apr 2008, 14:40, 11 replies)
In my time, I've made a few tasty skunk and alcohol fusions
Mainly Skunk Brandy. Tasty stuff to add to a coffee in the morning, and if prepared for long enough tastes just like liquid skunk. The best batch I made was a half oz of finest skunk mixed into a 70cl bottle of Napoleons finest Brandy, then left to stew for 3 months, giving it a good shake every day.

Even after just one capful in a coffee (and to be fair, you didn't really need much more) every visit to drop the kids off would leave the bathroom full of the rich scent of skunky shite, but with the emphasis (90%) on the skunky aroma. Fucking great, if a little suspect.
(, Tue 1 Apr 2008, 14:33, 1 reply)
Probly bindun
I couldn't resist posting this, it has been on my mind all morning, and I am going to get it off my chest, probably to a torrent of abuse about how it has bindun, or something similar, but anyway...

I went to the supermarket to buy some colgate, they only had aquafresh, i settled for that and went home.

That's my shit story...
(, Tue 1 Apr 2008, 14:32, 1 reply)
I'm Lovin' It (NOT!!)
So... A bunch of us divers are on our way to dive a local rock quarry that's about 40' deep.

On the way, one of the gals announces that she hasn't had breakfast, and asked if I wouldn't mind swinging through the McDonald's drive-thru. With a sigh, I pull off and we go through the line.

I decide that I could use a bit of something to eat too, so I get a Sausage McGriddle, which is now known as the "O Fuck Me McShittle."

We proceed to the quarry, and the first dive of the morning is uneventful. Chilly, but interesting, as we dove through the old shaker house and various buildings left over from when the quarry was operational.

We had a bit of lunch... Some sandwiches and other fairly innocuous fare. We went back in for the second dive, and ended up quite a ways from shore.

At depth, I felt an ominous churning in my gut, and then experienced a mighty rush of bubbles. Eh... but not from my tank or regulator. No... T'was from a region more southerly.

I sighed with relief... It seemed it was a false alarm, rather than a turd signaling for clearance. We continued on further from shore.

Suddenly, my guts and ass began churning with a ferocity only marginally surpassed by that of Hurricane Wilma.

Fuck me...

So, realizing that I had a bit of an emergency on my hand, I ascended, inflated my BCD, and began kicking for shore, where there was a porta-potty. I kicked and kicked and kicked, swimming with all my might.

It was like a nightmare, where you run as fast as you can and can't make any progress.

By now, I'm whimpering softly and feeling more than a little desperate. Bit by agonizing bit, I am making progress, but I'm fairly near to giving up all hope.

I finally arrive at shore, haul my gear-laden self out of the water, and run as fast as I can for the staging area, dump my tank and BCD, unzip my wetsuit and shuck it as quickly as I can.

By now, the pressure has built to excrutiating levels, and it's some kind of law that governs bladders and colons: The closer you are to relief, the more immediate the urge becomes.

GLORY BE!! FREE AT LAST!!! I'm down to my Speedos and run/waddle/OMFG to the porta-potty. I get inside, slam the lock on the door, whip my Speedos down, and without even being fully seated, my poor sphincter gives way, getting 90% of high-quality arse-pudding into the actual pit.

Eh... The other 10% decorated the seat in a rather festive shade of brown. I cleaned it up as best I could, and emerged, mopping the cold sweat from my brow and upper lip.

Never again! Never again, will I be tempted to have a McDonald's breakfast, especially if I know that I'm going to be in a place where relief may not be immediately available!
(, Tue 1 Apr 2008, 14:32, 3 replies)
My Dad worked for years in Construction in England. One of his jobs was to round up able bodied men in the area capable with a bit of training of using a shovel.
One such shovel monkey was John. John had the social skills of an amoeba and was the type to work simply to earn enough to quench his thirst for ale.
One Monday morning John being worse for ware from night before decided that an immediate bowel movement was necessary. He found himself a quietish corner and proceeded to curl one out for Ireland.
While pulling up his kaks he happened to spy on his latest creation and what he saw terrified him. He had made pooh waffles. As in his pooh looked just like mini waffles. So, petrified that something was seriously wrong with him he ran for my Dad. He brings my Dad over explaining that there must be something fucked up going on. My dad looked at his poor ashen face and asked him to turn around. John did so to reveal much to my Dad's disgust and amusement a massive shit stain at the bottom of his string vest. Nice.
From that day forth, John was to be forever known as Waffles.
(, Tue 1 Apr 2008, 14:31, Reply)
Reading on the bog
I'm sure most people have a stack of reading material by the Khazi (or is it just me?) - appropriately, most of what I read whilst on the shitter is shit.

Right now, I have the following rivetting reads gracing my crapperside table:

"Want To Play" by PJ Tracy - A low-rent cop thriller.
"A Question of Blood" by Ian Rankin - Another low-rent cop thriller.
Motorcycle News - Read it once, now use it for emergency arsewipe.
"A Beginner's Guide to C++" - Don't ask me why, and
"The God Delusion" by Richard Dawkins, just because I don't like it.

There's normally a copy of The Sun floating around there too, I like to smear shit on the latest reactionary tabloid headlines.

Oh, and Auto/Bike Trader, so I can lust after vehicles I'll never be able to afford.
(, Tue 1 Apr 2008, 14:01, 13 replies)
septic tank
All these stories remind me of the most character building episode of my youth.

When I was a wee nipper we had some drainage problems on our land, the result of which meant the septic tank had to be exposed so that blockages could be attended to.

Whilst amusing myself with a cunning game of 'jump over the septic tank', I fell in, and had to be fished out by my dad - but not before I'd swallowed at least two pints worth of raw effluent of varying consistency, heritage, and, yes, flavour.

To this day, I can't bring myself to clean the toilet

The reason for this, I explain to my housemates, is that I know what shit tastes like.

There's just no comeback from that.
(, Tue 1 Apr 2008, 13:55, 6 replies)
re: just for the men (see lower doon)
i've experienced this too, in fact our IT bloke at my last place set up an email group 'men ony' most of the stuff was the odd risque funny or football gag but quite often the toilet complaints would go round.

heres what i learned

there are a secret group living amoung us who do not have a crap at work.

this splits into 2 subspecies
1. i dont shit at work because i dont like using strange toilets
2. i dont shit at work because i dont think its right to do so/unfair on others/just wrong

now if thats not anal retentive i dont know what the hell is. its not like there isnt any privacy, the lavatories are hidden away in well ventilated rooms with little private cubicles.

(, Tue 1 Apr 2008, 13:53, 5 replies)
Second date goes horribly wrong
A few years back, I was attempting to court an attractive young lady I had quite an interest in. The first date had gone well, but then Cupid and I haven't seen eye to eye for a long time...

It's fair to say that a goodly proportion of my romantic exploits have been subject to sudden and inexplicable calamity and/or comedy to ruin the proceedings. Would the chubby, winged, archery loving fiend give me a break this time? Would he hell.

The second date was planned meticulously, I booked a restaurant, cleaned the car and made sure I was as neat as a pin. Naturally I offered to drive the lady to the restaurant so she could enjoy a few glasses of Lambrusco and it would not do for her to climb into a grotty carriage. It was vaccuumed and waxed to perfection.

Calamity No 1

A mile from her front door and 300 yards from a main dealer, my three year old car decided it didn't want to go any further and chose that exact moment to die on the spot. No amount of swearing, pleading or thumping the steering wheel would get it to move. It barely spared enough juice to allow me to wind the window up and lock the car. I was faced with two choices, I could either call it off and wait for the AA or go ahead with the date and sort the car out in the morning. Gallantry inspired me to do the latter.

I phoned the lady in question and explained my predicament. Thankfully, she was more or less happy to drive so she picked me up while I stood next to my stricken Alfa Romeo. She was dressed to the nines in a black cashmere coat, an LBD (Little lack Dress) and heels which bordered on the indecent. How could I let a trifling case of Italian mechanical flakiness get in the way, when Paradise clearly lurked between the thighs the LBD was scarcely concealing?

Calamity No 2

The restaurant was nice and the food was excellent. My date ordered her meal, and glasses were clinked as we talked and ate. At the end of the evening, my date kindly agreed to drive me back home.

Now at the time, I had just moved in to a house I was sharing with a friend called Phil in a perpetual imitation of Men Behaving Badly with a dash of Young Ones thrown in.

I wouldn't go so far as to use the world "disgusting", but Phil's attitude to bathroom maintenence went as far as tipping some bleach down the pan every few months. Mould grew freely along the surfaces and rampantly on the limescale covering the shower curtain. The floor was covered in half an inch of dust, while the cleaning products themselves were similarly coated. Lifting the seat revealed all manner of limescale induced grimness.

Now none of the previous two paragraphs would be relevant had my date not asked "I'm desperate for a wee. Do you mind if I borrow your bathroom" as she pulled up to the driveway.

I could feel her slipping away...

Calamity No 3

Phil owned a daffy and friendly Springer Spaniel, who seemed delighted to meet a new houseguest and bounded up to greet my date.

Said Spainel looked lovingly at her as if she was long lost family before depositing a shimmering, six inch long trail of dogsnot all over the cashmere coat.

My date looked at Phil evilly, who took his cue to call the dog away. I made our excuses and pointed my date up the stairs to the bathroom before she beat the dog to death with one of her heels, making feeble excuses for my housemate's cleanliness on the way in a manner which might as well have been akin to Manuel from Fawty Towers.

I wandered downstairs to see Phil and a mutual friend sitting on the sofa.

"Didn't like her, stuck up bint" said Phil

"Well your dog did snot all over her expensive coat" I retorted.

"Well are you two joining us in a fucking beer or what?" Phil replied.

"Nah, Lucy is only stopping for a wee then I'll see her home" I suggested.

Calamity No 4

Some considerable time had passed at this point, but Lucy reappeared wearing an expression which was soemwhere between shock and bemusement. Fearing that Phil's bathroom had been all too much and that the dogsnot incident had nearly pushed her over the edge, a derisory "would you like to stay for coffee?" was a no-no so I too the initiative and ushered Lucy back out the front door to her car.

A quick and halfhearted kiss goodnight later, my friend Clive appeared by the doorway and announced he was off home and would Lucy like to follow him back to the main road so that she could find her way home.

Fifteen minutes later, I arrived back at Phil's place with a full bladder. Running up the stairs, I pushed open the bathroom door.

Wha? Oh. My. Fucking. Goodness.

My face was immediately slapped about by the unholiest of stenches, as yet unequalled by abbatoirs, farmyards, sickly pets, babies sickly or otherwise. I've felt less disgust shaking hands with politicians. I'd been to the bathroom after folks suffering from Chronns Disease and severe lactose intolerance, none of them could compete with this for sheer, off the scale smell.

I lifted the lid, my vision was sullied with a sight reminiscent of Colin McRae's wheelarch. I closed my eyes and blessed relief soon followed despite the fact that my eyes watered and I felt the bile rise in my throat, I actually held my breath as I peed.

Please, get this pee over with quickly, I don't know how much longer I can hold my breath! I flushed and lightheaded through lack of oxygen ran out of the door before sprinting downstairs, my chest heaving and desperately trying to suck in clean air. I was fighting a battle between the need to breathe and the need not to projectile vomit.

Finally, I flung open the living room door.

"You're a fucking animal Phil!" I half-yelled, "I fucking well hope you dropped that after my guest left".

"Fuck off, I thought that was Clive. Or you."

Feeling the need for beer and a tad lightheaded I sat down.

"Please, dear God let that be Clive..." We said almost in unison.

A brief but ruthless whodunit was conducted with Clive via mobile phone.

It wasn't him.
(, Tue 1 Apr 2008, 13:51, 7 replies)
Oh dear really?
That train story has been told a few times I'm afraid so if we're all playing that way i'll tell you the story of when i got a bucket of fried chicken and it turned out to be deep fried shit. Or the time i did a shit and i looked down only to see i had pooed out the big book of urban legends. Cock and Balls my dear cock and balls
(, Tue 1 Apr 2008, 13:31, 1 reply)
Don't open the bag
If you've had a plumber working on your drains for a while, disconnecting you from a septic tank and connecting you into the sewers, and if the plumber has tied something up in several plastic bags very neatly, don't whatever you do open the bag.

It contained a short section of pipe holding several decades worth of encrusted crap.
(, Tue 1 Apr 2008, 13:23, 1 reply)
We lived outside of Dublin but worked in the city most fridays we rushed a few beers before the train ride home, my (ex) boyfriend who believed farting was the funniest thing a man could do decided to regale me with with a friday performance complete with cheek raising,
Alas on this occasion he followed through leaving a beautiful stain for all to see. We had about 20 mins to catch the train, the last one of the night, so he sent me to grab him a cheep pair of pants from the nearest shop.
Which because im an idiot i agreed to do. I rushed around looking for a something, eventually I found a place, ran in grabbed a pair of track suit bottoms and made it to the train with about 30 sec to spare,gave the smelly fuck the bag and settled into a beer.
He went to the toilet cleaned himself up and threw his shitty stuff out the window, opened the bag I'd given him to find a shirt ,
I wish I had done it on purpose
(, Tue 1 Apr 2008, 13:13, 10 replies)
Baron Biscuits reminds me
This happened a couple of weeks ago.

My morning routing generally involves turfing out the cat at breakfast time. Ostensibly, this is to provide him with at least some kind of exercise, patrolling the alley. In practice, it means that he goes for a short wander, and then perches on the window-ledge of the dining room crying to be let in.

So, there I was one Sunday morning, enjoying breakfast with Ms Housemate, when he popped up onto the ledge and sat down. A startled look passed over his face. He jumped back down into the yard.

Then he jumped up onto the wall, and ran along that a bit, before changing direction and running somewhere else. He was getting more and more frantic.

I opened the back door to let him in. He charged upstairs more quickly than is strictly plausibe, turned round, and ran back down again, into the living room. Once there, he attempted to hide behind the sofa from something, but, discovering that that offered no asylum, fled from there. With every second, he looked more panicked.

I eventually managed to grab hold of the by-now terrified and traumatised animal. The cause of his distress? A Klingon. He obviously thought that something was holding his arse and wouldn't let go. Forming a makeshift glove from looroll, I prised the impressivly solid lump of faeces from the fur around his backside. He whined a bit as it pulled his hair a bit... but was suddenly much calmer.

I shall edit this story to include an hilarious punchline as soon as I think of one.
(, Tue 1 Apr 2008, 13:10, 2 replies)
you know after reasing these posts...
Ive begun to take more notice of poos. In fact ive just had the most satisfying dump on company time. a good foot long one. Flushy neatly too :D
(, Tue 1 Apr 2008, 13:03, 1 reply)
Cat Fart of Doom


Woo, first post! Ever so slightly off topic…

Before I left home for university, my family owned two cats. They were grand, did all the usual catty things and generally, on the surface, all seemed well with them.

Outward appearances can be deceiving.

It was the weekend, and myself and a friend were chilling in my room, when in saunters the male cat, plopping himself at my feet and started to groom himself. A quick scratch behind the ears was all the attention I gave him while I turned my attention back to my mate.

Suddenly, a drawn out, banshee like, high pitch squeal cut through the air, much like the one a balloon makes when you let the air out of it and you pull the neck. It was so unexpected that I almost shat it myself. I look around to see where the hell it was coming from and see the cat with a look of pure terror on his feline face, obviously startled by the strange noise as well. His claws were digging into the carpet, ears flat, eyes as wide as they would go and his head snapping from side to side as he tried to locate the origin of this terrifying, alien sound.

Alas, apparently unbeknownst to him, the source of this noise was emanating from his sphincter.

It spooked the poor mog so much, he sprinted hell for leather out of the room, whilst still farting. As such, there was no escape from the noise, which only spurred him on the more. Seriously, the bugger moved so quickly, the damn thing Doppler shifted, resulting in a bass undertone that reverberated around the walls.

The two of us fell about pissing ourselves at the cat’s misfortune, until the smell hit us. Oh god, did it hit us. I have truly smelled hell. This was the most evil, sulphuric, malignant aroma to scorch itself onto my sinuses. Revolting. Utterly revolting. Words fail me when trying to convey the extent of the fart’s horror.

I remember trying to cover the smell with deodorant which only succeeded in creating a tangy cloying scent which bound itself to the very fibres of our clothes. Not a pleasant afternoon in the end. Thinking back to the cause of the bowel misadventure, the cat food we fed them wasn’t exactly the best stuff: ash was listed as one of the ingredients. Even worse, I hate to think what other subtle shitty tones the cat detected with his superior sense of smell.

Apologies for length etc...
(, Tue 1 Apr 2008, 12:59, 7 replies)
Chocolate chip cookies.
Last year, I went on a kyacking trip through the fjords of Norway. Gorgeous scenery, but bastard, bastard cold.

Our guide was insistent that to prevent anything bad happening to us, we maintained our energy levels throughout by snacking on strong fruit squash and the ubiquitous chocolate chip cookies. As this was something we could do whilst paddling, and there was little else to do but gawp at mountains, snacking was an easy addition to the day.

Now, I've never been a massive biscuit fan. I'm not even keen on bread, and rarely eat it. Same with pasta, really. Rice I like. We didn't eat rice.

So my body, utterly unused to this sort of starchy diet, after one single day camping decided to shut my intestinal tract down. But I was still eating the cookies, because yes, I had to maintain that important energy level, oh yes.

Day two, still no action. Feeling quite bloated and backed up by now, but still eating cookies.

Day three, again, nothing happening. Not assisted, of course, by my climbing to *try* for a crap on a hillface behind some bushes, and a boat-load of tourists suddenly appearing in the wilderness pointing at my exact location until I gave up and walked back down without making an effort that probably wouldn't bear 'fruit' anyway. Stomach is now appearing to be 6/7 months pregnant. Still eatin'em cookies. Climb a mountain. Climb back down. More cocking cookies.

Day four, FINALLY THE URGE. By this point, I'm fully sick of f***ing chocolate chip cookies, and am forcing them into my gagging mouth for this 'energy levels' thing that's been continuously battered into me, but just now I need to take a crap and that's GOOD.

So I climb the hill to the 'special bush'. It has been raining. Firstly, this causes me to nearly slip into somebody else's hazelnut roll. Steadying myself on overhanging branches, I salvage that near-miss, and go for broke.

Take a moment now to consider what four days' worth of chocolate chip cookies, bunged into your intestinal tract, stored for three days, before finally emerging, blinking, into the daylight, might actually smell like.

Unsurprisingly, chocolate chip cookies.
Mixed with SHIT.

And because my body was so keen to expel the rancid bastards, I had to put up with the smell (which was stronger than any shit smell I had ever smelt before or since) as I laid the proverbial cable in one massive crap. Which, having just fiddled with a piece of string and a ruler, I have worked out to have been about 9 inches. I had time to acknowledge that it came out in a perfect question mark shape before wiping and running.

I am now sworn off cocolate chip cookies for life. The mere idea makes me gag. Chocolate on the whole is not a big 'go' area for me any more, having smelt the mingled shit fragrance of it.

Easter was quite hard for me. I stuck with white chocolate.

Sorry for the length, but I'm only quite wee and it impressed even me.
(, Tue 1 Apr 2008, 12:57, 1 reply)
when i was but a young loon, i had a problem with eating innedible things, my 3 main vices were: clay, plastic and of course string.

the first 2 are no major issue to digest, however string poses an issue.

i'd gone for a dump, as usual, nothing unusual there, finished and began to wipe. what i discovered hanging, nay dangling from my chocolate sheriff's badge was a length of string with poop-nugget beads dotted along it's length. rather than inform the rest of the household i began to pull, and pull, and pull. turns out that the 3 foot of string i'd digested the previous day, hadn't broken down and was pretty much intact. the feeling was uncomfortable to say thye least.

i don't eat string anymore, it's bad.

length? about 3 foot.
(, Tue 1 Apr 2008, 12:53, 1 reply)
Subject: just for the men
dont u love it when emails start with that ? u know its going to be about the cleanliness of the male toilets. In my last 3 jobs (all of which were around 3 years) there has at some point been an email like that come round, i've been in my new job for a year now and not seen anything, so 4 weeks ago after some bad experiences in the toilets i decided to send it myself to the whole company, only i went further it went something like (not at my desk or i would just copy & paste)

"guys, i am not usually one to moan, but after my 4th bad experience in as many days, i feel i need to say something. In relation to the toilet facilities please view the following links and educate yourselfs

(link to wikipedia page on toilet flush handles)

(link to wikipedia page on toilet brushes)

and guys, there really is no shame in waiting and looking down there after the flush to see if the item in the second link is required."


what i didn't realise about sending these emails is that it shows up who the guilty parties are ! they would be the people who are now being awkward or off with u, brillient !

honestly, do these people do it at home ??
(, Tue 1 Apr 2008, 12:49, 2 replies)
Biggest poo ever
I don't really like pooing anywhere but in my own toilet

Many years ago I had to go into hospital for a non gastric related reason. While I was there I was hooked up to various drips and monitors. I couldn't bring myself to poo in a bedpan so I held it in. Once I was more mobile I still didn't want to go, wheeling the drip thing with me, so I held it in.

In all I spent 2 weeks in hospital and I ate reasonably well (as you can in hospital the food is terrible) and didn't void my bowel the whole time.

When I was discharged I went home and within seconds of sitting on my sofa the stirrings in my gut started. I needed to shit NOW!!

So I get to my bog and proceed to lay the biggest log of my life. It fucking hurt so much I had to bite down on the towel rail to prevent the neighbours calling the police. Having since witnessed child birth I now know it wasn't like having a baby but at the time I thought that's what it must be like.

But like child birth once the said jobbie had been laid it was beautiful to my eyes. I don't know how long it was because some of it was down the U bend but it must have been well over a foot long and the thickness of one of those large bottles of ketchup, it curved majestically out of the water standing proud of the water like the sword of Excalibur.

I nearly took it out to photograph it. But I had to flush it, but only after mashing it up with the handle of the bog brush. Poosoup!

Length & girth enough for anyone
(, Tue 1 Apr 2008, 12:46, Reply)
A Flying Pasty?
This little tale is one that might not come over well on-screen, but I’ll give it a whirl anyway.

Some years ago I was with a friend when his elderly mother popped in to see him at work. We had a civilised cup of tea together, chatted about nice normal things, when the topic of conversation turned to poo. A strange topic, I grant you, but the aforementioned Colon The Barbarian (see a previous answer) had retired from our group to bake one, and we were discussing just what poor state his guts were in.

Well, the old dear seized this subject and ran with it. I genuinely thought I was going to have a seizure as she told, totally straight-faced, of a never-identified arch-fiend that haunted her childhood town.

Not Jack the Ripper, not Spring-Heeled Jack, no, far worse, the streets were buzzing with the hunt for the “Flying Pasty Thrower” (or “Frower” as she relayed it).

Now, I’m a man of the world, but a “Flying Pasty” had until then escaped my knowledge. Apparently, this foul deed is one that consists of nipping one off , wrapping it up in paper, then flinging it over someone else’s garden wall.

It seems that on many an occasion, residents were in their back yards when they were treated to a Flying Pasty, but by the time they had recovered their composure, the culprit was but the sound of running feet echoing down the alleyway.

Time and again, he (or she, I have drawn my own conclusions and they aren’t pretty) delivered the goods and escaped the ensuing hue and cry into the night.

Evidently the attacks increased to such proportion that no single human could produce that amount of ammo. Not even the man who started Greggs The Bakers, and he has managed to shift plenty of shit pasties every day.

The streets were paralysed with fear, fear of attack, and fear of being accused by The Mob of being The Flying Pasty Frower. Suspects included the Mayor (every suspect list has to have a Mayor on it obviously), the Barman from the local pub, and bizarrely, the Vicar (that’s who the old dear was sure it was).

Then, as suddenly as it started, it stopped, culminating with an escalation in the ferocity of the assault itself – The Burning Flying Pasty, chucked onto a doorstep, a knock on the door, and escape.

My friend’s Mum had the dubious honour of witnessing the zenith of this heinous crime, and said, with relish, that the bloke next door had stamped the fire out with gusto, before realising what was in the burning newspaper.

His words were “Bloody ‘ell…….It’s ooooo-man”. (said in a Leicestershire accent)

At that point I fell off my chair and had to beg her to shut up. I couldn't breathe for laughing.
For years afterwards, any long quiet pause at work would be interrupted by someone saying “Bloody ‘ell….” To be finished by someone the other side of the room. Even the word “human” could spark giggles and repetition of the phrase that pays. Pure comedy gold, I’m laughing right now.

Oh, one final thing. I can state with absolute resolute honesty, that I was NOT the culprit behind the spate of Flying Pasties that assailed family BBQs that long hot Summer, burning or otherwise in my home town. I think it was some sort of ghostly historical echo. Yep, that’s it.

I think it might have been her. I mean, who would have suspected the innocent-looking old dear? I guess we'll never know, and the Frower has disappeared into the mists of time, carrying his/her warm parcel of delight.
(, Tue 1 Apr 2008, 12:41, Reply)
Obligatory follow through story
What's the worst place to follow through?

How about having just pulled onto the M1 at Leicester, on your way to Nottingham for a weekend with the lads and knowing for a fact that you have no spare pants in your bag?

Not my finest hour.
(, Tue 1 Apr 2008, 12:23, 6 replies)
3 stories of varying filth
I live halfway across the world from my dear nephew, a truly adorable ‘miracle’ child birthed by a sister nobody thought would live past 20. I’d have worshipped the little mite even if he had a face like hooker’s syphilitic axe, luckily he’s got blue eyes the size of dinner plates and eyelashes to the moon. He’s not yet two years old.

The problem with living halfway across the world from him is that we’ve forged our relationship over the telephone. He’ll point at the phone and say ‘Nnnntee’ (auntie) and my sister will dial my number. Usually the telephone conversation reaches cerebral depths like whether or not he likes breakfast (yes) and baths (no).

One day my phone rings.

Him: Nnnntee?
Me: Yes?
Him: Nnnteee poop?
Me: Yes, Nnnteeee poops.
Him: HAWHAWHAWHAW!! Nnnnteee nawny (naughty), Nnnnteee poops!!! Phhhplut! HAWHAWHAWHAHAHAHA!!

The phone dropped to the floor as I listened to the child mocking me at length for pooping. NAWNY, I am. NAWNY.

My father was also caught up in the turd inquiry and was established to be a nawny pooper. The child was establishing who didn’t poop (my sister, apparently) and who did (cats, me, my dad.)


My ex brother-in-law (Jon, for that is his name), the charmer that he was, had a habit of lighting his farts on fire. I first laid witness to a ‘backfire’ (arf) when, upon lighting his fart, he also set his trackies and junk alight. Never one to learn his lessons, he attempted this fiery feat once again while waiting in a queue for some pizza. He bent over, sparked the flame…then shat all over his hand.


It was the 911 Service for American Citizens, the Friday after the attacks. I had just found out that a good friend had died, so I knocked up at St. Pauls Cathedral at 6am, a full four hours before the service. I was, of course, the first person in the queue.

Once my bags were searched, I was patted down and led to my seat. I was surrounded on every side by royalty and political giants. Tony Blair, The Queen, Prince Charles, Maggie Thatcher to name a few…and me.

The service began much as one might expect, with religion and weeping. Then one of the dignitaries around me farted. The mere thought of ingesting The Queen’s chuff bits sent me into a fit of giggles which I deftly disguised as crying. Then it happened again. And again! And again! I was bombarded with farts from some of the most important people in the world! This had me doubled over in laughter, hallucinating because I couldn’t get a breath. This was, I decided, a poor predicament for me to be in, considering the world’s media had their cameras focused on me.

I left (THAT’s an entirely different story) and visited a friend at the BBC. He saw me on the telly, he said, having spasms of woe. I then got to proudly proclaim to all the listening newsreaders and researchers that, in fact, I had spent the hours previous stagnating in the stench of The Queen’s / Tony Blair’s anus.
(, Tue 1 Apr 2008, 12:08, 2 replies)
shit hole
me and a mate saw a man SHIT A HOLE THROUGH HIS JEANS at 4am at a London bus stop. Let's just say the smell from the steaming putrid rankness combined with the smell from the near by hotdog stand has put me off hotdogs for life.

How the fuck he shat a hole though his pants i will never know. I just feel sorry for all the passengers of the bus he next staggered onto in his drunken stupor.

(, Tue 1 Apr 2008, 11:50, 4 replies)

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