A Tale of Two Shitties
This is not my tale (for as we all know, girls don't poo) but one told to me by an esteemed former colleague who we shall call Ben (for that is his name). I only hope I can do it justice, for it is surely they best poo story ever related to me.

Once upon a time, Ben and his mate went a-traveling, and their journey took them all across Morocco. A beautiful country to be sure, but not one known for it’s fecally-stable cuisine.

One evening they were treated to a meal by a group of Moroccan pals, which consisted chiefly of tasty meat dishes and with plenty of alcohol and weed on the go. The following morning, feeling dainty in the gut region, and after being told that the goat curry could be a bit volatile to the uninitiated bowel, they were advised to eat a particular type of cactus fruit (forgotten the proper name) which had a stoppering effect on the excretory system and would therefore give the lads a few days grace and time to prepare for the evil hatchlings currently incubating within. Ben was uneasy with this plan, thinking that the ‘better out than in’ mantra was the sure way to go, but his chum thought the cactus fruit was a marvelous idea.

They had quite a bit of traveling to do over the next three days, and an arsegravy attack would have been most inconvenient in this time, so spurred on by this and feeling a little saucy, Ben chowed his way through three of the ‘bum plug’ fruits, while his friend wantonly devoured five of the buggers.

True to the Moroccan’s word, the churning in their poor bellies was silenced, and for three full days there was a peace in their innards.

The following night they stayed in a small hut in a quaint rustic Morrocan village at the edge of the desert, Ben went to bed with a vague disquieting feeling in his bottom, but thought little of it and settled down for the night.

He awoke early that morning, bathed in sweat. All was not well. A Richard of mammoth proportions was attempting to worm its way from his straining ringpiece. Now, this being a somewhat old fashioned village, the toilet facilities were rather lacking. So much so in fact that going to do one’s business meant trekking out into the desert and dropping one’s fudge behind the dune of your choice. Ben frantically set about finding the only toilet roll that they had between them (and which could in fact have been the only toilet roll in the entire village) and, upon finding it thanks to the thin light of the early dawn, bolted out of the door and headed desert-wards.

Now, while the strains of his arse were causing him some alarm, he knew that this was going to be a turd of great majesty, and therefore a good squatting place was required to make things just right. He climbed the highest dune he could find, squatted, and let go.

What followed was the birthing of a chaddy of such gargantuan proportions that Thor himself would have been proud of creating it. It was one of those rare beauties, coated in a silky gossamer skin like a newborn foal, and required hardly a thrutch to push it into this world. Crouching there, dropping this turd of the gods, while beholding a breathtaking desert sunrise, a feeling of such joy and satisfaction washed over the young man that this tale could probably have warranted an entry into the ‘beautiful moments’ qotw. There wasn’t so much as a crack in this divine, textbook log.

After wiping and stretching, he leisurely strolled back to the hut, waving hello to the other morning shitters (most of whom were crouching behind the nearer, more obvious poo-dunes and who were reading newspapers, yay!). He was eager to see his friend and to tell him of his euphoric turd, only to be met by the man himself as he approached their hut, and who was scurrying towards him with a look of alarm.

An enquiry into his wellbeing was met with a squeal of “GIMMETHEFUGGINBOGROLL”!! And snatching the bum-wad from Ben’s outstretched hand, he hastened out into the desert with that distinctive waddle of one who is about to shit himself.

He came back a full twenty minutes later, looking pale and shaken. Upon relating his tale of woe, it turns out that he, too, woke with a feeling of imminent crapping rather more urgent than Ben’s had been. In desparation he had searched for the bog roll (for the twitchings in his abdomen told him this was to be a messy blighter) and panicked when it was nowhere to be found, before taking the ‘beggars can’t be choosers’ chain of thought and fleeing to the desert, thankfully encountering Ben and the bog roll on route.

Sadly, he had barely time to get to the privacy of a sand dune before he felt the ‘here it comes ready or not’ twitch in his nether regions, and only just managed to get his trollies down before a grotesque kettle of feeshus cascaded forth from his poor tortured sphincter. His face, I imagine, registered only pure horror and pain rather like the main nazi bloke in Indiana Jones right before his face melted. Thusly:



Eventually, the brown wave passed and after gingerly dabbing at his shit-spattered arse and hoiking up his mercifully unsullied trousers, he turned to face the demon which he had unleashed (well you’d have to have a look, wouldn’t you?)

Imagine, if you will, a sand dune with what looks like a pint of hot, strong black coffee thrown down it, and smelling rather worse. Lamentably the urgency of his evacuation meant that he had shat right at the back of someone’s house/hut, and the evil rivulets of doom were making a course to the back garden of the residence. The proprietors must have thought him an awful bastard.

The following week the friends left Morocco. One of them weak and traumatised, having learnt a valuable though painful lesson when it comes to eating dodgy goat dishes, the other with a big Hannibal Smith cigar-chewing grin, well pleased that his fecal plans had come together so beautifully.

Length? About 12 inches long, 1.5 inches thick and coiled over on itself like a pretzel.
( Droog is too orangey for crows, Mon 31 Mar 2008, 11:25, 3 replies)

Great story
And very well written too. Have a click.
(Bicycle Repairman "you're also a bit of a wanker", Mon 31 Mar 2008, 12:09, closed)

I thank you sir :)

( Droog is too orangey for crows, Mon 31 Mar 2008, 15:41, closed)

I love this.
The photo, the A-team reference, the sheer pleasure I got from reading about the perfect poo...


*click*
(The Empress it seems you CAN polish a turd!, Tue 1 Apr 2008, 13:36, closed)