shit appendix
about 3 years ago, i suffered what can only be described as pain. intense, searing, couldn't-move-if-i-tried pain, located in my lower abdomen. i decided i did not like this pain, so i called the doctor. "get to the hospital right now" says he, so off i went. i began to worry when i was seen by a doctor within 20 minutes. i was prodded, poked, pricked and pummelled, all of which led the doctor to believe that i was suffering from acute appendicitis. i was sent for a scan to rule out ectopic pregnancy(which it did), then it was on to x-ray. i had been told that the x-ray was probably no more than a formality and that i would be having surgery before the night was out.
the x-ray tech was a girl i'd been to school with, which helped me to relax a little. the x-ray was taken and i was wheeled back to the S.A.U* to await the results.
this didn't take long.
the tech came along 10 minutes later, grinning like a loon. "it's not appendicitis" she says.
"what is it, then?" i asked.
she grinned wider and said "well, we all thought so at school, but now we have proof; you're full of shit!"
she held up my x-ray, which showed me to be more blocked up that a glastonbury toilet.
this is how i discovered i have irritable bowel syndrome.

*surgical assessment unit

length? 2 weeks' worth!
( Smash Monkey lowering the tone of the whole internet, Fri 28 Mar 2008, 16:23, Reply)

The story of Dave
Once Dave had run out of apples, but luckily he had some yams instead, and they all lived happily ever after.

What? You wanted a shit story, and I wrote one.

Oh, a story about shit. Sorry.
(Half of Stephen Fry's right buttock pissed on your dog on, Fri 28 Mar 2008, 16:04, Reply)

oops.
During last winter I'd been cooped up with "Vinterkräkssjukan" Literally translated to "winter vomit illness". Yes, That's right: Besides having Rotten fish, Re-hydrated fish and Suicide as national passtimes, Swedes also have a traditional winter illness that causes you to hoy your guts up. It's tradition: one must comply.

So. Sat at home with a sore throat I eventually got to the point where I had an empty fridge. No more milk, the bread was out, the butter went two days before, and to cap it off I was out of coffee beans. That fateful night I heaved a remorseful sigh, rounded up my spare change and togged up to brave the vile weather.

You know how it is: you're ill, you're feeling sorry for yourself and you drift around the supermarket in your own fuzzy world. I treated myself. I found Dates and Figs, and the coconuts were on offer - 2 for 16Kr - very resonable. Upon reaching the checkout I noticed I'd forgotten to get bread, but who fucking cared; I had dates.

Half an hour later, giggling like a happy mong and sipping whisky I raised the hammer and whalloped the freshly drained coconut. YAY!!! I rekon there's still a small bit under the sofa somewhere... no bother: dried coconut is nice too.

A couple of determined knife-wielding Tongue-out-of-the-corner-of-mouth minutes later I had a bowl of BIG coconut chunks. More joy than I'd had for days as, with a bowl of dates, Figs and coconut I sat with a Fondu fork infront of the TV and poked at bowld of goodies pretending I was in a command center, eating the switches.. If you've neglected to eat coconut since you were kid, go do it. Its excellent.

A good while later, and a few minutes into the umpteenth episode of South-Park, Ms Humpty rang to ask if I was feeling better. "Yep, I've got me some Coconut" I said, my grin most likely audible over the phone as - fiening sophistication - I skewered the last bit and chomped loudly on it to prove my point.
"Be careful with coconut baby, It's a laxative"

At that point time seemed to slow as I mentally replayed the last hours of dietry idiocy*

Fuck.

Double Fuck.

I surveyed the bowl. No dates. No figs... the only testament to my sugar-laden dried-fruit feast was a pile of date stones and the bit you bite off the figs. Not cool. Dried Fruit... in vast quantities.

Life flashes before you at these moments, and I then recalled my grandmother eating 3 prunes at breakfast time to ensure she crapped.... *Three* ... I was in touble.

You know the bit in films when - sporting a face of pure horror - people back slowly away from the evil creature? ... Good. Ever seen anyone try to back away from their own ass? That was me: and a few hours later I was lamenting my inability to escape it..

As noted in "I'm an expert" I am the proud posessor of an ass for which the phrase "Blast Radius" was designed. And a few hours after my feast it was the anotomical equivalent of Sarajevo, My bathroom was a warzone, and I'd run out of toilet paper: When the day started I had 2 rolls left. It was a rough few hours.

Things to eat in moderation
Figs
Dates
Coconut
Peanuts.

I suggest you follow the above advice. The result of failing to do so will result in vast quantities of chunky liquid going though your anus at an alarming pace..
( Humpty Dumpty was Pushed Is unaware of having any limits., Fri 28 Mar 2008, 15:59, 6 replies)

Please don't judge me
Ok so the story I'm about to tell you happened when I was small and naive (not to mention stupid).
I was on the bog in my parents big house. I can't exactly say what age I was, but suffice to say I measure those years by the house we lived in as my parents moved around a lot. I had finished up my business and turned around to flush the loo. I watched my poo and paper swirl round the bowl then summarily disappear into the abyss. There was however one solitary raison that remained bobbing about on the surface.

Now curiosity, or stupidity for want of a more appropriate word, got the better of me and for some reason a voice in the back of my head said 'Eat the raison....eeeaaat the raissssooon'. I was in no position to disobey the voice of reason so I scooped it out with my hands and popped it into my mouth and proceeded to chew with all the finesse and vigour of starving hyena.

The taste shot round my mouth and I don't think I have ever tasted anything so foul before then or indeed since. I raced to the kitchen and proceeded to scoop peanut butter into my mouth to try and mask the flavour. It stayed in my mouth for quite some time after and no liquid or food could shift it.

Over the years I've let it slip to a few mates that I did this when I was a lot younger which in retrospect was probably a bad idea. You're always onto a winner when you meet a girl and your mates walk past and ask 'Hey, did you tell her about the time you ate a raison from your bum?'.
(The Archduke of South London I'm in your Girlfriend eating her organs, Fri 28 Mar 2008, 15:59, 1 reply)

That's ASDA Price
Bit of a back story -

I decided that being a fat bastard was getting a bit tedious and decided to go on a diet. Not just any diet, the mother of all diets. 500 Calories a day, just powedered soups and shakes.

I've lost a wopping 9 stone on this, but nearly put it all back on in poo.

With these shakes, you can add this special "Mix a mousse" powder that makes said shakes into lovely angel delight type treats.. made of rubber or something, as they make mega dense poos. So dense, they sit at the bottom of the pan and the weight of them is no match for the water.
Anyway... so after a few arsebreakers, I finally met my match. King kong was sitting in my bowel, too stuborn and big to reveal himself from his smelly fortress. Now and again smaller poos would push it out of the way to get through... but i could feel the beast in me for a week.
Then.. one morning in ASDA after lots of fibre it was ready to awaken... I ran to to loos, and went into the disabled one - my battleground.

About 5 mins into the poo, I hear some knocking about outside - and think nothing of it. About 25 mins later I managed to get it out of me, so proud.
I then opened the door, to find this little old lady with 2 walking sticks waiting to use the disabled toilets. I, completely and obviously leg abled, bounded out of the toilet - which smelt like a cow had shat in there.
My weigh in the next week revealed that I had lost 4lb more than usual....

This was last week, i think it was a QOTW oman...

Length? Scaled the Empire State Building.
(wicks, Fri 28 Mar 2008, 15:56, 1 reply)

Following through, mainly
Three things immediately spring to mind...

1. The time when, as a kid, I was desperate for the loo and, as I ran up the stairs to the bathroom I farted and a big poo fell down my leg and bounced off my foot.

2. The time, again as a kid, when I was having a bath, farted (again), and spectacularly followed through, resulting in the bathwater looking like Bisto. I leapt out of the water, pulled the plug out, and had to squash the poo down the plughole before my parents found out what had happened.

3. Talking of parents, the time when I went into the bathroom in their house when I still lived there, and saw a smudge of poo on the edge of the sink. I shudder to think how it got there.
(nasalhair The Twix guy!, Fri 28 Mar 2008, 15:21, 2 replies)

Colon the Barbarian
Peter, or Colon the Barbarian, as he is known, is not the kind of man to duel with on matters faecal. Believe me, he can make you feel ill by just looking at the expression on his face because you know he has done something obscene.

Well, one morning Peter awoke, late, following one of his usual Guinness/Curry/Peanuts soirees, and realised he had to get to Heathrow to pick up a pen-pal who was coming over for a cultural break in Blighty.
In a panic, he throws some clothes on, jumps in his old BMW and hammers off down the motorway.

Half-way there, he realises he has a problem. As he put it, his guts were “mulching”. He knows what is looming but checking his watch, he also cannot spare the time to stop off. His mate knows very little English, and this was in the days before mobiles were common, so he’ll be left all alone in Arrivals, forgotten.

As the journey progresses, the insistent rumbling and spasms in his guts are intensifying, as is the traffic, and his driving is getting more erratic. He just has to get off this fucking motorway before there’s a serious accident and carnage ensues. He might also crash the car.

Now Pete was obviously more than a tad late to pick his pal up, or he would have stopped off, I reckon he probably hadn’t even set off by the time the plane landed, but that’s by-the-by, he absolutely could not afford a poo-stop, so soldiers on with gritted teeth.

Slewing sideways into Heathrow, he gets to the multi-storey, and by now the contractions are nearly constant. He’s about to give birth.

He’s sure that he won’t be able to hobble across the road to the terminal to use the bogs, the cramps are crippling. Only one thing for it, he drives round the carpark, looking for a dark and dingy corner.

However, every time he drops his kegs, his dastardly plan is foiled by some inconsiderate bastard driving by or returning to their car. So it’s back into the motor, drive round again, tyres squealing, looking for a quiet spot.
Finally he realises the planets are in alignment, the turtle is licking the back of his leg and he is going to have to unleash the Kraken.

Suddenly, brainwave!

He remembers an old t-shirt in the boot, so parks up in a row of cars, retrieves the t-shirt, spreads it out over the drivers seat and lowers his trolleys. Dammit, he’s too tall, has no jetpack to help him hover over the seat, so opens the sunroof, sticks his head out, aims his arse towards the t-shirt, and pulls the trigger.

Evidently it was less like Bungle’s finger, more like Bungle and his whole family, liquidised. Slurry, if you will, but miraculously Peter had managed to get the vast majority on-target, into the shirt, with only minimal pebble-dashing of the seat. Daintily he dabs at his starfish with the arm of the shirt before buttoning up and climbing out of the sunroof.

Now what? Fuck it, there’s a stray carrier bag blowing about the car park so he chases it down, returns to the motor and gingerly removes the brown limpet from his car seat, has a bit of a scrape-up, into the bag, and triumphantly ties it up to prevent any escape. Checking to see if he has been observed, he slithers over to a bin and disposes of the offending article, before hastily locking up his car and sprinting, on airy springy light-footed toes to the Arrivals lounge to pick his mate up.

Upon their return to the vehicle, Peter is regretting not leaving more windows open, or better still, sawing the fucking roof off. His friend apparently ranted, raved and retched in Finnish, despite knowing Pete speaks absolutely none of the language. Apparently it sounded like he was praying.
All windows and the sunroof were opened to the chill February elements, to banish the ghost of the beast, and as they emerged from the gloom of the car park, it became obvious that Pete’s aim wasn’t as good as he thought, and the car had had a bit of an interior re-spray.

The drive home was frosty, literally, because all the glass remained down, and his friend wailed and moaned Finnish curses at him from across the car where he was hanging out of the passenger window. Evidently he didn’t stay long and returned to Finland never to be heard from again.



When Pete told me this tale, I nearly shat myself laughing, but the best part was that he hadn’t considered that even 15 years ago, airports were probably the most surveilled parts of our country.
He was most disturbed when I pointed out to him that security cameras MUST have picked him out doing laps of the car park, stopping, getting out, back in, doing another couple of laps, before parking up for a few minutes, exiting via the sunroof and then very gingerly leaving a well wrapped package in a carrier bag in a litter bin. Pity the poor bastard who was sent to investigate, I hope they had the full UXB armour on, Pete’s poo is not to be trifled with.

I’m waiting for the footage to surface on “The World’s Most Disturbing CCTV” or similar show.

Pete, if you happen to be reading this, get back in touch!!!

No apologies for length, a good poo is to be savoured and not hurried in any way shape or form.
(Rsoles, Fri 28 Mar 2008, 15:06, 1 reply)

Shitting gauze
A few weeks ago, I had all my wisdom teeth out. In the weeks preceding the operation I spent an inordinate amount of time looking it up on the internet, practically memorising the wikipedia page on wisdom teeth, googling every possible complication, reading the entirety of the "dentists" QOTW (damn you all, you made me terrified) and even typing "wisdom tooth extraction" into the search bar on YouTube, which I do not recommend anyone does under any circumstances. By the time the day of the operation dawned, I thought I knew what to expect. I thought I was prepared. I had painkillers, sleeping pills, mouthwash, ice packs, everything I could possibly need. I had become an expert on wisdom tooth extractions and all of their possible complications. However, I suffered a terrible complication that not even google, YouTube or b3ta could have prepared me for. "But pray tell, grandmasterfluffles," I hear you cry, "What could a grisly dental operation possibly have to do with poo?"

More than you think.

There were quite a few complications with the operation itself which I won't go into in great detail, but most importantly, the nasty fuckers at the bottom were impacted not just in the gum but also in the jaw bone itself, meaning that they had to remove chunks of my jaw to get them out. Although I had taken my surgeon's advice and taken a maximum dose of painkillers well before the anaesthetic wore off I was, as might be expected, in a fuck load of pain. However, it was much more bearable than I had feared. "This is fine," I thought, "I can easily handle this for a couple of days..." It then occurred to me that it was probably time to take out my gauze packs. For anyone not in the know, when you have a tooth extracted, you're given a rolled up bit of damp gauze to bite on to soak up the blood. Mine had become decidedly gross and soggy and I seemed to have stopped bleeding, so I removed them. Within a couple of seconds I was in unbearable, excruciating agony. Remember how they'd had to break my jaw to get the teeth out? Well, I basically had two open fractures in my mouth, and the gauze packs had been the only things stopping my mangled jaw bone from being exposed. I made myself another couple of gauze packs immediately, and the hideous, excruciating, mind-mangling pain abated swiftly. By the time I went to bed, it was still excruciatingly painful taking the gauze packs out, so I went to sleep with them in.

Now, after extensive research, it's my opinion that no amount of alcohol, in fact no substance whatsoever, is capable of producing quite the level of sheer stupidity, wooziness and general moronic behaviour that is possible when you haven't yet woken up properly. At about 2am that night I had a great dream that I was chewing a really yummy piece of French bread. It was the best baguette I'd ever tasted - crispy on the outside, soft on the inside, with really good unsalted butter... It did occur to me that crusty French bread wasn't the most sensible thing to be eating in my current condition, and I was having serious difficulty chewing it. A sensible person would have admitted defeat and spat it out, but alas, I am not at all sensible and also phenomenally greedy. I swallowed the bread almost whole. Then, joy of joys, I found that I had another yummy piece of baguette on the other side of my mouth! I began chewing that too. Then my semi-conscious self was jolted rapidly into full consciousness by the realisation that I was gnawing at one of my disgusting, bloody gauze packs, and the other one was making its uncomfortable way down to my stomach.

I phoned NHS Direct for some advice, and they laughed at me. Oh yes, they laughed at me! I had serious difficulty explaining the problem seeing as I was about as articulate as a chimpanzee with a cleft palate, but I managed it in the end. I got the distinct impression that every time I was put on hold, the whole office was probably exploding into hysterics. The nurse I spoke to asked me a few questions ("Do you have bloody stools?" Why would I when I'd only swallowed the thing an hour previously?) and told me that it would probably make its way through my digestive system with no complications. However, she did tell me that if I had any abdominal pain whatsoever I was to get myself to A&E immediately, where they would do a barium x-ray and probably operate to remove it. This did not sound pleasant, and in fact, the first thing that popped into my head was Legless' legendary QOTW contribution about barium shits. If it hadn't made its way out of my system within two weeks, I would also need a barium x-ray to check it wasn't stuck somewhere. And guess how I was going to have to track its reappearance? That's right - by dissecting everything that came out of my arse until it turned up!

I really had thought that the low point of my life had been on the day of the operation, drugged up to the eyeballs with two open fractures in my jaw, but no, nothing beats kneeling over a toilet bowl 24 hours later, still looking and feeling as if you've done ten rounds with Mike Tyson, poking at your own bowel movements with an old toothbrush. Since I wasn't eating much at all, my digestive transit was a little on the sluggish side, and I had to dissect three poos before I found the offending gauze pack. I then did a little victory dance around the bathroom, still smeared in my own excrement. I would not wish this experience on anyone, and have since had great sympathy for pathologists examining stool samples for a living.

Length? The surgeon said they were the longest roots he'd ever seen in such a small person.
(grandmasterfluffles Come to my Armageddon party on, Fri 28 Mar 2008, 15:01, 7 replies)

Evil twin
Ah, at last we arrive back on the subject that has kept me amused for many a year. Is it because I am a Brit, or simply that I have never grown up. Or perhaps, it is just the colour, smell and effect of poo on proper grown-ups that has me dissolving into giggling fits at the mere thought of the messy brown stuff or it's breezy sidekick.

Being one half of twins (the better half, of course), I was able to constantly torture my brother with poo-related incidents during our childhood (it's not over yet). As small people, we were well aware of how much fun could be derived from any kind of competition, especially pooing. So one of my particularly favourite habits was racing him up the stairs to get to the toilet. I usually beat him at this (being born 10 minutes later makes all the difference with speediness, I assure you), and was therefore able to lock the door in time and listen with much cackling as he pleaded more and more desperately to be let in. I seemed to have an amazing ability to hold pee or poo in (and still do now), whereas he had the control of tic-ridden shelf-stacker.

This one fine sunny day, I had just beaten him again and had plonked myself down on the freezing rim to release some wee wee (no poo needed that day), when I heard the poor mite at the door pleading with me to let him come in and poo. Much guffawing ensued by both of us despite his obvious discomfort, but I still wouldn't open up. After a few minutes, he still hadn't given up, so I decided to open the door a peep, just to further my amusement by witnessing his puffed out fat little face.

Naughty sister, I hear you all cry, but it was worth it that day. Not only had he pooed into his little white y-fronts, but I also had the pleasure of watching the little brown lump bounce onto his pants, which were situated around his knees, and it then landed at his weird toes (I'm still confused by their unusual bendy shape), like some freak anal circus trick.

This story isn't amazing in itself, I know, but I do marvel that the image of my brother's poo bouncing on his pants, has never left my tiny pea-brain.

I'm also still amazed by the memory of our dog Blackie (dear god, our dad even called her Wog for short - he's not in any way racist, I hasten to add) and her penchant for leaving presents in our garden. They used to turn white like little antique bottom treasures, and me and twin would poke them with sticks to make them crumble into poo ash. I never see white poo anymore.....

Twin takes mild revenge now that we're older though, and makes me talk to him while he's on the gary glitter, even when it really smells. I think he forgets I work in a mortuary where poo is an everyday weapon (I wrote 'poo' in poo the other day, which kept me happpy for about half the day).

I also still fart on his head, given half a chance.

Length? I was 21 inches and he was 25.
(HappyBoofy, Fri 28 Mar 2008, 14:44, 1 reply)

I was on a 2 month holiday in Canada.
I was living with 7 other people in shared accommodation. I went for a shower in the morning, as I got out of the shower I felt the beginnings of what could be a satisfying pop. Only for it to be, what can only be described as a bubble of liquid poo. Which burst onto the shower matt. I cleaned it up. I'd also point out one of my house mates was one of these people terrified about bugs and germs to an unhealthy level. My knowing where he was standing every morning made me proud.
( BindiBaji, Fri 28 Mar 2008, 14:43, Reply)

The Albert Park, Middlesbrough
When I was a student, a mate and I went to this boozer for a few pints. There were two bars, but only one toilet, with a big sink with the drain emptying into one end of the full length, floor level porcelain urinal. There was only one trap in said bog, and, naturally, that had had the lock booted off somewhere back in the mists of time (why do people do that? Wankers).
Anyway, after a few pints, time for a slash.......(this was about 2 in the afternoon)
The urinal had a hole in the middle of it which should've been covered by one of those domed metal grill things, but wasn't.
About a foot away from this hole, (and fortunately on the sink side of the urinal) some genius had laid a cable. Naturally, I tried to break it up and flush it away with my stream of piss, but to no avail - I swear it took about 15 minutes of continually filling the sink then emptying it into the urinal to wash the reluctant beastie away......
Length? A good eight inches, and a couple in diameter.........
(wobbegong69 has been soaring................, Fri 28 Mar 2008, 14:21, Reply)

Outback Outpourings
Whilst traveling through the outback, covering quite a distance from Adelaide up through the middle to Cairns our diet was somewhat limited. Due to a preference to spend the majority of what little funds we shared collectively on alcohol and weed (beer is extremely expensive in the desert)we had little remaining for food, so as a result we dined mainly on cheese and tomato sauce sandwiches and chicken flavour super noodles. After a week or so my guts began to notice the distinct lack of any fibre and consequently began spewing green lumpy bum juice. My god given right to defecating pleasure was stripped from me, each fart became a gamble, 'will it be wet?', 'will i shit myself in an unbearably hot car?' My trip to the lavvy became pretty miserable, i was regularly having to hand wash my shorts at everystop, i resolved to sort it out. At the next available opportunity i gorged on anything merely fibre related, shreddies, brown bread, brown rice, anything with substance, it still took a couple of days but my immense joy when i finally coiled out a solid was uncontainable, I actually had to explain to a complete stranger why i was so inexplicably happy, 'Ive just done a hard poo!' I think he left the campsite after an hour or so!! That is and will forever be my best ever poo!
(lankynyack, Fri 28 Mar 2008, 14:20, Reply)

Drove to the beach...
...in France with my brother. By the time we were nearly there, we were both desperate for a poo. I let him go first in the semi-portable thing in the car park. He was in there for a long time...

When he finally came out, i grabbed the door and followed him in, the stench wasn't unbearable, but average for a public toilet. The thing was it was really dark inside, and my eyes weren't used to it. The door shut behind me and locked, I went to the toilet and looked down, as my eyes adjusted, I saw the horror in the bowl, so much poo, so little space. I decided that I didn't desperately need a poo after all, so i went to the door. It was locked. Then the toilet seat started closing automatically.

Then it hit me. This was a self cleaning toilet, and by not allowing the door to shut after my brother, I was locked in while the chemical, self-cleaning toilet, started cleaning itself!

I was clawing at the door in the half light, desperately hoping to escape before the cleaning stuff got me, frantically looking for an escape! Fortunately, there was a catch, high on the door I caught that and got out, just as the chemical spray got the door.

I have never been so frightend in my life! I'm sure that's what it must be like to be buried alive. It wasn't nice!
(The Kwyjibo A big, dumb, balding North American ape., Fri 28 Mar 2008, 14:14, Reply)

Shitting of a bridge
I used to know a guy called Marcus who defined the word disgusting.

He was the sort of man who would cupcake complete strangers. He once farted into a polystyrene cup, put the lid on and gave it to his girlfriend to “drink”. Rumor had it that he once ate someone’s verucca as a bet. For the time I knew him he was mostly single.

This is the story of how someone saved his life and then beat him to within an inch of it.

After a very heavy night on the disco biscuits at a house party, Marcus found himself wandering the lonely streets of Richmond.
The train station was closed, there were no buses and he could not afford a Taxi home. He wandered around the streets until he came to Richmond Bridge and he decided to kill an hour or two there until the trains started coming.
He told me that he sat and watch the sun break over the Thames and he basked in its beauty.
At around 5 in the morning he noticed a large amount of rowers splashing there way up the river, he could hear the posh voice of the cox screaming orders. In a moment of sicko genius he decided to take a shit on them as they rowed beneath the bridge.
He jumped onto the concrete ledge, removed garments and assumed the basic “crouching for a shit position. He said it took all his concentration to start to push and balance at the same time. This was made all the more difficult as he was physically trembling with laughter, but, with determination he got the beginnings of a coil poking out.
He listened intently, he could hear the subtle change in sound as the group of boats entered under the bridge and with one final push his morning glory took flight.

“What the fuck…Errr…you sick mother” came the shouts below

Marcus had managed a direct hit on his first attempt. He later told me that it was the happiest moment of his life – shortly followed by the worst. With all the commotion below he started to uncontrollably laugh. In a comic slow motion way he started to flap his arms to try and keep balance, but, almost instantly fell off the bridge into the dirty water below.

With credit to the rowers – they immediately pulled him onto the boat, made sure he was all right and then rowed him straight to the shore. They got out of there boats, dragged him onto dry land and then took it in turns trying to kick any remaining shit out of his body. The last thing he saw before he fell unconscious was the expanding anus of a burly rower about to take a shit on his face.
( KISS.ME.WHERE.I.POO Signed the sex offenders register on, Fri 28 Mar 2008, 14:10, 5 replies)

broken
I did a pooh once that was so big it broke my bum - split it in two. I still have the scar. I think I will have it for life.

*gamefully keeps rubbing in healing unguents*
(ring-finger is also a verb, Fri 28 Mar 2008, 14:06, 1 reply)

lissoFboB
By that enigmatic headline, I mean the reverse of BobFossil, and her post below.

I visited Cambodia a couple of years ago. I tend to be quite adventurous in my eating, and always prefer to eat alongside the locals. My travelling companions on this occasion, though, were not as eager as I. When in Siem Reap, they adverted to the FCC for all their evening meals; I decided to go off and find somewhere else.

On the way to wherever - in this case, a lovely little restaurant, popular with locals - I passed a handcart selling snacks. Hungry, I bought a little prawn fritter thingy.

In retrospect, even though I have a fairly iron stomach most of the time, eating shellfish kept warm by a lightbulb and sold from a filthy handcart mightn't have been the wisest move. For the following week - until after I'd got home - I was... um... a little squitty. I got away with it - just - but there was no way I was going to miss out on Angkor Wat. I'd have happily walked around with my thumb up my jacksie to stop the flow had that been called for...


Did I really say "happily" there?
( Enzyme is powered by sunlight, Fri 28 Mar 2008, 13:47, 8 replies)

Ikea is a little bit shitter now.
I put a fake plastic dog turd in one of the display toilets in Ikea today just so I had a story for this QOTW.
I hate Ikea.
( P45 Sent by my Bosch 509e in the year 2000, Fri 28 Mar 2008, 13:44, 2 replies)

Colgate farts
The problem with being in a rush, particularly as it concerns time-saving manoeuvres such as brushing your teeth whilst taking a dump and other distasteful stories.


So I’m at a gig and I’ve had a couple of pints and it’s about half-way along so I reckon I can hold out until the end. I’m straining in me jeans and my eyes are lightly watering but I’m confident I can rush to the jacks as the last song ends and the house lights go up and beat the rush then leave with my mates who will of course have patiently waited for me. Two encores later the situation is getting heinous but I grin and bear it being a shamelessly macho sonuvabitch, I wipe the tears from my eyes and slide the belt on me jeans down a notch. 11 o clock arrives and the rush to get to the car park begins so no jacks visit for Mr b is permitted.

Into the car we get and head through the post-gig traffic, slowly, to our destination dropping old baz here at a bus stop so as he can get home. It’s only a short car trip followed by a shorter bus journey and there are pubs near the bus stop so I can probably talk some bouncer into letting me slip in for a quick slash to relieve the pressure. Lord knows its ill-advised at the best of times to drop kek and poop in a boozer - you might catch the gay or something. The biggest poop I’ve ever seen was in a pub jacks. Thirteen inches long it was and thick as a babies arm, standing upright and alone in the six-inch deep water, unflushable. I had to pee on it and no amount of straining or slashing would dent it. Work of art it was.

I get to the bus stop after polite au revoirs in the middle of post pub traffic as I bale at the lights making tentative plans to watch the rugby at the weekend over a few more delicious pints as the car rushes off narrowly avoiding a shunt from an eager bus driver who is all teeth and eyeballs in the twilight and not a word of English. At least what he roared at me out the window didn’t sound like English but then at this stage its not unlikely my ears were slightly waterlogged so who’s to say. Could be he was more Darcus Howe than Dark Continent.

I spy the bus stop and I spy the pub door even closer but the bus stop is packed with post pub revellers so it’s likely there’s a bus due soon. I make the decision to widen my grin and grizzly my bear even further and dash for the bus stop. If the bus arrives in the next five minutes, I’ll be in the jacks in fifteen, pants down and relief rushing through my troubled loins. If only. The number 19 bus comes which would leave me near the gaf but not as near as the number 19a so having glanced at the schedule as I arrived to see the doors of the number 19 bus about to close and having observed that they run on the same schedule but a slightly different route I decide the likeliest scenario is if I hop on the 19 I’ll be kicking myself as I get around the corner to see a 19a not having left me nearer the gaf so I hold on. I even rub my hands together hubristically considering how terribly clever I am and how soon I will be home, warm and devoid of faecal matter pressing painfully on my colon.

Five then ten then fifteen minutes pass, the pub doors close and no sign of the 19a bus. It would appear the 19a gets to the stop first and the next one is scheduled for twenty minutes after the last. That’s five minutes from now but the twenty minutes before its arrival see’s old baz pacing tentatively, sitting on the wall with legs crossed tighter than a virgin at a Baptist revival meet in Alabama, sweaty brow glistening then frosting in the cool night air, cheeks pumped full of breath and the dear-god-I-need-comfort-back-and-forth-rocking-whilst-hands-clench-icy-cold-red-brick-wall in full flow. Passers-by stare as though observing an escaped lunatic. The lunatic does himself zero favours by advising random strangers he’s in dire need of a waz as he smiles maniacally on one side of his face with the other cringing and wincing as though channelling Harvey Dent.

Eventually Mr 19a busman arrives, stares tentatively at the revellers and the lunatic and ponders making a run for it before eventually opening the doors, exacting his toll from many but not all as more foreign types with limited English but no end of spare change debate, dispute and grudgingly distribute their hard-begged to the driver. It seems despite the enormous expanse of world between their two countries, Romanians and Nigerians share no fondness for one another. Perhaps both nations believe the other gives welfare scrounging a bad name – who knows? Five more lost, hopeless and pressurising minutes bear down on my suffering bladder coupled with an icy Irish breeze whistling through the open door, up my flute and deep in to the heart of me. It is decided an entente cordiale will be struck twixt Romania and Nigeria as the bus driver negotiates fares from both adults but only eleven of their eighteen snot-nosed urchins as technically only citizens of this country can pay fares and illegals travel for free – ha!

It’s a wonder how one can become suddenly and rapidly aware of just how many bumps, twists and turns there are on a mile-long stretch of road particularly when negotiating them on that modern mechanical dinosaur, the double-decker bus. Clearly they were there all along but something about a straining bladder causes ones sensitivity to topographical discrepancies to exacerbate. As the bus jolted to a halt I felt the full contents of my insides, temporary and fixed, hurtle forward combining my posterior brimming with an anterior hurl.

The result of this I dealt with most productively by harnessing the kinetic energy, shooting through the bus doors and performing a kind of rolling march for the hundred and fifty yard sprint to the gaf from the bus stop, during which I inexplicably paused but did not stop, turning my neck to admire the wooden struts issuing forth from the residential second floor of the building housing the Chinese take-away below, mysteriously monikered ‘Aberdeen’.

Perhaps being so close to the venue of my imminent haven of defecation my body allowed itself to relax for a split second but this turned out to be apocryphal as I then got the idea into my head that I could minimise the time between now and sleep if I grabbed my toothbrush from the bedroom (one of the necessities of shared accommodation is to keep your ablutive devices hidden), on the way to the pooper and brush my teeth whilst I relieved myself…


…which was the dire and distasteful end of a pleasant enough evening albeit mildly tainted by foreign bodies without and more painfully within.

Mildly delirious with tidings of discomfort and joy, I, holding a bog roll glove in one hand and a toothbrush and fresh squeeze of toothpaste in the other, then proceed to open my mouth and lean forward in order to attempt what I would later call ‘the impossible’, i.e. wipe botty and brush tooth simultaneously for unfortunately not quite as soon as I became aware of the bizarre taste of bog roll on my tongue, I experienced one of the more curious sensations of my notably dappled and experimented existence. That is to say the sticky, stinging sensation of paste on arsehole followed by subsequently discarded brush up bum.

On the flipside, my farts now smell like Colgate.

Rafter
baz


ps - several posters have mentioned the absence of the white dog shit in recent times. I cannot vouch for the truth of this but i once read on a similar forum (similar - you say? Never!) that the disappearance of white dog shits is related to the absence of real fires and the disposal of ash which stupid doggys would try to scoff thus creating white doggy poops.
(bazmorningstar efil4nat3b, Fri 28 Mar 2008, 13:42, 1 reply)

Shitting yourself on a motorbike
I once followed through in Scotland, with 200 miles left before getting home.

Warm diarrhea sloshing about in your waterproofs is not a nice feeling. Neither is removing said waterproofs at the other end and finding them stuck to your arse.
(Half of Stephen Fry's right buttock pissed on your dog on, Fri 28 Mar 2008, 13:42, Reply)

Russia, Mongolia, China - The Trans-Mongolian intestinal express
This is the story of the shittiest trip I've been on. It's not shitty in that it was shit - it was great in fact, but involved great piles of shit emenating from our shitters.

Me and a friend decided to go on a trip on the Trans Mongolian train to Beijing stopping off at a few places along the way. Lots happened on the trip so I'll just give you the shitty hilights. For me, the big D started in Moscow and lasted right to the end. The further along I went, the worse the toilet-facilities became. For some reason, toilet paper has only managed to travel as far east as the Russian border, and even further east, there's a toilet-seat border. One useful tip when travelling to a shitty part of the world. Share a single roll of toilet paper with your group that's about to run out. By forcing the discussion of your bog-roll usage habits with your mates, you overcome your squeamishness of talking about number twos.

Irkutsk (Russia): Desperate for a watery poo, I went into the only toilet in a nearby pizza-place. There was no toilet paper (alas, I forgot to ask my friend if I could be the bearer of the shared roll). The toilet had no toilet-paper, but it was the only toilet in the whole building. I was desperate so in I went. When I finished, I decided to look through the bin for anything I could use. I saw a used sanitary pad wrapped in toilet-paper (why do they bother wrapping them up before chucking them in the bin I do not know), unwrapped the toilet paper and used that to wipe my bottom (the paper - not the pad). Must have spent 10 minutes occupying the only toilet and didn't order any food (but in my defense, me and my friend did come back there later for a pizza).

Mongolia: The land of the poo, steppe, poo, nomads, poo, Airag and lots more poo. If you ever get out into the countryside and look on the ground, it can only be described as a turd pot-pourri (there are some truly amazing landscapes out there too, but that's besides the point). Looking at all these turds, I was starting to get jealous. How do all these animals manage to curl out such lovely solid turds when all my arse does is piss rusty water?

Anyway, we stayed with a couple of local nomads. We were offered some Airag. Basically, it's fermented mare's milk, but in my eyes, it was yet another diarrhoea-starter. I still took several sips. My friend and some other backpackers who had joined our group took a more gung-ho approach. Afterwards, my friend was starting to have severe arse-difficulties too.

The Mongolian landscape, although it's a giant toilet, does not offer any means of protecting your modesty. There's no trees or bushes anywhere - just an endless frozen sea of light-green hills. What we did was to take it in turns to climb over a large hill and use the hill to block the view of other nearby humans and just hope nobody comes over the next hill to see our naked bottoms hovering in mid air. Squatting does take a bit of practice to get used to. One thing I've discovered is that it must be easier to shit and piss at the same time if you're a woman because you have to use one hand to hold your willy downwards to prevent you from pissing all over your trousers, whereas women can use the second hand for additional balance. In a forest where only #1 is required, men have it easier - just whip it out and go (yes, I'm aware of this but I'd immagine it would take some concentration), but in the steppe with a bum like a firecracker, it's a different story alltogether. One thing I did learn is that it's possible to wear a type of coat that when in the squatting position reaches to the ground. This not only protects your modesty but keeps you warm as well. I never tried it but I'd immagine that being male, I'd have to put a hand inside so I don't piss on the inside of the coat.

As well as diarrhoea, I also was suffering from constipation. This makes it very hard to pick the appropriate medicine. Anti-diarrhoea medicine has constipation as a side effect, and anti-constipation medicine has diarrhoea as a side effect. Needless to say, I let nature take it's course and chose to go un-medicated. It was like I was turning myself inside out by shtting my entire body through my poohole. Constipation was just as bad. I often wished I had Anal Dynamite so I could unblock the blockage and force it out.

China: Worse was to come. If you've never seen a Chinese public toilet - don't. It can be best described as a crime against hygene. They consist of an unpartitioned trough at the side of the room and everyone shits together comunally and unpartitioned. I saw one with shit spattered on the side of the wall. I can only immagine they must have had an explosive dump while touching their toes.

The train journey to the Chinese border was pretty uneventful. However, the Chinese are renowned for inventing torture-devices. I experienced one such device - a Chinese Sleeper bus. Once I got to the Chinese town of Erenhot (Erlian) in Inner Mongolia, I transfered onto a bus. I stayed in town for a few hours unable to find anything even remotely resembling a decent cable-laying facility. It's a pity my standards hadn't dropped sooner, because by the time I was on the bus, I felt like I was going to explode. There was a toilet on the bus, but that was quickly declared out of order. One thing I learned after 3 or so weeks of continuous diarrhoea is that the best way to prevent it was to only allow my body to be in certain shapes and orientations. If you feel like bursting for a shit, either stand upright, like flat on your back, or sit such that the back/leg-top angle and the leg-top/leg-bottom angle is 90 degrees. Also, I had a bottle of ice-cold water (thankfully, when I bought it in Erlian, it was just a block of ice in a plastic bottle), and putting that on my stomach helped a bit (probably cooled down the expanding gasses) but had to not over-use it or the ice would melt. To make things worse, the road to Beijing was extremely bumpy. In fact it was so bumpy that there were times when gravity couldn't keep up and I nearly collided with the bunk-bed on top of me. I wanted the bus to slow down so I wouldn't be thrown about but on the other hand, I wanted the bus to speed up so I could reach a decent thunderbox quicker. After several hours, we made a rest stop. It was dark by then so I had more options. Eventually, I found a hidden place (which turned out to be somebody's vegetable garden) and had one constipated shit (hardly anything came out). I told my friend and he too had a dump in the vegetable garden, and unlike me, it all came out. Lucky get!

After 16 hours, we finally reached the Urban Sauna that is known as Beijing. Due to an oversight, we ended up in a suburb so we had to get a local bus to get us to the hostel. I still hadn't pood by this time. The bus was the appropriately numbered number two bus. We walked the rest of the way and due to Chinese streets being well hidden, we took a detour that added at least 1km to our route. We finally got to the hostel. I wasn't going to wait until we had a place, I just dashed to the shitters and let it all loose. It turned out that there were no places for us but in the time it took to find that out, I must have gone to the bogs on three separate occasions. After about 6 hours since we got to Beijing, we finally found a place to stay. It was a 2 bed room with it's on private bathroom. My diarrhoea was recovering, but my friend was getting worse. Unlike me who suffered in the open steppe and the sleeper-bus, my friend suffered it in the comfort of a bed with easy access to a western sit-down toilet. Jammy get!

Needless to say, any time we have arse-difficulties, we refer to it as Mongolian Bumhole.


Apologies for length and smell and general crap-ness.
( mistaspakkaman and the inedible shifting caterpillars, Fri 28 Mar 2008, 13:41, 8 replies)

Rectal abuse in Phnom Penh.
Apologies, this is quite long.

Last November, Mr BobFossil and I took ourselves off on a little trip across Thailand, Cambodia and Vietnam, overland from Bangkok to Saigon, via Siem Riep and Phnom Penh. By our last night in Phnom Penh, we were craving something other than Cambodia food, so when we were offered the chance to dine at the FCC (Foreign Correspondents Club) we jumped at the chance. We had margheritas and pizza galore, and were looking forward to a good nights sleep before jumping on the bus to Saigon the following day at 8am. Sadly, this feeling of contentment was not to last.

I woke up at about 5am feeling slightly odd. I lay there, trying to get together the energy to go to the loo for a pee, which is what I assumed had woken me up. Then suddenly, the overwhelming knowledge that I was going to be imminently and violently unwell hit me. I knelt over the porcelain throne, and...nothing. Not even a little bit of bile.

However, as soon as I stood up, I suddenly had to sit down again, 0.5 seconds before my arse emitted a thin stream of pure brown hatred. I pushed until it sputtered to an end, wiped and flushed. Stood up, sat down and excreted more of this liquid venom that was sullying my innocent bowels. Funnily enough, it didn't smell too bad at this point. It must have been the scouting party, preparing for the anal assault I was about to suffer.

At this point, I began to feel a bit sick. Both bath and sink were too far to each side to aim for: I would have had to lean over, and risk propelling a jet of watery effluent all over the bathroom walls. Aha! There's a small bin for sanitary towels, cunningly lined with a carrier bag. I grabbed that and hurled a small amount of bile into it. By this point, it was getting on for 6.30am. I had an hour and a half to pack my bags, empty myself of whatever bug was raping my digestive system, and get cleaned. I strained gently on my bowels, and nothing came out. It would appear that I was empty. I emerged from the bathroom, told the boyfriend that I would not be coming to breakfast, and swallowed a couple of immodium. They immediately reappeared in a small pool of vomit. Oh dear. If I can't make my insides solid, then this 7 hour journey from Phnom Penh to Saigon, on a public bus, was going to be interesting...I needed to get whatever was still inside of me out, and fast.

I had a packet of "rehydration" powder to add to a glass of water to create "a delightfully effervescent drink, with a refreshing lemon taste". Bingo. As everyone knows, those things taste vile. I sat myself on the loo, bin clutched 'twixt knees in readiness, made a glass of the foul drink, downed it in one, and waited...for all of 10 seconds. Suddenly, hell came a-calling. I threw up a soggy mass of what felt like an entire baby (which was probably most of the calzone pizza from supper), and the sheer pain of this made my stomach buck around like a wild horse. Naturally, the violent muscle contractions in my torso managed to kick my arse into gear, and forced out a pint of liquid shit, which smelt truly horrendous. The smell made me retch, and bring up another diseased stomach-baby, which in its turn forced out another stream of steaming bum-bovril.

While I was imitating Etna at both ends, I thought about my situation. My boyfriend is outside getting acquainted with the harmonious strains of food poisoning whilst doing my packing for me, I'm in some weird vicious circle of digestive hell, and we have to get the bus in half an hour. It was very nearly depressing. Instead, as a true b3tan, I found it strangely hilarious. So now, the sounds coming from the bathroom were:

HOOONK-BLAAAAART*pffft!*HEEEEUUURGGGH-SPLUTSPLUTSPLUTSPLUT*heeheehee!*BLEEEUURGH-BRAPBRAPBRAPBRAAAAAAAAAP*bwahahaaaaa!!*

Every time I giggled, I would vomit. Every time I vomited, my arse exploded. And every time my arse exploded, I laughed at it all.

This did all actually help in the end though, as it forced everything out quite quickly, I tied the vomit-filled carrier bag handles together and left it in the loo, managed to keep down some immodium, and we (barely) made the bus. I'd stuffed my pants with sanitary towels, and had a dozen carrier bags at the ready, but fortunately the bus had a loo, and no accidents were had.

I didn't eat for the next three days though, as I really didn't want to be found dead in a Saigon hotel, leaking at both ends, with an inane grin on my face.



EDIT: I would like to point out that this was the only non-local meal I had for the entire trip, and I really am a very adventurous eater. The fried grasshoppers and beetles in Siep Reap were quite nice. It's ironic that the one western meal I had was also the source of my rectal doom.
(The Empress it seems you CAN polish a turd!, Fri 28 Mar 2008, 13:32, 5 replies)

the biggest shit ever
A few years ago when I was suffering from constipation, I didn't go to the toilet for three months. During this time, I continued to eat as normal and felt no ill effects. But the time soon came when I had to crap.

Naturally, the turd was too big to drop into a toilet, so I had to go to hospital to have it teased out by a structural engineer, a midwife and a miner. They had all kinds of equipment there, including forceps, hardened-steel chain, a crane, a flat-bed truck, a team of Polish navvies, a priest and Stephen Hawking.

As I began to push, the head was clearly too big to exit my anus and they had to cut me. Fortunately, they gave me an epidural and I felt no pain at all. But I could see from their faces that they were shocked at the excremental progeny that was sliding centimetre by centimetre from my gaping hole. I couldn't see it, but the smell had a few of them reaching for the oxygen masks.

The engineer got some hooks into it and the navvies began to haul as the miner hacked away with his pick. The crane took up the slack and there was a sound like a vast mucus cork being withdrawn from a road tunnel. We all lay around gasping and dripping with sweat as the midwife lifted my head to see the monster.

It had the diameter of a dinner plate and was a metre long, glistening with a slick coating of slime. It was studded all golden with sweetcorn and changed hue along its length to show the variety of my meals over the previous months. It was, indeed, like a core sample from the Earth's very mantle.

Beat that, b3tans.
(frankspencer, Fri 28 Mar 2008, 13:28, 6 replies)

Tuesday was a good day.
2 dumps - 2 "Holy Grails".
Satisfying plop of log striking water. Nice length, neat consistency. No wipage required.
As someone who's had to change his diet completely in the last 3 weeks due to being diagnosed with IBS this was more than pleasing.
( Boss Keloid Got your mother's maiden name tattooed on my arm, Fri 28 Mar 2008, 13:21, 5 replies)

a complete arse
My friend is a chemical engineer. He works in a factory that makes loperamide, which happens to be the main active ingredient in Imodium. Part of my mate's job is to clean the equipment and ensure that there is no cross-contamination between drugs - y'know, no viagra in the laxatives, that kind of thing.

Anyway, one day he was helping his colleague to clean out the loperamide equipment when his colleague sneezed massively and, unfortunately, inhaled a huge dose of anti-diarrhoea chemicals. My friend informs me that the drug works by tightening the sphincter and the muscles of the intestine so that even if your bowels are functioning normally, nothing - absolutely nothing - is getting out.

Length? Three weeks of being physically incapable of having a shit.
( crackhouseceilidhband Fuck off back to Mumsnet, Fri 28 Mar 2008, 13:11, 2 replies)

Back in the day…
When I was a much younger McFreedom, I was a Scout. Being one of the older members of the unit meant that I had the “privilege” of emptying the chemical toilets. These things were very basic and consisted of a “loo” and a bucket contained within in which the lovely Scouts would deposit their camp meal leftovers.

Anyway, we were nearing the end of the weeks camp and the toilets needed emptying. I was duly summoned and told to go grab one of the lavs. I approached the toilet with apprehension, it would be VERY full and actually surprisingly heavy. As I reached to grab the bucket handle, it came off in my hand.

“Phew, that was lucky, I almost poured all that shit all over the place”, thought I.

After re-attaching the handle, I proceeded to walk towards the shit pit where we would be depositing the mess for burial. I had gone about three paces when the handle came off again, this time in mid air. I can still see the brown wave flowing out in front of me as all of the mess was deposited in a foul heap. Some how, none of it went on me. I mean literally not a drop, always thought that was more luck than judgement.

My Scout leader shouted for me to tip it up, being slow, I almost tipped the rest out onto the floor unit I grasped that he wanted me to right the bucket and not in fact make more mess. Surprising that.

On the plus side, the flies that had been bothering us didn’t appear for the rest of the camp as they were having the fly equivalent of “the-time-of-their-lives” on the pile.

The smell was truly overwhelming, I almost hurled there and then after getting a lung full.

First post yay!
(McFreedom, Fri 28 Mar 2008, 12:36, Reply)

My dear sister...
is probably one of the most disgusting people i've ever met.
Lovely girl, but she really does do some revolting stuff.
Used sannies wrapped up in tissue left on the side in the bathroom, bogies wiped on the bath when she can't be bothered to use tissue.

A couple of stories come to mind concerning shit anyway.

Like the time her friend was round and they both needed the toilet, but rather than one of them make that LONG journey upstairs to the bathroom, my delightful sister had a marvellous idea. Whilst her friend enjoyed the comfort of the toilet, she grabbed a nearby plastic bag, and proceeded to shit in that.
TO top it off, rather than disposing of it in the outside bin, she crossed the road, and threw it over the garages into the dear old ladys garden who lived behind it. Never heard anything about it from our neighbour though.

Oh and just a few weeks ago, she told me proudly that she was playing Singstar:The High School Musical version (She's 18 btw), she was dancing around, enjoying the experience when a little nugget of poo emerged and rolled down her pyjama leg onto our living room carpet.

This is in front of her boyfriend, and apparently they both found it rather amusing.


No longer a lurker :)
(MackAttack, Fri 28 Mar 2008, 12:33, 1 reply)

Red pepper prolapse
One morning, aged about 7, I had a shit, finished, wiped and stood up. Oops, there was something alien still in my bottom! I wiped again, flushed, and stood up again. Zounds! The weird sensation of having a warm, smooth piece of something sticking out of my anus was quite alarming.

So I turned around with my back to a mirror, bend over, and took a look. Horror of Horrors! There was something flat and red sticking out of my ringpiece - obviously I'd suffered a rectal prolapse! (Except, at 7 years old, I didn't know the technical term, I just thought I'd finally managed to shit my guts out).

I started screaming for my mum, and tearfully explained the fact that I was dying to her, and would she please take a look, and then drive me to hospital? She dutifully made me bend over again, my young buttocks in front of her face for inspection, and started laughing at me. She grabbed the piece of "gut", pulled it out, and flushed it away, still pissing herself.

It was a piece of undigested red pepper skin. Oops.
(The Empress it seems you CAN polish a turd!, Fri 28 Mar 2008, 12:31, 2 replies)

I didn't have a story...
until this morning, when I fetched some water for a girl I was having a meeting with at work.

She had brought a colleague along and so when I put down the glass I said "Oh dear! Two girls, one cup!".

Then I chuckled inside my stupid tiny head.
( browser still relating boring anecdotes into a void on, Fri 28 Mar 2008, 12:27, 3 replies)

after a night of drink and drugs
while living in Switzerland I was staggering home when the need for a shit overtook me. I went between two cars outside some apartments and released a monster single turd.
Next afternoon, I walked past the spot where I'd made my mark and the poo was gone.

Made me chuckle to think that someone had come out of their house to find my sizable present smiling at them. Everytime I walked past the apartments I was hoping to find someone nervously peering out from behind the net curtains hoping to catch a site of the monster dog that had left his mark!
( sneep used to date Freddie Starr's hamster, Fri 28 Mar 2008, 12:11, Reply)

while at a conference in Washington
I needed and went for a shit. Imagine my delight when I looked into the bowel before wiping to find that I had shit a perfect question marked shaped poo. There was even a single brown nugget for the dot. I immediately took a photo with my mobile and sent it to my poo buddy with whom all bowel and gas movements are discussed daily. He rang me about 5 mins later and just said 'Quality mate'.

I can't begin to describe the pride I felt. Looking back, I shouldn't have flushed really. It felt like I destroyed real art.

A poo that is itself a question? Deep man, deep.
( sneep used to date Freddie Starr's hamster, Fri 28 Mar 2008, 12:06, 2 replies)