b3ta.com qotw
You are not logged in. Login or Signup
Home » Question of the Week » Too much information » Post 89435 | Search
This is a question Too much information

Rakky writes "A friend of mine, when quizzed why she was late to the pub, announced 'I was at accident and emergency, having a stuck tampon removed. They had to have a right old dig around for it.' Suffice to say, no one was interested in their Scampi Fries after that."

When have you shared just that little too much?

(, Thu 6 Sep 2007, 10:09)
Pages: Latest, 15, 14, 13, 12, 11, ... 1

« Go Back

I heard something ‘snap’
...in my head when I read some of these posts. It reminded me of another time I had to go through such extraordinary pain and anguish that I spouted every conceivable detail to everybody around me so they could bask in the general hideousness of it all. TMI?, tough turds, matey! Sit your ass down and listen!

Firstly, I am in quiet, jealous awe of people who go to the doctors with ‘non-embarrassing’ ailments: tennis elbow, touch-of-the flu, manic depression, severed limbs and such. With me, one way or another, I always end up having to drop my kex, park something on the quacks desk and watch his jaw drop. But I digress.

One time (not at band camp) I went for a good old ‘Forrest Gump’. Not an unusual occurance I grant you, but when it got to ‘happy wiping time’ there was blood…quite a bit of it. Lummee! I thought…So off I trundle…

Doc: Morning Pooflake, what seems to be the trouble?
Me: There’s blood heaving out of my ringpiece, doc
Doc: Crikey Christmas…You know the drill then,… pants-a-drop, and on you pop.
Me: Oh god almighty, here we go again

Next thing, bent over on one side, curled up hugging my knees I detect the sound of gloves being put on…

(I might like to add at this point that I am NOT gay – not that there’s anything wrong with that, but for all you ‘spot-diagnosis’ folk who think you’ve sussed the end of this story, the reason my dirtbox was bleeding was NOT due to 'too much cock'). Annnnyway, moving on...

This isn't going to be pleasant, I think to myself. I grit my teeth and prepare for the unholy…

YEEEOOOW! In it goes, then a bit further…then pushing harder and deeper. I think his personal goal was to tickle my tonsils from the inside. ‘I hope that’s just his finger’ I thought…(it was, by the way…this actually happened, it’s not the joke about feeling two hands on my shoulders).

Still, he had fingers like King Kong’s big brother.

Suddenly….squelch…and ‘pop’! Out it comes and I try to mentally pat myself on the back for my bravery and dignity, conveniently forgetting the fact that I was still on a doctors’s table in the feotal position with my grots round my ankles. It would all be worth it, I thought, If the quack could come up with a quick and easy medicine-related solution to my problems. Jesus, a tampon would do.

Doc: Other than a mild touch of the 'farmers', I can’t find anything wrong with you Mr Flake
Me: Never mind, you did your best…let’s just forget this ever happened shall we?
Doc: Not on your nelly boyo, you’re going into hospital for more tests
Me: Aw……….shit

So a couple of weeks later, I’m lying on a hospital bed for the preliminary test…which involves another finger….mmmf….then the doc produces what appears to be a big, cold, metal Ice-cream-cone-like thing.

Me: What are you going to do with th……AAAAARRRGGHHH!

Still no results…so they whisk my sorry, shivering cack-chute off to the ‘camera-up-the-jacksie’ department.

Now this is serious stuff…apparently at this point, I need an enema to clear out my weeping guts so when they shove the camera in, they can have a good gander round.

Cue a friendly looking, plump nurse greeting me and closing the curtains round my bed.

Me: please…I’ve got money…..noooo
Nurse: Just curl up into a ball for me, deary.
Me: …whimper…

OOOOOF! Next thing I know, something that felt like a Polaris missile was being shoved, then abandoned, up my poor pitiful poo-pipe.

Minutes tick by…

I suddenly feel an uncontrollable urge…. All I knew was that I didn't have long...

I hoist up my all-in-one back-to-front gown thing with my arse sticking out the back, and tank it to the bogs, which were thankfully not very far away…

With my legs in the air and shaking like a jelly with Alzheimer’s, my arse erupts like Krakatoa. HUUUURRRGGGHHH!

There was just one thin door between this event, it’s resultant noise accompanied by grunts, screams and general blasphemy, and the rest of the ward, listening with increasing concern for my wellbeing.

I stagger out a few minutes later with wobbly legs and all the colour drained from my face. Incredibly, that part was one of the more pleasant experiences of the day.

A few more minutes pass by, and the blubbering mess that is my body is wheeled off to the camera ward.

It seems obvious, but these doctors are not idiots, and subsequently they came up with a top-drawer idea to put my mind off what was about to happen.

They introduced me to a drop-dead-gorgeous young nurse. From what I could gather, her whole job was to 'stand there and look pretty' She rocked at this job.

Suffice to say though, I wasn’t exactly in the mood for idle chit-chat and realised that the chances of me pulling her in this state were slim to fuck-diddly-all. But I’m cataclysmically stupid and so therefore gave it a bash.

“Mmm hello there, have you been a nurse long?” I ask, trying to lie as masculinely on the bed as I could considering my attire and the circumstances, and completely oblivious to the fact that I was being wheeled into another room with monitors etc.

“Oh, not long. Don’t I recognise you from somewhere?” the hottie says, occasionally glancing at the doctors behind me.

“Oh well, It’s very possible, ah-hem. I’m in a very popular local band you know” I modestly reply. I could be getting somewhere here...

“That’s nice, would you mind curling up into a ball for me?” She asks.


Now this camera was definitely NOT one of those tiny little fibre-optic jobs you see on the key-hole surgery programmes. This bastard seemed like an industrial TV job, with seat, hydraulics and cameraman attached.

In fact, for good measure, It felt like they threw in a whole film crew, boom microphones and Ant & Dec to present the show up my quivering turd-tunnel.

And so it went on…and on….and gibbering on….and you know what they found?


In the end, they came to the following conclusion.

When I had the “Brad-Pitt” I mentioned about half an hour ago, it must have been a really big one, that split my rusty bullet-hole a bit, thus resulting in the blood.

So I went through having more things rammed up my heterosexual arse in one day than Kenneth Williams had up his gay arse for the whole of his life…..for that diagnosis.

length? longer and wider as the day went on. In fact, it took about 2 weeks for me to stop walking like John Wayne.
(, Mon 10 Sep 2007, 12:27, Reply)

« Go Back

Pages: Latest, 15, 14, 13, 12, 11, ... 1