poo shame
I was once walking to work one bright and sunny summers day, probably whistling the theme tune to Top Cat.
Cutting through the park as I often did, I took advantage of the solitude to unleash an air biscuit. Looking a nearby Sparrow in the eyes I jauntily lifted one leg and squeezed. 'Take that!' I thought, then immediately went cold as I realised lumps of runny poo had clealy just shot out of my anus like some kind of awful, childish blunderbus, and were currently running down the backs of my legs.

I stopped dead, starting crying and turned round to begin the slow, smelly walk of shame home with nothing but a unbelievable story to invent for my boss to look forward to.

Those trousers were ruined.
(wrigglesworth, Fri 28 Mar 2008, 12:05, 1 reply)

Divine impersonator
As a former lookie likey, Divine impersonator - I was obviously forced to sample poodle poo on a regular basis, just like the great Harris Glenn Milstead did in Pink Flamingos.

However, I was mortified to read at a later stage a quote from Divine when asked,

"What does eating shit taste like?"

Divine responded, "It tastes like shit, that's why you spit it out"

Curses to you John Waters and your cimematic make believe.
( d.r._and_quinch when will you be famous?, Fri 28 Mar 2008, 11:56, Reply)

Clarissa
It was late one night as Clarissa and I were relaxing in front of the fire at my penthouse condominium. The food had been excellent (Sergio had really outdone himself this time), the wine was perfect (Marcel's recommendation earned him an extra 10% on the tip) and Clarissa had been radiant, all combining to make it a most memorable evening, when she snuggled closer to me and whispered in my ear, "Do you want to see the new trick I learned?"

Before I had a chance to answer she jumped up from the couch and moved to the other side of the coffee table and lifted her skirt above her waist so that the candle beautifully illuminated her pert buttocks. I felt the blood rushing to my loins as she took a deep breath and gave a slight grunt, and as the flaming methane washed across my face and seared off my eyebrows, I knew that we were destined to be together forever.
( The Resident Loon Not a demographic. Do not measure., Fri 28 Mar 2008, 11:48, 9 replies)

I warned you!
As some of you know, I had spinal surgery last year to correct the cumulative damage of being a semi-pro silly bugger for about 40 years. Before any surgeon gets his hammers, chisels, shears and saws out they'll try ANYTHING to stop you having to go "under the knife". Especially if there's a chance that you'll:-
a/ be righteously fucked if they get it wrong and
b/ Still be able to sue them into the stone age if you survive the fuckup.
I came into both categories so I took a long course of Physio and serious painkillers, neither of which did jack to the underlying damage (as an aside, I think the physio accelerated the problem)until I met the surgeon. He needed a particular team and a particular operating theatre to do the 2-level ACDF I needed so I had to wait.

For three months.

He prescribed morphine-based painkillers YAY!
However, opiates cause constipation. Serious constipation. I went off my food for three months as it was going nowhere, except for occasional perfectly sherical, satsuma sized, eye waterer.

I had the surgery, spent two days in a haze of injected morphine and left the hospital with a big scar on my neck and a plate with bolts holding three of my vertebrae together while the bone harvested from my hip fused in and replaced the two shagged out discs.

I came home, a little pained but happy. Unfortunately I was no longer on opiates, therefore I was no longer constipated.

On the third moring I felt a bowel twinge I'd not felt for some time, I was actually happy that I'd be able to have my morning dump, a routine that had been denied me for too long! I took my ususal dumping accesories, book, radio, wet wipes etc in to the bog, sat and waited for the blessed relief that was to be my first post-operative-and-morphine-free log.
Sitting in the warm bosom of my bathroom I awaited the mudchild.
Now, I don't know about you, gentle reader, but I have only ever had to perform the minimal amount of straining to release a brown otter, normally I have the opposite. Open, dump, wipe check and flush, dead easy.

NOT.

THIS.

TIME.

Turtles head!? It felt like I'd got the great A'Tuin and the elephants all vying (sp?) for pole position, goatse himself would have been saying "I say chaps, steady on!". After what seemd like a cliche but was only a figure of speech, I thought I was done. Lacking the neck mobility to look over my shoulder I stood up to survey the monster.

Imagine a 5" ball made of maltesers of all different shades, from light brown to black actually wedged in the pan OVER the water. For a moment I was impressed, I'd battled the fecal monster and won, I was Beowulf, Arnie and Chuck Norris all rolled into one heroic shit-battling ninja. I'd WON!

Then the smell hit me. THEN my bowels, freed from the blockage and the morphine paralysis decided to let go. Spectacularly. All over the batroom door 6 feet away. I was hoiking my guts up, face down in the pan, my nose not more than 2" from the malteser ball, inhaling the fetid stench which gave me more reason to hurl, the resulting bowel pressure spraying slimy greenish blood-streaked sluglike lumps over the door.
After 10-15 minutes of this, I was empty. Completely empty. Lucky thing, because I had to clean the bathroom. Took an hour and a half and five towels I'd never use again.
Once safely bagged in THREE binbags I placed the towels in the bin.
The malteser ball was still there. Broke that up with the bog brush and had to flush in relays.
Never mind the anti-drug propaganda we peddle out, just get the junkies to stop for a day or two, then make them clear up the resulting mess.
Apologies for diameter and smell.
(Captain Placid 24/7 ball gags, brownie mix and clown porn, Fri 28 Mar 2008, 11:44, 3 replies)

Festival fecal nightmares.
OK, so theres this large music festival in the south of England which used to attract the counter-culture of the time of its inception but now generally everyone who doesnt hate being outdoors, listening to music or getting totally wankered.

Throughout its history, there have always been the issue of where to down trousers once the portable vestibules have reached the point of no return ( basically when you cant lay some cable without dangling your privates in someone elses bum cigars). One of the solutions people have found is a wooded area, which by the time people require a dump au naturelle, is already a steaming river of piss and rainwater.

Now the first tale concerns a gentleman attempting to 'curl one off' into this river and in his attempts to lean back and not dirty his undercrackers actually slipped backwards. Down turd beach and into the mighty river. He actually slid a good twenty feet and was in tears and caked in shit as people tried to help him out by holding big sticks for him to grab onto.

A more disturbing one is a naked hippy guy tripping his bag off, who gathered quite an audience by laying in a river of this sort whilst making sweet love to an inflated balloon.

More recently, last year was a very wet one and the ground around the toilet areas had become a quagmire of mud, poo and piss. A mancunian friend of mine with the habit of whinging a lot, got his foot stuck in a sticky bit and fell faced first into a sloppy bit.

The bystanders did not laugh hysterically as I did when i heard the story, they looked in horror and tried to help as they all knew full well it could have been them.
(greasedupdeafguy broke something, Fri 28 Mar 2008, 11:41, 2 replies)

Notable ploppies I have done:
The Richard of York who gave battle in vain
A few years ago I went on a school trip to New York for five days. We ate out for absolutely all our meals, and five days of restaurant fodder with no normal home-made food (not even school dinner-style slop at the hotel) isn't good for the old bowels. We had virtually no fibre at all, and we had fruit once out of those five days. This was a real shock to my system, as although I wasn't yet a vegan I still liked to chomp my way through enough fruit and veg to fell an orang-utan daily.
As a consequence of this, I didn't shit until the day before we were going home. It was a huge dry monster that took 20 minutes to come out. When it did, I felt about a stone lighter, and I saw it had stayed in one long log instead of breaking off in soft plops. Okay, it was no barium bab, but it's probably as close as I'll get (I hope).

The Snoop Doggy Logg
I went to Live8. It was rubbish. The most rubbish aspect of it all was the toilets. Put me right off the idea of ever going to a music festival, that did. By the time Snoop Dogg was on stage, which if I remember rightly was barely halfway through the evening, the chemi-khazis were already nearly full of soggy wee-y loo roll.
I needed a poove. Any port in a storm, I suppose. So I did a Mr. Whippy, balanced on the top of this papier mache hillock. It was perfect. I mean totally perfect. Mathematical dead centre of the mound, perfectly smooth and unblemished and evenly consistent. If only I'd had a cocktail stick flag to jam in it. I feel sorry for the woman who ventured towards the cubicle I'd just vacated, despite my warning of, "I wouldn't go in there if I were you."

Losing my virginity
My pooing-outdoors viginity, that is. Last year I went on a field trip to Spain. Apparently, somebody gets the shits every year on that trip. That year, that somebody was me.
On a long, hot, dusty road, I was getting increasingly frantic as we were an unknown distance from that day's destination, with no guarantee there would be loo facilities there (most of the fieldwork that trip was in the middle of No-fucking-Where). Eventually I was forced to plead with the lecturers to make the driver stop the coach there and then by the road.
Shaking with panic and relief, I all but threw myself down the coach's steps, lifted a boulder up and proceeded to squat down and shit out last night's asparagus and spinach, still green (though pallid) and in disturbingly intact chunks. My position made it easy to tilt my head down and watch it coming out, which I did in morbid fascination. It was oddly gloopy.
Luckily, I had pockets stuffed with tissues, with which I tidied myself up. Then I rolled the boulder back and got back on the coach. However, I hadn't been perfect in tossing the bumwipes back onto the poo, so the replaced boulder had a 'tutu' of scrunched up bumf. It drew cries of horror from everyone in the coach who'd dared to look, which satisfied me greatly (as well as someone saying, "It was worth coming to Spain just for that").
Hilariously, our field exercise for that day was speed logging. Cue jokes of "Anna's already done hers!"

Arse-tria
On a ski trip to Austria, I shared a hotel room with four other people. I took great delight in doing a big shit, then opening the door and pulling/pushing it to waft the smell all through the bedroom. And I'd fart in bed and then wave the duvet to waft the fart all through the room. Pretty nasty behaviour, but my room-mates couldn't help laughing as well, and I did stop when they eventually asked me to. One of my room-mates could fanny-fart at will as well. Genius. We'd do farting frog choruses with each of us using a different bottom (her front and my back).

Also, my brother once fell asleep on his front with no clothes on, and pooed in his sleep. It went upwards in a spiral.
( Bob Todd whee, Fri 28 Mar 2008, 11:37, 1 reply)

Don't you hate...
Those 'rabbit dropping' poos, that are sooooo unsatisfying, and make rapid fire plop plop noises in the toilet. Usually the work toilet.

And haven't you noticed that the morning coffee at your desk will get your bowels turning within 5 minutes...
(Bertie Wooster dont see nuffink rong wiv payin for a bit o ruff, Fri 28 Mar 2008, 11:34, Reply)

Whitey the furry shit cannon
Oh and i have an elderly cat named Whitey (go figure) shes around 17/18 and is deaf, athritich and has full on cat dementia (actually diagnosed). She is very fragile and you should never squeeze her to hard.

I discovered this when i picked her up and she let her bottom go all over my arm. She does it on your knees too if you get her too happy.

One time i came down in the morning and she had let one rip on the window sill all down her nice white bum.... walked all over the floor, sofa, kitchen then sat on her little cusion.

I called the vet that day and booked her an appointment. They knocked her out shaved her bum and bathed her for me, whilst i delt with the obviously nuclear fetid runny crap she had left all over my nice clean house.

I do love her tho.

And im enjoying this qotw.

Length- All over the fucking house, and a big streak on the window sill to boot!!
(Serbitar Has a furry shit canon called Whitey., Fri 28 Mar 2008, 11:27, Reply)

Italian waterparks
Whilst staying with some friends in Milan a few years ago, we headed to the local water park. First couple of rides were fine, the normal rapids etc. then we tried the body slide.(http://www.myrthapools.com/english/parchi_body_slides.html) What a mistake. The water sadly shot up every orifice it could find, leading me to have a water park sponsored enema. feeling quite uncomfortable, I head off to the toilets, and find an end cubicle, shut the door, and turn around to be met with a hole in the ground, and foot rests. No toilet roll holders at all. Opening the cubicle door, and now bent double with the cramps, I spy the toilet roll at other end of the room (20 cubicles either side), and hobble, moaning to grab some, make it back to the cubicle, and whip the bikini bottoms off, and assume the position.
All I can say, and perhaps this should be in the tips section, don't ever release an enema in flip flops!
(beaker77, Fri 28 Mar 2008, 11:24, Reply)

FOLLOW THROUGH
i followed through in WHSmiths
(Jimmy Splash, Fri 28 Mar 2008, 11:23, 1 reply)

wacken 2004
I randomly ended up the weekend with some scottish blokes and lasses (if that was you hanging out with a welsh chick... i still think your all awesome and good people for letting me hang about)one guy came back on evening looking white.... very white... being all concerned we asked him if he was ok...

he replies "you know the loos have no lights... well i went to go for a shit and i sat down on summit wet. Thought it was wee but when i opened the door to have a look id sat in someone elses shit"

Ill never forget that!!!
(Serbitar Has a furry shit canon called Whitey., Fri 28 Mar 2008, 11:21, 1 reply)

Highway To Hell
Or to be more specific, the A5. Or if you're really into roadnames, elementary deduction and wish to stalk me in a worrying manner, the A55, A483 and then the A5. Happy now?

As previously mentioned, I have a bathroom that resembles the pitlane at a Grand Prix. Very limited time in the morning with everyone charging around getting off to work/school/nursery etc. One's downloading facilities have evolved to produce morning dump Part 1 at 0730, with Part 2 emerging once I've got to work.

Not this time, sucker.

Charging around, grabbing phone, keys, fags etc, I sense a slight warning twinge from the bowel department. Not having partaken of anything particularly spicy the night before, I think that I can ride this one out until I can get to work and drop the payload on my employer's time.

Into car. Vroom vroom. Traffic. Hmmm, bit of a cramp there *shifts uneasily*.

Vroom vroom. Passing the delightful town of Wrexham, CRAMPS. Aaaaarrrgghhh that fucking hurt! *sweat starts to bead on brow*. Speed now verging on the daft as I stare manically through the windscreen.

Vooom onto the A5. Two minutes later I realise I have just passed a MacDonalds. Buggerfucktitwankshittybollocks.

Keep going! Next services approaching - oh hang on, their bogs are the customer-only-have-to-queue-and-ask-for-the-key ones. No way I'll manage.

Faster! Next services, car screeches to a halt, I roll out in a foetal position and stumble like I've been gutshot toiletwards. This is going to feel soooo good.....WHAT? Toilets are in Burger King. Which doesn't open until 1000. Mummy.

Back to car. Warp Factor Don't Shit Yourself. I can manage, I can manage. The cramps appear to be dying away, and I even manage to slip out a quick 'pfft' without soilage, so the pressure on the old teatowel holder has dropped from ludicrous to merely silly. Vroom Vroom.

I actually GO PAST the next services without stopping as I now feel in control of the Rebel Scum Colon.

Whoops.

I am now on the final furlong, of toilet-less road. I am almost there, when the cramps and sweats start again. The dulcet tones of Messrs Humphreys et al have long since been replaced with primal moaning.

Into carpark. Gingerly I get out of the car in a manner least likely to put fatal pressure on the throbbing supercharged poo factory that used to be in harmony with nature and knew its damn place.

Waddling like a duck that had been indecently assaulted by a Canada Goose, I enter the building. Luckily my desk is on a direct path to the bogs so I can sling my bag in its general direction before surreptitiously loosening my belt......only 10 feet to the nearest toilet.....5 feet.....please let it be empty, just please.....JOY....slam door.

With a balletic grace, the kecks are down, shreddies follow as I whirl into position. However before buttock contacts seat, something happens....

...SCHPLUD....splosh...blupblupblup...

Uh-oh.

Lid, seat, bowl and floor have turned a particularly turmericy yellow shade of horrible.

One hour later, thanking the Flying Spaghetti Monster that there had been spare bog roll and a sink as it was the cripple crapper I had violated, I leave, a shaken, considerably lighter and thoughtful man.

They replaced the permanently stained plastic seat and lid a few days later.

I no longer try to hold on past the services.
(osok Rebel without a clue, Fri 28 Mar 2008, 11:18, 2 replies)

Not me but a dog we were looking after
(honest)

About 12-15 years ago my family was asked to look after a neighbour's dog, Ben, while our neighbours were on holiday. My parents never let me have a dog when I was younger, they told me it was because dogs were expensive but I'm certain it's because they couldn't be arsed to look after it. So looking after a lurcher/collie cross for a week seemed like a brilliant thing. Oh how wrong I was.

When Ben arrived the morning they were due to leave for cultured-and-sophisticated Costa del Sol, his owner informed us that Ben had 'a bit of a cold' and it was nothing to worry about.

My mum took Ben in the house and wished them a happy trip. No sooner as the door had shut, Ben lurched forward, coughing and hacking, and then from his lungs produced what I could only describe as an enormous lump of white mucus or phlegm, literally two inches across. It reminded me of a lump of that fancy mozzarella you get in packets, it was all thick and gloopy. Luckily, being a wee nipper, I wasn't expected to help my mum clear up that awful mess, but from her face I could tell it was certainly not pleasant. If that sounded pretty disgusting (I could have gone more graphic if you'd like), the worst is yet to come.

Ben was running a fever an shaking quite violently so we put him in his basket and left him to it. About 15 minutes later I was alerted to him by a weak whimper, then I heard a noise that sounded like the wettest, dirtiest fart you could possibly imagine. Walking into the kitchen I was presented with a horrifying sight: Ben was lying on his side, just outside his basket with his rear end pointed towards his basket. In a 45 degree impact zone from the sphincter of this poor creature lay what must have been literally a bowel-load of hot, yellow, extremely smelly diarrhoea-esque shit. Some of this stuff had sprayed a good two metres. His basket was absolutely ruined. If that wasn't bad enough, at this moment Ben hacked and coughed up another load of the white goodness.

So there was this dog, practically surrounded in either phlegm or shit, lightly shaking. I did the only thing a 10-year-old would do at seeing and smelling this - I chundered. Chundered my fucking guts out. At this point my sister walked in, called my mum, and my mum came in. According to my sister, my mum at this point walked out the room, cried for a minute, then went and got some marigold gloves, a mop and bucket.

The absolute worst part of this story? This happened a good 3 or 4 times over the week. My mum is a fucking saint.
(The Oscillating Gibbon is eating curried squid, Fri 28 Mar 2008, 11:15, 1 reply)

Poo, wasps, piranhas and alligators
My school saw it fit to try to kill the sixth-form in interesting ways; so it was that, in the summer of 1995, just after my A-Levels, I found myself a member of a month-long expedition to Ecuador.

I could mention the fact that, owing to the altitude of most of the country, you aren't supposed to put paper down the loo: instead, there's a small wastepaper basket. I could mention the fact that, after a month of this, I developed a routine and that, for a couple of days after I returned home, my reflex after a visit to the throne would be casually to toss a handful of messy Andrex onto the floor in the bathroom.

But no. That is not my story.

In the course of the expedition, we spent most of our time in the various parts of the country's highlands - but we also spent a week in the jungle. For several blissful days, we lived in tents in a clearing by a lake in primary jungle. We built balsa rafts and went fishing for piranha, daring each other to dangle our feet over the side as we threw in bits of raw meat as bait. We were more careful near the alligators.

This being primary jungle, there was no loo. (I can't remember what we did for drinking water.) Excretory requirements were met by nipping into the forest with a shovel and finding a convenient bush.

Caught by the need to poo, I wandered off in search of the perfect place - and, I believed, found it. A vine or branch had grown towards the ground from about waist height; all I had to do was locate a convenient spot along the hypoteneuse where the bough was at the correct elevation, and to sit. None of that undignified and poorly-balanced squatting for me.

We had been told that we ought to dig ourselves a little pit before performing, the easier to cover our filth in the aftermath. I must have been a bit needy, because I decided to shit first and worry about burial later.

How was I to know that the local wasps had chosen to build their nest in the drop-zone?

"What the...?" I blurted as I realised that there was a large delegation from the local insect neighbourhood watch who wanted a stern word with my behind. "Oh, fuck."

I tried to bat them away, but they were having none of it, and they were now buzzing angrily all around me.

Through the trees, I spotted the glint of the small lake next to which we were camped. There was only one thing to do: outrun the wasps. I half-ran, half stumbled towards the shore, pulling my shorts up as I went.

But the wasps were determined and athletic. They kept pace - and now their blood was up. In my mind they wore little insect red jackets, blew little insect horns and had packs of little insect dogs in pursuit. What was I to do now? There was only one option. I jumped into the water.

The water, you'll remember, that was home to piranhas and alligators.

Fortunately for me, piranhas apparently only get blood-lust at certain times of the year (which is why our fishing only yielded one or two), and they largely ignored me. I can't explain why the alligators ignored me too. A sense of pity, perhaps. I thanked them quietly when I saw them later.

I climed out of the lake and wandered back into the jungle to find the shovel...
( Enzyme is powered by sunlight, Fri 28 Mar 2008, 11:14, 11 replies)

Cheese Fondue Shits
I'll always remember the first time I had a Fondue. I was staying in France with some friends of mine, sleeping in my Transit van in the village car park and spending the days out enjoying the scenery and drinking, smoking and eating with them.

One evening, we had a Fondue. We also had several liters of white wine between us, some Pastis, some apricot-flavoured liqour, lots of joints, and probably some rum too. At about 2am, I went to my van to crash out.

Around 6am, I woke up with a rumbling down below. I needed to shit, and I needed to shit now. And the toilet was in the house 500 yards away. I'd never make it that far.

There was nothing for it. I flung open the side door, perched my arse over the side, and unleashed a torrent of foamy yellow shite.

But that wasn't all. Of course there was nothing to wipe my arse on. I would have to jump over the pool of foul-smelling matter in order to get out of the van, and run to the house to get some bog roll.

Yep, you guessed it. I slipped on the shit, and fell backwards into a pool of my own filth. Then I vommited.

So there I was. Lying naked on the road covered in shit and vomit in a tiny village in southern France. It doesn't get much better than this, I thought. And I was right.

I heard the rumbling of an engine in the distance. It was the postman.
(Half of Stephen Fry's right buttock pissed on your dog on, Fri 28 Mar 2008, 11:12, Reply)

scat
I was dating a glamour model in the early nineties when I first heard those rare words: "Do you wanna try scat?" Such was my enthusiasm that I forced one out right there and then, in my pants and at the wine bar. That should have ended the relationship, but she was as dumb as she was hot, so she gave me a second chance.

We decided to plan it carefully in advance. We both ate plenty of fibre that morning to ensure a firm stool. I had my anal hair waxed to avoid cling-ons and we purchased plenty of plastic dust sheets to protect the carpet. I even bought a CD of mood music called "Cool Moods For Scat Play" featuring a lot of Kenny G.

"So how do we do it?" I asked her. "Do I crap on you, or do you want to drop one on me?" Apparently this was beginner stuff. Instead, I was to lie under a glass topped table while she squatted above it to give me a view of her dilating ring and the emerging log. Then I would toss myself off. Such was the plan.

In actuality, the first twitching of her knot presented a tear of pale brown liquid, then a dramatic eruption of watery dribble that splashed on to the table top and kept coming like a cataract of raw sewage. It rained down the sides of the table each side of my head, dripping on to the carpet as Kenny G's saxophone played melodiously in the background.

I felt curiously unaroused by the situation, although she seemed to be well into it, bubbling and squirting in a world of her own as the torrent of ordure splashed forth. Not wanting to seem a beginner, I reached down and squeezed out a firm log into my palm, which I then lobbed up and around so that it cartwheeled through space to land square and upright upon her shoulder like a malformed and reeking parrot.

The surprise of this caused her to scream and fall into the pond of tepid sludge on the glass tabletop, her buttocks squelching flatly at me through the brownness. The sight of this finally injected some stiffness into my tool and I began to stroke it to a climax.

Unfortunately, that's when the glass broke and I was almost crushed to death by a falling glamour model caked in filth. She had to have 23 stitches in her buttocks and I had to accompany her to the hospital. Now, I can't listen to Kenny G without remembering that time.
(frankspencer, Fri 28 Mar 2008, 11:10, 6 replies)

Food Poisoning and Festivals.
I got food poisoning at the Isle of Wight Festival in 2006. Went to sleep after the Prodigy all fine and dandy, woke up an hour later sweating like I was in a sauna and knowing I was going to let go at both ends in a matter of seconds.

Mrs H00ps and I had zipped up the tent in an intricate "Burglar stumping" manner with zips going this way & that, which only added to the churning in my guts - by which time I was starting to feel very faint indeed.

At last the door was open, and I began to thank whatever deity was looking down on me at the time that I only had about 50 yards and a gate to navigate to the nearest toilet.

Mrs H: "Do you want me to come with you?"

Me: "No, I won't be long, I'm sure I'll be fine."

What Mrs H heard: "Nurgh wurgh blurgn. Mmffiuurn"

However - this was the first point I had been on my feet, up until now I had crawled out of the tent. It didn't go well. Fainted and fell like a sack of spuds after 15 yards. No help was proffered by fellow campers - clearly as I looked like a festival casualty, and must have epitomised lager excess. In my addled state I could hear giggling, the bastards. The worst thing was I'd hardly drunk anything that day, it was too hot. No drugs, just water and (I believe the cause) a dodgy chicken burrito.

I pushed myself to my feet and after falling over twice more I made it to the toilets. Luckily there was not much of a queue and someone was coming out as I stumbled round, so I leaned forward and propelled myself into what can only be described as the seventh circle of shitty hell.

I'm in no doubt descriptions of festival toilets will litter this board, but I shall add mine nonetheless. The mountain of turds and detritus was so massive the summit was mere inches from the seat. The floodlights shone enough light through for me to see this, and accompanied by the stench it made me inCREDIBLY sick. I puked up my toes that night, all the while clenching my bowels for grim death until I was sure I had expunged, so I could spin round, and unleash hell.

The resulting explosion actually shook the seat. A seemingly endless torrent of red hot arse lava that felt like it had barbs in it. I was sat there, soaked with sweat, dry heaving and practically prolapsing in a shitbox.

After what only felt like 5 minutes I had steadied myself enough to leave the cubicle, with the obligatory look over the shoulder to check my work. I have to say I am rather proud of the fact that the mountain of poo was now gracefully adorned with a brown mr whippy, complete with peak.

As I left the cubicle I saw Mrs H000ps, who had come to find me, as the 5 or so minutes was actually 45 and she was rather concerned - more so when I emerged visibly thinner and white as a sheet.

Didn't eat properly for 3 days, but the festival was a belter. And If I can offer any advice, it is bring your own toilet paper. I am forever grateful to the lovely wife for stuffing wads of it in my pocket as I left the tent.

I think in those 4 days all in all I lost 9 pounds in weight. Not the best way, but it beats talking to Gillian Mckeith.
( B00gle-H00ps Looks like a horse, in a man costume..., Fri 28 Mar 2008, 11:02, Reply)

Why do some people feel unable to use a public/work loo if someone else is there?
It's a loo! That's what it's for!

Personally, I think a poo is a much richer and funnier experience if you have an audience. Yes, funnier. Toilet habits are just intrinsically hilarious. In a public loo, I find myself silently giggling if I hear someone else do a big splashy wee. I then try to compete by doing the carthorse-iest wee I can muster. Sometimes I stand up to maximise the splashy noise. It's funny in itself for me, but what makes it worth doing is that I'm probably revolting everyone else in the facilities, and they can't do anything about it.

Far better than the public wee is the public poo. It's a fine feeling inflicting your stink and your *grunt* *plop* *plop* *plop* *parrrrrrrrpp* *sigh* on everyone else. Maybe it's a power trip. I'm stinking the place out and making them all feel uncomfortable, and they can't get away!

And I'm not ashamed of it. Afterwards I emerge from my cubicle grinning my head off, silently broadcasting to all, "It was I! Hahahaha, it was I!"

I know my mum finds it as funny as I do too. Whenever we use a public loo together (in separate cubicles - don't get funny) we call-and-respond with farts and plops and then giggle like mad.

Poo is the funniest, funniest thing ever. You know I'm right.
( Bob Todd whee, Fri 28 Mar 2008, 11:00, 3 replies)

Inspired by BobTodd's post below
My dad tells a story of his formative years, growing up on a farm in the 1940s and '50s. One day he deposited a massive log which refused to flush by hydraulic means, and was evidently not going anywhere without mechanical intervention.

So off he went to find something with which to carve the offending beast, and came back with....

...the bread knife from the kitchen.

It did the job admirably, although I dare say my grandad's sandwiches tasted a bit funny for a day or two thereafter!
( K2k6 has a proper job these days, Fri 28 Mar 2008, 10:53, Reply)

Stage Fright
I like a poo, me. But sometimes the whole ruddy experience is ruined.

Like a lot of you, I like to do my do’s at work. We’ve three traps. I always go in the one alongside the furthest wall. Ensuring the door is locked behind me, I lay three lengths of soft, white toilet roll on to the seat (it is a shared loo, after all), and carefully lower my rear end on to the cold seat. The cold sensation makes me flinch a little bit, but soon dissipates as my body heat transfers. I then take my paper, open it to the culture section, and I’m prepared.

Open all valves! Periscope depth, Mr. Pulu! Flood the tubes! Fire at will!

But wait! What’s this? Some bastard has interrupted my loo time. I can’t go now. I’ll have to wait it out. But they’re taking too long. If I sit here any longer, people on my desk are going to know what I’ve been doing. So I pull up my jeans, put the paper away, flush the loo and get the hell out of dodge.

I go through this perhaps twice a day. Why is it I can’t poo with someone else in the near vicinity? Is it just me that suffers from this, and is it just me that feels completely affronted by the whole situation?
( Devil_In_Tights the *real* DiT!, Fri 28 Mar 2008, 10:51, 1 reply)

I notice a lot of the stories feature not knowing what to do when a turd won't flush.
For future reference I present a couple of strategies.

1. The poo stick.
I suppose this is the less practical of the two, as you ideally should have the stick in advance. My brother has dodgy guts and he only poos about once a week, so when he does do them it's a week's worth of bab in one giant log. We're talking thick as Coke cans and long as your fore-arm.
These fuckers don't flush, especially seeing as they somehow always contrive to land sideways in the bowl. So, in the outside drain we keep the Poo Stick. It's a stout gardener's pea-stick, and it's always kept upright in the drain. You only ever touch the top end. The business end stays in the drain. When my bro does one of his massive cacks, the Poo Stick is deployed to break it up into chunks that the poor loo can comfortably swallow.

2. I has a bukkit.
The easier one, though still only practicable if it's your own bog. Fill your bucket about half full, then: flush the loo as normal, and pour the bucket into the bowl at the same time. The combined water from the bucket and cistern is usually enough to flush away the shit.
( Bob Todd whee, Fri 28 Mar 2008, 10:46, Reply)

off topic, but the icing is brown...
It's my last day at work and my line manager has just come in on his day off, bearing an enormous chocolate cake iced with a picture of a black cat and the words "good luck"...

*sobs*
(happylittletulip helpless and delicious, Fri 28 Mar 2008, 10:42, 7 replies)

Fantastic Mr Fox
...lived under a tree (in the Roald Dahl book). The tree really exists, just up the road from Dahl's house. As kids, we used to climb the tree -- somehow it had developed a sort of natural deck of branches and twigs about four or five feet off the ground, which made it an ideal place to lark about and generally get up to smashing japes etc.

Anyway on one such occasion, I suddenly became aware of an imminent eruption in my nether regions. It was clear from the unpleasant sensations that this was to be no ordinary poo, so rather than conceal myself behind the nearest hedge I opted to make a dash for home -- a few hundred yards at most.

Sadly, it wasn't to be. As I arrived at the entrance to the close where we lived, somewhat out of breath and desperately clenching my poophole, the inevitable happened.

Now I had opted to wear my wellies that day, it having been a little damp in the morning, and had made the fashionable choice to tuck my trousers in. Thus I trudged -- now with tears rolling down my cheeks, to add to my shame -- the last few yards home, with the feeling of warm shit slithering its stinky way down my trouser legs and gathering in squishy pools around my feet.

A few years ago, the tree fell over. I don't believe these two events are connected.
( reallywittyname veraciously conspues lexiphanicism on, Fri 28 Mar 2008, 10:38, Reply)

Is it Just me But!!
I hope this doesn't sound odd.....
But does womens poo smell worse than mens poo?
I am just remembering that time as a kid and you would walk into the toilet after your dad had done a poo. Ok it didnt smell great but then there was that horriffying moment when you needed a dump. You walked up to the toilet. You slowly turned the handle only to hear your Mums voice. " Wont be a minute son" she would say. You then realise your gonna have to go in there after her.
What do you think?
Mens poo or Womens poo?

I'll go now
(The Sitmpwa, Fri 28 Mar 2008, 10:38, 3 replies)

work poo types
Ever noticed that if you need a poo at work you only have Nasty poos?

Here's my top 3 list of bad work poos:

1) The "Exploding Poo"
Normaly 1 very solid lump with a fart just sitting behind it. You push and push and suddenly BANG!!! the poos has gone and shot out your arse like a bullet. Cue sprain spinxter and alot of splash back. Not good.

2) The "Splatter gun"
ronseal. You poo, it's wet, it redecorates the bowl and you have to spend the next 5 mins cleaning up (if you have mercy for the next person to use the loo that is)

3) The "Neverending shit"
You go in with the aim to drop 1/2 a load so you can make it through the day and have a nice luxurous one when you get home but your ass has other ides. The poo just never ends. You just keep expelling and expelling until you can almost feel the quivering mass in the bowl reach out to touch your behind. Normaly happens when someone else is in the bathroom.
( Crap Little Monkey Deathstar, so good they built it twice, Fri 28 Mar 2008, 10:31, Reply)

Food poisoning
I got food poisoning, I did what I normaly do when I do get any stomache type bug and stopped eating for 24 hours. Only drunk water. and lots of it.

I ended up with "water poos". My poo was basicly dirty water. 2 bad things about this:

1) Shitting water is more painful than a curry poo. FACT!

2) When you have "water poo" Never, ever, everevereverever fart unless you are sitting on a toilet. There's nothing to hold "it" back. You fart, you follow through, your need to buy a new pair of trousers.

Only time I have shit myself and I don;t plan to repeat it.
( Crap Little Monkey Deathstar, so good they built it twice, Fri 28 Mar 2008, 10:23, 2 replies)

In today's busy world
people barely get a moment to themselves, we're constantly on the go, working, paying bills, and worrying about the little things. It's almost impossible to find a moment for yourself, let alone for the people that really matter; the few close friends, family members and loved ones that we actually care about.

That's why, whenever I do a poo, I text the mrs to tell her that I love her, and she'll never know that I'm squeezing out a turgid toe-curler as I write my tokens of love and affection towards her.
That could really spoil the romance.
(tiger blood and Adonis DNA, Fri 28 Mar 2008, 10:19, Reply)

Asda Blackcurrant high Juice
If you drink too much of this it turns your shit Green.

Mrs Cyril phoned their customer complaints line and informed them as well.

They laughed at her.
(Barry Chuckle has gone out in the thong to feed the pigeons, Fri 28 Mar 2008, 10:19, Reply)

YAY!
This QOTW will make me laugh like a coke addict with a b3ta joke book.
(golddust QOTW now revolves around being a cunt, Fri 28 Mar 2008, 10:13, Reply)

Shitting At Work
Its great, I know I'm not the only one who does this and enjoys getting paid for it.

But I may be the only one who will bake a turd just to make sure I drop it at work.

Always at about 10:30 in the morning as well, I'm off next week its going to play havoc with my doings.
(Barry Chuckle has gone out in the thong to feed the pigeons, Fri 28 Mar 2008, 10:03, 2 replies)