Aha, I have a perfect one for this
New year's eve, 2006. Me and my girlfriend are heading down to Devon for a party, and decide to stop at Sainsbury's on the way down to stock up on booze and party food.

Whilst there, I decide to take a dump. Having finished my business, I reach for the toilet paper. There is none in the dispenser, but perched on top is the cardboard tube from inside the bog roll. "Ah great" I think to myself, "I'll just use that." So I reach over and pick it up.

Only the cardboard tube is slightly sticky. As I found to my horror, whoever used the loo before me has obviously had the same idea, and smeared his shit all over one side of the tube, and then placed it back on top of the dispenser with the poo facing away from me. So my palm is covered in someone else's bum marmite. What a cunt.

I've never washed my hands so hard, and I had to travel all the way to the next service station with a slightly pooey bum. The best part was the party, where I introduced myself by shaking everyone's hand. If only they'd known what had happened to that hand earlier that day.
( krang, Thu 27 Mar 2008, 16:16, 3 replies)

Something of a poll
Frankspencer's story there reminds me of a recurring curiosity of mine.

Do you/Can you go to the loo (No. 1 or 2 - I don't mind which) with your other half in the room?

I'll gladly say up front that it's a big No for me. I'm not squeamish about the processes involved or the results, I just think that there's some things you want some privacy for. Added to which, I wouldn't get peace to read.
( Fireflier La la la la, not listening on, Thu 27 Mar 2008, 16:15, 15 replies)

Not really a shit story
but it will have to do - I don't have any amusing stories about poo - possibly no amusing stories at all, but still. So possibly this is a "shit story" in the true sense of the word. But it's true.

I am somewhat worried right now, sitting at my desk in London. Back home nearly 100 miles away, in my bedroom, there is an object. Anyone going into that room will instantly see, on a shelf by the bed, an 8 inch cock. Plastic, I hasten to add, but relatively life-like.

My girlfriend has been kind enough to say that mine is of comparative size. It isn't, but it's not too far off. Well, that's what I like to think.

Anyway, said cock was purchased with a strap-on kit. You have to try these things, don't you ?

Well, no, you don't. Sunday night saw me gripping the sides of the bed in some pain as the object was pushed into me.

It really hurt. My God it hurt.

That, however, isn't the problem. The problem is that the cock is still on display. For various reasons, we left my house and went back to my girlfriend's without having time to tidy up the place.

And I was intending to be back at home on Tuesday night, but thanks to Network Rail, that never happened. I'll be back home sometime on Saturday night.

By then, it will be too late. Because by then, my neighbour will have been in the house. She's been away at a friend's, but she's back tonight.

She's 86. To my shame but also delight, she insists on cleaning my house for me.

Seriously. As soon as I gave her a key of her own, she started cleaning my house and doing my washing up. She even takes the bins out. She moans she gets bored if she doesn't get out of the house and tidy up for me. Seriously, she asks in a plaintive voice if I have any washing up for her.

She's 86. God knows, I help her out as much as I can, sorting out her life for her wherever possible. She hardly speaks English - she's Serbian. No children, widowed. I'm the nearest thing to a son she'll ever have.

She's very religious.

She's going to see, erect at the side of my bed, an 8 inch cock.

And I'm not sure how I can ever look her in the eye again.
( I_Was_Mordred, Thu 27 Mar 2008, 16:14, 12 replies)

Sinking feeling
I work in an office which is mostly blokes and we all share one toilet.

I always enjoy a good relaxing poo at work, the joy of getting paid to drop a log is hard to beat (okey, not that hard, but it's still good)

I was relaxing on the throne a few months ago enjoying a quick game of air hockey on my phone when I felt the earth move... No not an earthquake but the toilet, slowly sinking into the floor. It seams that the bog had been leaking for some time (supply, not the waste pipe thank goodness) gently soaking the floor boards below which had all but rotted away. I quickly engaged hover mode to stop myself disappearing and cleaned up with an urgency never before experienced..

I have now of course taken on the reputation as the person who has poos so big they fall through floors (despite the fact that I work with a chap who's the wrong side of 18 stone)
( ChiefWiggum typing random stuff, Thu 27 Mar 2008, 16:10, Reply)

In for a penny
My dearest wife has the prettiest buttocks known to man. Smooth orbs of silken delight, baptised with the finest emollients and cremes available. I could eat a meal off them - preferably soup.

But the stench of her turds is such that there must be part of her digestive tract that is actually dead and rotting. With an echoing vibrato, she launches the first Exocet of sloppy shite into the pan - and immediately the bathroom is full of a rank, vegetal stench that smells like 1000-year-old marsh gas bubbling round a floating animal corpse. My hair falls out, my eyes sting, my skin tightens - and I'm not even in the bathroom! It's coming through the walls and under the doors like a Hitchcockian menace. Then there are further gurgles and explosions, and a rich gravy of semi-solids spatters around the toilet.

The smell by this point has it's own heat and the windows begin to steam up. The Bulgarian immigrants in the flat below begin to wail and build a fire against malign spirits. Dogs in the street begin to howl and the TV reception becomes fuzzy. By now, the reek makes me clench my teeth and stuff dampened tissue up my nose. It scorches the back of my throat and causes a facial tic. Wallpaper peels free.

She flushes; she sprays some air freshener, but the stench remains for up to three hours and the blades of the plastic ventilator unit melt. If I'm unlucky, there's still some gas in her colon that will seep out silently the moment she falls asleep. It happened last night and I was forced to open the door and window as I flapped the duvet frantically to dissipate the poison gas.

I'm not joking.

EDIT: spelling changed after advice in replies
(frankspencer, Thu 27 Mar 2008, 16:09, 8 replies)

My sister told me this
I'm not sure if this is an urban legend, but my sister tells me it happened to her mate, and I've not heard it before....

Basically, my sister's mate, D, came over to her place before they all went out to a gig in our nations glorious capital. He noticed that they had a box of Nesquick on the side in the kitchen. "I fucking love Nesquick" he says and proceeds to drink 3 pints of it before they leave the house.

That night, they're all having a cracking time at the gig, but D comes over all funny and promptly shits himself in the middle of the dancefloor. Obviously embarassed he heads for the door, runs back to my sister's place (thankfully not too far away) and cleans himself up. He borrows some trousers from a housemate and before he leaves, sneaks in another couple of pints of Nesquick.

When he gets back to the bar they're at, he gets a round in, they all laugh at him shitting himself and a jolly time is had by all. Until he shits himself again, and this time in borrowed trousers. After disappearing he doesn't reapper that night.

The following week, they are going out again and after consuming another few pints of Nesquick, D shits himself once again.

It is suggested to D that perhaps the nesquick has something to do with him constantly shitting himself in public, and that it's not very comely and he wont get a girlfriend that way etc etc etc. his response is: "I know, but I REALLY fucking love Nesquick"
( BlueHaze Chutney. All good., Thu 27 Mar 2008, 16:07, Reply)

I am very ashamed of this.
Back when I was eighteen, before I became a perpetual student, I worked in a school. I had easy hours: 8.30-3.00, three days a week. Being young and carefree, I therefore took this as an opportunity to get as drunk as I wanted, as much as possible.

Sometimes I went into work, hungover, with puke in my hair.

On one such hungover Thursday, it was our weekly meeting, to discuss the progress of the childrens. I was not in this world: my still-drunk gut churned, full of last night's snakebite with black, and my mind worked as though it was full of custard.

The strong black coffee handed to me did not reinvigorate me as I had expected. In fact, it played utter havoc with my poorly intestines. I needed to fart. Badly.

A little cough to cover the sound, and a prayer that it would not smell, and I allowed nature to take its course.

It did, with gusto. A little too much. Something Did Not Feel Right.

Yes, that's right. I shat myself in a meeting, and had to spend the rest of the day supporting retarded kids with pooey knickers.
( Queen of Cheesecake, Thu 27 Mar 2008, 16:05, 3 replies)

My bogs too small!
I've always been known in my family for having pretty big shits but its never really been a problem except when I was younger and spent the weekends at my dads, his toilet was smaller then the one at my home and so if I had a shit whilst I stayed over it was pretty common for them to not budge, being a kid I left it for the next user.

my dad effectionatly referred to these as 'crocodiles'

anyway I stopped spending weekends there in my late teens as i had better things to do on the weekend (I got an xbox) so no more poo problems..

until last month when i moved out of my mums and into my own place with a couple of mates. the toilet is too small and every time I poo i cant get rid of it, whats worse is that one of my housemates uses them sisturn cleaner brick things so when you flush the shit is hidden by bubbles so i can't tell if its there or not, I've taken to shitting at work now, they are man sized toilets!

Top tip if you've got stubborn shits, get a bucket of water and tip it down the bowl from a height, it acts as a super charged flush that shifts pretty much anything eventually.
(That Random Guy, Thu 27 Mar 2008, 16:02, 2 replies)

Question of the Week suggestions Part 2
Question of the Week suggestions

Each week we ask a question. The idea is to generate material that's:

* interesting to read, i.e. we won't get bored of reading the answers after about 10 of them
* not been asked on this site before
* not been asked on this site before
* not been asked on this site before
* not been asked on this site before
* not been asked on this site before
* not been asked on this site before
* not been asked on this site before
* not been asked on this site before
* not been asked on this site before
* not been asked on this site before
* not been asked on this site before
* not been asked on this site before
* not been asked on this site before
* not been asked on this site before
* fun to answer

What would you like to ask? (We've left this question open - so feel free to drop in ideas anytime.)


Oops.. the Ctrl-V got stuck there for a moment.
( Humpty Dumpty was Pushed Is unaware of having any limits., Thu 27 Mar 2008, 16:00, 2 replies)

Alex
Alex was an old colleague of mine, back in my Jobcentre monkey days. Alex didn’t drive, and lived about 30 miles away from the office, thanks to the Jobcentre’s policy of generally placing their staff as far away from where they lived as humanly possible. So Alex was subjected to a 60-mile round trip by bus every day, and in the morning would be forced to sit on a bus full of boisterous school kids aged 9 – 16.

Now, Alex was a pretty decent bloke, but was a tad on the hefty side, and with a very obvious penchant for a few drinks. The fact that you could smell it on him most mornings, and that his nose was borrowed from a well-known reindeer gave the game away a wee bit. But, it didn’t stop him from doing his job, and doing it well. Until the point where, like most people of his age working for the department at that time, he buckled under the relentless pressure, had a nervous breakdown and was eventually given early retirement on health grounds. At which point he moved into my Nan’s old bungalow, but that’s going off on a tangent.

Anyway, Alex. He told me this tale himself. One evening, after returning home from a particularly crappy day at work, he had got off the bus and though to himself, “bollocks to this, I need a pint before I go home”, and promptly headed off to his local for a much needed wind down. Only, one pint turned into two, and two turned into three, and the evening rapidly developed from there. Come chucking out time, and several pints later, Alex realises he hasn’t eaten and goes off to seek an Indian takeaway, before heading home with his bag of tandoori delights.

Come 6:30am, Alex stirs and rolls his tongue around his mouth, feeling the familiar dryness that comes from an evening of beer and curry. He manages to rouse himself, have a shower, and heads off to the kitchen to make some breakfast – bacon, sausage and egg, washed down with a pint of fresh orange juice. Then he heads off for his bus.

About five miles down the road, but still 15 minutes before the next village, his stomach churns into life. The combination of last nights beer and curry, and that mornings grease-covered breakfast plus a pint of fresh orange, are all starting to conspire against our hero, and he’s sat there, clenching furiously and desperately trying to think of anything except the fact that he’s really, REALLY desperate for a shit of humungous proportions. Which is not helped by the fact that he’s being driven through the English countryside, past fields full of steaming manure… All the while, the bus is filling up with snotty nosed school kids, and he’s alone in a sea of raging hormones, isolated in his plight.

Finally the bus pulls into the next village, and Alex can’t take it anymore and dashes to the front of the bus for a word with the driver. “Excuse me mate, I’m really dying for the bog, can you wait two minutes”? The driver agrees, and off he dashes…

…To the nearest house, where he knocks on the door. An elderly lady answers, and he asks if he can use her loo. Slightly bemused, (and probably thinking he needs a slash, not the other) but obviously sympathetic to his plight, she ushers him in and shows him where the bathroom is. Ten minutes later Alex thanks the old dear profusely (probably advising that she gives it five minutes as well) and returns to the bus. Which, amazingly, is still there.

Unfortunately for Alex, the kids have clocked that he’s been away for a while, and have put one and one together to make two. As he re-embarks, 40 schoolchildren point at him and shout, “Look, the fat bloke’s been for a shite”. Cue the rest of the journey enduring ‘amusing’ comments about the number two, nappies, and should they ask the driver to wait for him when he finally got off.

Quite why he never learned to drive after that is something of a mystery
( Davros' Granddad a voice of calm reason in a world of spastics., Thu 27 Mar 2008, 16:00, 2 replies)

This Saturday
should be fun.
( mistaspakkaman and the inedible shifting caterpillars, Thu 27 Mar 2008, 16:00, 5 replies)

Shit stories - no 2s
Occasionally I like to take a dump whilst having a shower at the gym. I always take the cubicle furthest from the drain, and it gives me enormous pleasure knowing that my turd will float down the open water gully and pass up up to 3 unsuspecting people, on route to the down pipe!
(idlefingers, Thu 27 Mar 2008, 15:54, 6 replies)

My cat produces floaters
... Not that he can use the loo, mind you, but his litter tray is in the bathroom, and I have one of those scoopy things and get rid of the faeces down the loo.

The gel litter having done its work, it usually takes about half an hour of rehydration and three flushes to sink the last dinghy.



Yes, I know I'm pearoasting a reply that I made a few moments ago to someone else's post. Tough. My story involves cats, and that warrants its being posted again.
( Enzyme is powered by sunlight, Thu 27 Mar 2008, 15:53, 5 replies)

dog poo question
Why do some dog owners carefully harvest their beloved pet's offerings into carrier bags and then LEAVE THE CARRIER BAGS ON THE GROUND or HANGING OFF TREES?

FFS!
(happylittletulip helpless and delicious, Thu 27 Mar 2008, 15:52, 7 replies)

Painful
I don't beleive it, I'm away for 15 minutes and this QOTW is already on it's second page! Dam...

I was about 16, locked out of my house and desperate for a poo. I had to shit in a bucket (it seemed right at the time?) and wipe my arse with straw from the family rabbit's hutch, ouch.
(Fully Goyle what?, Thu 27 Mar 2008, 15:49, Reply)

I knew a guy at university who shit himself after lying in bed for 2 days
But then Meningitis is one hell of an illness
( Colonel Dracula Two manky hookers and a racist dwarf, Thu 27 Mar 2008, 15:48, Reply)

Dogshit hide and seek.
I was enjoying a cycle in the woods recently, gripping the bars and clenching my teeth as I pounded the trails at what felt like warp speed, trees were zipping past me on either side like something out of Return of the Jedi. This is what off road biking is all about, hitting the trails at insane speeds and throwing your body weight around, manhandling the bike into bermed curves and shifting my weight backwards, so that I'm behind the saddle, with my arse over the rear wheel, I keep my body low, lift the bars slightly as the suspension makes an audible "hiss-squelch hiss-squelch hiss-squelch" as I rise and fall over a series of roots traversing the trail. All good, wholesome fun. All is right with the world.

However, my contentment was somewhat diminished when I sensed - with my nose at first - that I'd ridden the bike right through the middle of a turd of epic proportions. Yep, whatever was stuck to my frame had been dropped by either a well fed Great Dane or a small, Pedigree Chum imbibing shetland pony.

"Aww, fuhkin' hell" I cursed slowly.

A fetid, orange-brown dollop had glued itself to the underside of the frame and splashed the forks as if Pollack himself had hurled paint in his usual frenzy.

With a resigned vexation, I stop and climb off the bike to retrieve a sturdy twig and a dockleaf with which to remove the offensive Gordon Brown from my bike.

"Fucking dog owners. They just let 'em shit everywhere!" I uttered, loudly enough for the lady walking the poodle to give me an evil stare. I harbour no guilt, for said lady is not carrying the necessary plastic bag to pick up her dog's inevitable parcel, for it is now sniffing at the ground furtively. I hope that she burns in hell.

With careful wiping, accompanied by a disgusted look on my face, the front of my frame is clean enough to continue. The tyres will need pressure washing as dogshit has an Araldite like adhestion to rubber, but that I could live with for now. I got back on the bike and continued on my way

Oddly enough, the eau-de-turd is still rancid in my nostrils. I chance a look down at my left foot, resting on the pedal.

Oh fuck.

Yep, I'd managed to tread in another turd which had worked its way not only into the tracks of my sole (sounds like a Smokey Robinson song, no?) but also the metal cleat on the bottom of my shoe AND the retaining mechanism of my pedal. This was going to be no easy cleanup operation.

Words cannot begin to express my rage at this point. I'm a huge softy, I love animals especially dogs but right now my sentiments are up there with the South Koreans, I'd happily see the entire semi finalists at Crufts skewered and barbecued along with their blue rinsed owners who have no appreciation for the misery that their pets emissions cause the public.

I swing by the local jet wash and three whole British pounds of my hard earned goes into the machine. Jetwashing is absolutely not recommended for mountain bikes, life giving grease is purged from bearings causing creaks, rust and ultimately considerable expense.

I painstakingly and sparingly use the pressure washer and foam brush to gently ease the stubborn turd from my bike and my left shoe, at no point does the look of utter and complete disgust leave my face.

Fuming...

What irks me though, is I can STILL smell the wreched odour of dogshit somewhere. I furiously check the bike, which is at this point covered saddle to tyre in foam. Nada. My right foot is lifted and although turd free is cleaned anyway.

I slowly ride home, still convinced I can smell dogshit. I fight the urge to gag and talk myself out of vomiting violently in the street. Think. Pleasant. Thoughts.

I get home and carry the bike indoors. Yep, I can STILL smell shit. Why do the Gods taunt me so? My frame is clean, but even so I scrub some more just in case.

I can STILL smell it!

I give up at this point, whereupon I discover the source of the foul odour. Yep, I had managed to get dogshit sprayed up from the rear wheel, not only over my back but also the camelbak I was attempting to remove at the time....
(Bicycle Repairman "you're also a bit of a wanker", Thu 27 Mar 2008, 15:47, 4 replies)

Plastic tea spoons ...
... are useless when it comes to breaking up the mammoth log that won't flush.

Ex Mrs 3in7 was working for Generic Large Insurance Co and had been sent north for a few days of (I'm sure) pointless meetings.

She'd been suffering from a spot of constipation and so when she called one evening to say she had been and was feeling much better I was overjoyed. But it won't flush !!!!!! she cried.

Use a teaspoon was my suggestion. Tried but it broke she whimpered. She hung up as I pissed my self laughing.

Edit: There we go a crap story. I'm sure I'd feel better if I'd made it up.
(Biff..., Thu 27 Mar 2008, 15:46, Reply)

I learned a lot about this through experience

( crackhouseceilidhband Fuck off back to Mumsnet, Thu 27 Mar 2008, 15:45, 11 replies)

A shit shit story
My gf delights in telling me that when she was younger and on holiday she drank a crap load of orange juice and it turned her turd green!

I once drank a load of Guinness and it turned my shit black.

That is all
(ldwater otherwise known as a 'jive turkey', Thu 27 Mar 2008, 15:45, Reply)

Important Question
You know how sometimes when you have not been chewing your corn on the cob enough how you get bits of it in your poo? Well what other foods does it happen with?

If you eat enough funny coloured food, will it change the colour of your poo?

If you freeze poo for a few months, will it regain its original texture and smell when it thaws? Why or why not?

You know how sometimes you have those 'Phantom Poos'? You know the type that I mean ... You go for a big poo, and you are sitting their straining away, feels like it is never gonna come out ... Suddenly, sweet release. You stand up, wipe and look down and the bowl is empty!#@ Who stole my poo? Do you lend any credence to the existence of poo gnomes? Where do they hide when you are pooing?

Do girls poo? Someone told me I often ruin my chances with women by talking about poo. Why is this? I make sure to include all other important points in the conversation too! "Hi, you look very pretty today. Did you get your hair done? It suits you! How do you feel about going for a meal later? If you want I can take you shopping first, it's on me! I had a big poo today, ohh God the smell! It streaked the bowl and everything! There was bits of corn and everything! How about you? Did you poo today? Have you seen that movie about poo? It's called two girls one cup. Here, look I have a video on my phone!"
Why does this ruin my chances? I thought girls liked complements, food, shopping, mutual hobbies and sharing of interesting stories.

You know how when dog poo gets old it goes white and hard? Does this happen to human poo? Why or why not?

When I wipe I use big handfuls of paper, big giant ones. But some people only use a couple of sheets at a time. Do they get poo on their fingers?

How come only some farts smell but all poo smells?

How come some poo floats and some sinks? If you tied a lot of the floaty poo together could you make a boat? How long would it last? I think the captain would be safe, cause no sharks would eat something that sails across the ocean on a giant poo.

If you can freeze poo, can you shave it down and use it as a poo pencil?

Why do people call an emerging poo a turtle head? That's silly! Poo has no flippers!

How come some people poo every day but some people poo every other day and some other people only poo once a week!

Is it possible to poo without going for a wee half way through? Is it possible to poo, wee and sneeze at the same time?

You know those explosion poos? The ones where you sit down, grunt, and pebble blast the side of the toilet? I don't like them. They make my bum sore.

Thank you for the time you have taken to answer my important questions.
(oeb, Thu 27 Mar 2008, 15:41, 14 replies)

Lightning strikes twice.
About two and a half years ago I was the proud owner of a classic Misfits shirt - the one with the big skull on. I'd cut the sleeves off perfectly, it had worn in nicely. It was a favourite.

On my 26th birthday I got more drunk than I have ever been. I was very drunk by the time people ordered me a row of shots. I was hammered. I then attempted to cycle home.

I was woken up by the police, somehow having turned into a man from the 40s.

"Do you know where you are?"

"I'm just North of London's fashionable Soho"

"You're sullying our Holborn police station"

"Of all the places to sully!"

They were quite agreeable and I saw one of them make a physical effort to not say "On your bike".

I woke up further down the road to the sight of someone trying to steal my bike. "I was just seeing if you were awake," he said. How neighbourly.

It was at this point that I realised I needed a shit more than I have ever needed a shit in my life. The pressure was immense, and panic set in. It was 5 in the morning, nowhere was open and I was still a long way from home.

I nipped down an alley and behind a wall, pulled down my trousers, crouched down and let loose a torrent of hot liquid effluent. Standing up, relieved, I noticed it has squarely hit the back of my Misfits shirt as I crouched. Covered in liquid shit. Ruined.

A few weeks later I replace said Misfits shirt. Cut off the sleeves carefully, wear it every day to break it in.

That Summer I'm doing stand-up at the Download festival. It's boiling hot and I've tucked my Misfits shirt into the waistband of my trousers. I go for a shit in a portaloo. I stand up. My Misfits shirt has fallen into the bowl and I have shit on it.

I didn't get a third.
(metalwarlord, Thu 27 Mar 2008, 15:41, 1 reply)

No sharting, luckily
Monday night: curry binge. Tuesday early-lunch: falafels.

Tuesday afternoon and evening: launching copious air-biscuits on the London Underground and in the Science Museum.

So if you were peering at bits of space hardware at one of London's prestigious museums, and were suddenly enveloped by a cloud of noxious, choking arse-gases, then you may have also glimpsed a lanky nerd reaching escape velocity away from this stinky epicentre - while desperately trying not to piss himself laughing.

My conscience is clean. AS WERE MY UNDERPANTS!
(Happy Idiot Talk now has an alibi for, Thu 27 Mar 2008, 15:35, 1 reply)

"Oh come on, not on the floor!"
It all started like a fairly standard birthday celebration for the guys I work with; beer, more beer, spirits, taxi, kebab, taxi, morning after.

But, for our young hero A (name partially obscured for protection), it was not to be, and soon began his shit story...

After the requisite amount of beer, spirits and kebab, A was bundled into a taxi for transport home. After a number of vomit stops, he eventually arrives home, and is carried semi consciously inside, wherein he feels the kind of urge to shit that can rouse even an unconscious person to the bog, bolts from his carriers and locks himself in the lav.

Time goes by, and whatever is occupying the other drunkards (Guitar hero perhaps) is finally forgotten.

"Where's A?"
"Can't still be in the toilet, surely"
"Shit"

Toilet door is locked, and all is silent, but being worried/inquisitive, the doors lock is bypassed and the carnage within is revealed for all.

Passed out on the (closed) toilet is A, on the floor is a nicely curled, properly proportioned, turd. To his credit, he'd made it far, but not far enough.

To ease the clean up, A is somewhat disclothed, put in the shower, and left to be cleaned.

A in a state of modesty or shame, regains some sense, and locks himself in the bathroom, and again passes out again, in the shower.

Now, here, the biggest mistake was made, the shower in question is combined with the bath, and whatever ungodly soup was made with A in it, soon clogged the drain, and the bath began to overflow.

After sometime, the raining in the kitchen (below the bathroom) soon gets the attention of the others, and again, a lock is bypassed in order to save A.

A is eventually recovered (involving one brave soul wrestling the plug from aforementioned ungodly soup), somewhat dried, and left to sleep.

Two days later, one of the occupants of the house arrives home from visiting family, and notices rather large amounts of (still wet)kitchen stuff left outside to dry.

"What the fuck happened?"
"Let me tell you a story"

Apologies for length, but apparently, it did have quite impressive curvature
(ShiftyBastard won the World Cup on World Soccer Champs 2010!, Thu 27 Mar 2008, 15:34, Reply)

Stainless Steel Sphincter
Meh.... Our flatmate has big tattoos and those flesh tunnel ear piercings. We also spread the rumour that he has a very special anal piercing that makes all his poo come out in a thin poo tube.

size and length - long and thin
(lordfredatron lordfredatron, Thu 27 Mar 2008, 15:32, 2 replies)

How crackhouseceilidhband got into The Guardian for the wrong reasons
Libya, Christmas 2004. I was there doing some work which involved poking around at old rocks and the suchlike. On Christmas Eve we took a short trip to the Ubari sand sea to play in the dunes. I was a tad distracted as I felt a little queasy. I dismissed it, ran through the sand as the sun set, then returned to the camp for dinner.

At midnight the trouble started. I found myself vomiting copiously into a cracked bucket while hovering over a squat toilet unable to halt the flow of shit. TMI? It gets a lot worse. Also, bear in mind I was staying in a hut of sorts with sporadic electricity, an even more sporadic water supply, an average nightly temperature of around 1 degree celsius, and a phenomenal amount of mosquitos.

For three long days I spent my time running from mosquito-net-draped mattress to dodgy toilet and bucket, expelling bile and excrement of Type 7 on the Bristol Stool Scale. I was weak, burning, cold and really tired. Every ounce of strength was mustered to stop myself from just lying in a bed of my own filth. I was very, very ill. I couldn't even keep water in me.

On the fourth day one of my colleagues insisted I go to hospital. I was bundled into the back of a pick-up truck and driven on pothole-laced roads to the next town (miles away...) to a near-empty room with just a desk and a distinguished looking man in it. Our translator told me to give my name, my father's name and my husband's name. I could answer the first two at least but couldn't be arsed to make up an imaginary husband. The doctor looked at me for a moment, muttered something about amoebic dysentry, scribbled something on a scrap of paper, and handed it to our translator. He ushered me back to the pick-up and we drove to the nearby pharmacy, a small, badly shelved room in the next village.

I sat, weakly shivering in the pick-up as the translator went to pick up the drugs. I had lost over a stone in weight by this time, and there's not that much of me to begin with. I was also trying not to boke - or worse - in the pick-up.

The translator returned bearing a plastic bag which he triumphantly handed over to me. It was full of syringes. I blanched, wondered how the hell one actually administers injections, and then politely asked if I could have the tablets instead. He returned a few moments later with three different medications - an antibiotic, something to stop the pain and a third drug with the name "Spasmopan". I kid you not. I didn't care how ill I felt, I was not taking anything called Spasmopan.

For three more days I repeated the cycle of shit-vomit-sleep (sometimes achieving all three at once). I found that the only thing I could consume was halal chicken stock cubes, which were fortunately in plentiful supply. One fateful night I left the toilet having spewed my guts up into the leaky bucket while shitting dirty water, preparing to return to my germy bed. As I went to flush the toilet I found that the water supply had gone off. In my shivery state I did the only thing I could think of - I wrote a note saying "Please flush this! Do not look!". The next day I was thrilled to discover that one of my workmates had flushed it... but he gleefully informed me that he'd had a quick peek as well.

I flew home early as I was so utterly weakened. I still wasn't fit to travel but what BA didn't know wouldn't harm them. On returning, I went to my doctor and relayed my tale. I showed him the drugs I'd been given. He laughed and said "No, dear. We don't use those in Europe". He requested a stool sample. Now, no one ever tells you how best to provide this, but here's my top tip: use an old takeaway container in the toilet.

A week later I found out I had contracted the cryptosporidium parasite. It's a bugger to get rid off. The crowning glory was when, two days later, I received a letter from the Council telling me I was banned from all their swimming pools for two weeks. The only thing to top that was the trip I'd been on got a write up in the Guardian and my contribution - my named contribution as a leading researcher - was listed as me having contracted cryptosporidiosis. Er, thanks.

And here's the Spasmopan:

( crackhouseceilidhband Fuck off back to Mumsnet, Thu 27 Mar 2008, 15:31, 12 replies)

perfect poo
I have discovered the secret of perfect, hassle-free, odourless poos.

Follow a low-carbohydrate diet and your number twos will be as regular and efficient as the Turd Reich (sorry, couldn't help it), requiring the minimum amount of toilet paper and enabling you to poo freely throughout the land, free of stench-related worry and accusations and, unfortunately for this QOTW, amusing stories.

Of course, being a lady, my poos and farts smell of lavender anyway.

I did once poo on the stairs when I was very small.

And my car is covered in seagull poo as well.

That is all.
(happylittletulip helpless and delicious, Thu 27 Mar 2008, 15:29, 4 replies)

Ibiza
On the last night of our week long stay in Ibiza, we had an urge to do a 'Kieth Richards' and so to trash the room, I filled the bath up and jumped in it.
My naked self then I shat myself (holiday shit, "must be the foreign water...) on a lilo while having a smoke & drinking a bottle of san miguel in the bath - all friends including newly made girl mates from the room next door all witnessed this, in disgust.
I used the shower, went out and subsequently forgot about the bathroom.
Skip forward to the morning after being woken by the hotel manager asking what happened to the bathroom (as the cleaner has come in and snooped about while we were passed out).

Did you know farts smell as it's the poo particles you smell?
At school, the stench of my farts were known to clear classrooms. Imagine an entire class (teacher included) outside with a lad giggling like a naughty schoolboy (erm) sitting in the middle.

Its not the length just a stench
(who2004uk, Thu 27 Mar 2008, 15:26, 3 replies)

I waited all day
just to get this shit?

sigh.

and on topic, queueing at a mcdonalds a few years ago my stomach felt very grumbly, then my stomach decided that i needed to fart, however the lower intestine joined in and decided I also needed a venomously runny poo. I held it . . oh my god but i nearly ruptured my arse but I held it, just after the initial terror of "oh fuck thats wet not airy"

If the rest of my instincts were as quick as my sphincter clench I would be an ace jet fighter pilot im telling you

I then promptly did queue to cubicle in about 0.24 seconds and unleashed a stream of excrement / beer and semi digested kebab tubgirl would have been proud of, disposed of the pants and just about managed not to stain my jeans.

However going commando on a chilly november is not recommended, had to dig the little fucker out with a spoon when i needed a piss.
(Halfy By light alone, Thu 27 Mar 2008, 15:25, Reply)