Needless suffering
I have a lot of stories involving poo. Here's a recent one:

OK, I was in a pub in Edinburgh watch the rugby with some friends when I felt a rumbling from down below triggering a brown alert. I had been a bit ill for the last two days so I knew this wasn't going to be pleasant. I made my way upstairs and to the bog where things proceeded without incident. Sure things were smellier, stickier and slightly stingier but no more so than you'd expect after a night of drinking Tennant's. Sure I pitied the next user of this cubicle but it didn't bother me too much. Now all I needed to do was wipe up and wash up and leave. And this is where the nightmare begins.

NO FUCKING BOGROLL!!!

No matter, surely the cubicle next to mine would have some. I carefully pulled up my trousers making sure the sticky mass clinging to my ring piece and the surrounding area didn't come in to contact with my boxers and John Wayned it round the corner, only to be confronted with another empty toilet roll holder. So down come the kecks again as I sat down to come up with a plan. Aware that the longer I left it the more red-raw the stinging shite sauce would leave my arse-crack, I remembered the old adage 'If you had no toilet paper, use your finger as a scraper'. So I did. And there I stood, hunched over with a hand full of putrid, warm shit and my trousers round my ankles. And still my arse was not clean. I had to wash my hand and go back for another swipe. I don't know if you've ever tried to pull up your trousers with one hand whilst trying to keep your bum from touching said trousers but it ain't easy or pretty. I waddled out of the cubicle and disposed of the brown mass down the sink before breaking out the soap, which failed to completely remove the smell meaning that I had effectively stink-palmed myself, and then returning to the cubicle to repeat the cycle.

After washing for the third time and preparing to have another go something jogged my memory. Last night I had been at another pub and had felt a little sniffly. So I asked the barman for a handful of napkins. I still had them in my back pocket.

Bollocks.

Anyone want a chocolate-covered pretzel?
( Raindance Work is inversely proportional to post-count, Tue 1 Apr 2008, 21:05, 2 replies)

Ye Olde Stink Palm.
Brodie would be proud.

*click*
( The Resident Loon Not a demographic. Do not measure., Tue 1 Apr 2008, 21:41, closed)

nice reference
*click*
( Vipros. clever got me this far, then tricky got me in, Wed 2 Apr 2008, 8:41, closed)