Shit Stories: Part Number Two
As a regular service to our readers, we've been re-opening old questions.
Once again, we want to hear your stories of shit, poo and number twos. Go on - be filthier than last time.
( , Thu 27 Mar 2008, 14:57)
As a regular service to our readers, we've been re-opening old questions.
Once again, we want to hear your stories of shit, poo and number twos. Go on - be filthier than last time.
( , Thu 27 Mar 2008, 14:57)
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The Old Man and the Poo.
Christmas and the Northern branch of the family had come to visit. Rich Christmassy food had been eaten. Lager and kebabs had been consumed.
And now my colon was to become a battlefield.
Come Christmas Day and I felt the first stirrings and decided to indulge in a pre-breakfast dump.
Then I felt the first nudgings against the inside of my ringpiece and knew to my horror that this one was going to be a beauty.
To put into plain English, the jobbie was about two inches wider than my poor, poor chocolate starfish could comfortably handle. Picture being bumraped by a horse from the inside out.
I strained and strained, sweated and swore and gritted my teeth and yet it would not come out. I stood up at one point in the hope that gravity would help it along but no.
Outside my family sat at breakfast, all unknowing of the desperate battle being waged mere feet away. Inside the cubicle the jobbie and I were locked in a bitter struggle. Man and turd in a fight to the death. It seemed like I had been stuck in there forever. Long enough for people to notice, certainly. Pointed comments were made through the door about hogging the facilities. Did they think I was enjoying myself? I flushed away what I could, clenched my abused buttocks and waddled to the upstairs dunny to renew the struggle again.
When it slid from me I nearly wept. Partly from relief but mainly because my arse felt like somebody had taken a blowtorch to it.
I studied the stinking brown mess that coiled up in the bottom of the pan,checking to see if my kidneys were in there anywhere. I should have felt some pride, a sense of achievement but I felt only a great relief at surviving. And about a stone lighter.
I limped downstairs to join my family and said nothing, knowing they would never understand.
( , Thu 27 Mar 2008, 22:45, 1 reply)
Christmas and the Northern branch of the family had come to visit. Rich Christmassy food had been eaten. Lager and kebabs had been consumed.
And now my colon was to become a battlefield.
Come Christmas Day and I felt the first stirrings and decided to indulge in a pre-breakfast dump.
Then I felt the first nudgings against the inside of my ringpiece and knew to my horror that this one was going to be a beauty.
To put into plain English, the jobbie was about two inches wider than my poor, poor chocolate starfish could comfortably handle. Picture being bumraped by a horse from the inside out.
I strained and strained, sweated and swore and gritted my teeth and yet it would not come out. I stood up at one point in the hope that gravity would help it along but no.
Outside my family sat at breakfast, all unknowing of the desperate battle being waged mere feet away. Inside the cubicle the jobbie and I were locked in a bitter struggle. Man and turd in a fight to the death. It seemed like I had been stuck in there forever. Long enough for people to notice, certainly. Pointed comments were made through the door about hogging the facilities. Did they think I was enjoying myself? I flushed away what I could, clenched my abused buttocks and waddled to the upstairs dunny to renew the struggle again.
When it slid from me I nearly wept. Partly from relief but mainly because my arse felt like somebody had taken a blowtorch to it.
I studied the stinking brown mess that coiled up in the bottom of the pan,checking to see if my kidneys were in there anywhere. I should have felt some pride, a sense of achievement but I felt only a great relief at surviving. And about a stone lighter.
I limped downstairs to join my family and said nothing, knowing they would never understand.
( , Thu 27 Mar 2008, 22:45, 1 reply)
Jesus,
I know the feeling. A couple of baked spuds for tea, and an hour or so in the loo the next day.
Bumraped by a horse, indeed.
( , Fri 28 Mar 2008, 17:38, closed)
I know the feeling. A couple of baked spuds for tea, and an hour or so in the loo the next day.
Bumraped by a horse, indeed.
( , Fri 28 Mar 2008, 17:38, closed)
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