I dun a poo.

( monster munch person, man, woman... camera... TV?, Tue 7 Feb 2012, 21:16, 6 replies)

Friend's dirty daughter
Just remembered this one ...

One Guy Fawkes Night, my friend brought his daughter over to my boyfriend's to meet us both so we could all go out to ooh and aah at the fireworks. When they arrived, she immediately went to the downstairs loo. She was in there a l-o-n-g time but her dad said she had a gippy tummy and so we thought nothing of it.

When she eventually came out, we were all ready to go except I had to pop back into the bathroom where my coat was hanging. The room smelled pretty bad and I made a comment about it but said no more when she went a shade of red I had never seen before.

The fireworks were fun and afterwards they went home. The following morning I went to use my boyfriend's downstairs loo. I was then I discovered there was shit on the toilet seat, shit down the side of the bowl and shit under the pedestal mat.

The girl, definitely old enough to know better, had shit herself but rather than say anything to me or her dad, had decided to hide it.
(BearWithLittleBrain, Tue 7 Feb 2012, 21:12, Reply)

false nails
My GF used to work in telesales with many long fingernailed wenches. She finally had to ask how they wiped their bums...

and got quiet, angry, embarrassment as a response. For lunch they all had prawn covered baked potatoes and licked their finger nails clean. This has lead us both to shudder in horror whenever we see fake nails.
(DreddPirateBob has watched every scifi film ever on, Tue 7 Feb 2012, 19:52, 2 replies)

Changing nappies
I went to change a friend's baby's nappy, which was full of fairly unpleasant mustard-coloured baby shit. Cleaned all the shit off, applied nappy rash goop, all going well.

Just as I was about to put the fresh nappy on, she decided to curl another down and shat all over my hand. Lovely.

So, I wiped it off into the toilet and washed my hands fairly carefully, and cleaned her up again and put the fresh nappy on.

What? It's only baby shit. Babies do that.
(gordonjcp, Tue 7 Feb 2012, 19:13, 7 replies)

Could have been worse.
A couple of weeks ago, my friend brought his daughter to my place so our kids could have lunch and play together.

After i'd cleared up the shower of food that 3 under-6's make, I was doing the few dishes and chatting to my pal while he had a smoke on the doorstep, since the kids were happily playing in the next room.

I turned to see my (almost) 2 year old son soaked down one side and holding a dripping facecloth with a massive grin about his chops.

I took the cloth and followed the trail of drips through the living room and hall to the bathroom (bungalow) to find a 4 by 3 foot puddle. Meanwhile I was wondering where the water came from as he's too short to reach any taps.

Yes, the manky little oik had mopped out the toilet bowl with a flannel. Onto the floor.
The worries subsided after a couple of days when no chronic shits developed.

I've learned that my wife is not to be scorned for her neurotic bleach-queen ways.
(Greencloud Wanted to go fishing on, Tue 7 Feb 2012, 18:38, 2 replies)

Pull my finger
I suffer from an occasional bowel problem that randomly rears its ugly, and I should say, for wont of a better word, stinky head. Essentially, when I fart, the smell is so bad that I can clear the building, not just the room. I reckon if you bottled it you could market it as some sort of chemical weapon. One ex boyfriend once remarked that he had no idea how something so lovely could produce such a god-awful stench.

Anyhow, my dad is also renown in our household for making rather unpleasant smells at inappropriate intervals. My problem is rather a more recent one, so when I let a silent but deadly whisp of devil's armpit out into the living room last time I was visiting my parents, it was a full five minutes before my mother stopped berating my poor protesting father for the unholy smell and noticed that I was shaking with silent laughter. "Was that YOU?!" she asked with a horrified expression. Bless my mother, she won't get over that any time soon.

Length? I've known it to linger in reasonable sized rooms for hours.
(Petite chien is going to do science to it, Tue 7 Feb 2012, 17:49, 3 replies)

Be brave..
Back in my youth I worked at a hand car wash which had a nice little office tucked under some large public steps in the corner of a marina.

This little space was also used as a dumping ground by the local council workers. we had old lighting parts, lampposts and all sorts down there. One quiet day in the winter I decided , all pro-active, to clean out the office.

We knew there were rats around the place but we never saw them and it never bothered us, out of sight, out of mind kind of thing. after a while I was left with a pile of old lamppost housings which were giving off the most pungent smell. Upon removing the top of the pile I found a nest made of shredded newspaper filled with dead decaying rats. most were fairly small, but some of the larger one were HUGE things!.

Not wanting to appear 'weak' I waded in. Armed with rubber gloves, disinfectant and a t-shirt over my mouth(no idea what help I thought that would be but hey) The first rat I picked up just fell to bits, It was slimey and stank!. I never thought I'd see grown men vomiting upon seeing some thing, but the chunder did flow that day.

It took me about an hour to fill a small waste bin with dead rats. I was given the rest of the day off for my bravery.. I went home and showered. Vomited. Showered some more, and vomited a bit more too.
( Mr.Pickle Is not big or clever.., Tue 7 Feb 2012, 16:53, 1 reply)

One more then.
For my 21st birthday my sister presented me with a nicely wrapped steamed up jam jar half filled with a brown sludge.
She told me very firmly that under no circumstances should I or anyone, open it. I was a bit too pissed to be intrigued and just forgot it.
The evening in the pub progressed into a full on delirium fest and at some point I remembered my jar and became determined to open it.
At the moment of truth, my hand beginning to twist off the lid, it was wrestled from me and spirited away by sis and her workmate.

In the morning she told me what was in there and why it was a matter of public health that the contents not be released.

You see, my sis was a dental nurse back then and had given to me, in a moment of inspiration, the contents of the dentist's aspirator bag- bone, blood, tooth fragments, pus, saliva, lumps of rotted gum tissue and much much more, I'm sure you can imagine.

It was my best birthday ever.
( Infidel , shit and wrong, Tue 7 Feb 2012, 16:22, 6 replies)

Casual mention of TEH HORROR.
I used to work with a youngish guy from Croatia who was a cheery guy and good fun to work with. I'd once jokingly asked if his "old war wound" was playing up when he was limping one morning.
"Yes it is"- straight, sad face. That shut me up.

One day he was helping me to dispose of a pile of dead pigs into a rank fly-blown hole we'd dug earlier in the summer.

"Hmmm", he mused, lighting a cigarette, "this smells same like mass grave".

I didn't like to ask, or correct his English, but now I have this knowledge too.
( Infidel , shit and wrong, Tue 7 Feb 2012, 16:05, Reply)

Dead Rats
They stink.
The soon to be mrs magictorch ran a sports shop and one died in some inaccesable place in the shop itself.

It smelt for months. MONTHS.
had to keep the door open through the end of the summer when the stink started through to November time when it started to get a little chilly.

Horrid it was. And nothing we could do but try not to gag while fitting trainers.

mice on the other hand dont smell when they die, they just.. shrivel
(magictorch, Tue 7 Feb 2012, 14:56, 3 replies)

Is it time for a pooroast?
Many years ago I worked in a scabby little nightclub in a scabby little town. The majority of the tales I have to tell from this time involve either stupid people, poo, or stupid people pooing.
I'm not sure if they are are funny, but they are all true, and they all stand as a testament to the utter mankyness of some of the poor pathetic souls who have darkened my life.
I think the easiest way to do this is in bite sized easily digestible chunks, so without further ado:
POO STORY NUMBER ONE
To start you off with an easy one, I once found a pint glass full of poo in the centre of the dance floor, with a cherry perched on top. It looked like some kind of Angel Delight dessert thing, though if any angels were delighted by it they need some serious psychological attention.
POO STORY NUMBER TWO...arf... ...number two...
The club I worked in was invariably quiet in the winter, especially mid-week. On an average Thursday we'd get about 30 people in, and most of them were of the older, more respectable persuasion.
This particular night we had a silly young scruff in who, for reasons that now escape me, we had to kick out. As he was frogmarched from the building he repeatedly informed us that he was going to "shit us up", giggling like a two year old on nitrous oxide all the while.
Skip forward a few hours, it's 2am, the club is closed, and I'm just about to get a lift home with the head of security (who, contrary to stereotype, was a bloody nice bloke).
We get in his land rover, shake off the drizzle, buckle up, he flicks on the wipers and...
...shit is lovingly, tenderly smeared over his windscreen, subtly filtered so that the lumpiest bits are clinging to the wipers and the smoother, more refined discharge is spread over the whole windscreen.
No prizes for guessing who was responsible.
No prizes either for guessing what happened to laughing boy the next time he came in. I've not seen a head flushed down a toilet since junior school...
POO STORY NUMBER THREE
On my very first shift I was informed that there was a mess in the gents that needed clearing. I had a nose around but couldn't find anything, and was just about to leave when it caught my eye.
An 18 inch steamy behemoth in the urinal trough.
Now, it wasn't the fact that someone had gotten their todger and their arse the wrong way around (I've seen it several time since, only now I have minions to deal with things like that). It was the fact that it was in a perfect straight line. Whoever had done it must've shimmied along as they strained their bowels, holding up the queue of wannabe pissers while he created his masterpiece. Sir, whoever you are: I salute you.
POO STORY NUMBER FOUR
Somewhat inadvisably, there was a brief time when Friday evenings played host to a childrens disco. They were well behaved little shits, mostly, and we used to enjoy selling cans of 7up and packets of space raiders to them.
One night a little girl (who looked disturbingly like a ladybird) came up and said that her 7up tasted funny, so we replaced it for her and then investigated the contents of the can. It was slightly brown, and slightly sour.
Me and my fellow barmaid looked at each other and the same thought went through our minds: there would be no way of detecting the change of taste or colour if it was in alcohol. This little girl's been spiked.
I wandered around the room staring intently at the other kids, feeling like an unsubtle Gary Glitter impersonator, but to no avail. After about half an hour I checked in the gents and found six empty laxative packets. Six!
One of the little shitrags had been spiking the other kids with laxatives! We had a hurried chat with the manager and closed early that night to save our toiletsfrom the inevitable splattering. I still wonder if there was a reported outbreak of diarrhoea that week...
POO STORY NUMBER FIVE
How do girls manage to break so many toilet seats? I mean, honestly ladies, it seemed like at least once a fortnight I'd have a nose around and find one hanging off it's hinges.
I had about ten minutes to replace this particular toilet seat before we opened, so I dig a new seat out of the store cupboard, squat in front of the bowl, and set to work, reaching around to unscrew the wingnuts.
Trying to distract myself from the brown-streaked porcelain drop-off point mere inches from my face, I look away and hum a little tune.
*Humming a little tune, humming a little tune, (squeak, squeak, go the wingnuts) humming a little t-
humming a...
humm...
humming a little...*
My fingers are covered in shit.
My fingers are covered in shit!
Some filthy, spiteful bint had deliberately smeared her own feces (hopefully her own feces) under the toilet seat, all over the wingnuts, right where you can't see it, right where someone's poor unprotected fingers are going to blindly probe the next time the toilet seat needs replacing.
I can think of no reason for there to be excrement on the underside of a toilet, other than the attempted spread of disease and unhappiness.
POO STORY NUMBER SIX
Again, another quiet night, and again, poo related carnage. Someone had presumably eaten something that disagreed with them because when the toilets were checked at the end of the night one particular cubical resembled a bowel-themed armageddon. I can understand someone not making it in time, but this seriously looked like someone had attempted to eat a prune and castor oil curry before trying out some Micheal Jackson style body popping.
There was runny, grainy pebbledashing to a height of 3 feet, with a 180 degree spread centered on the toilet, and for comedy value, there were two foot-shaped spaces on the floor that were clean and untouched where his feet had taken the brunt of the battering.
Thankfully I had the night off, so I stood back and pissed myself while my manager and assistant manager donned latex gloves and retched and gipped for 20 minutes...
POO STORY NUMBER SEVEN
And so we reach the pièce de résistance. The middle of summer, stupidly busy, the end of the night, and a toilet that smells worse that Satan's own starfish. The reason? A mountain of rectal produce that reached so high it left the bowl.
It took me and Jemma (in the unlikely event that you're reading this, I still owe you a pint for your help) about 20 minutes of tag teaming to clear it up.
We compared notes after, and, judging by the strata left by the various deviants and misfits, the events unrolled something like this:
Some funny, intelligent willy dribble thought that it'd be hilarious to push their empty beer can down the bog as far as they could. Fair enough. However, someone else later came along with the urge to evacuate their bowels, and they did so on top of the can.
Obviously it wouldn't flush, so they covered it with loo roll and wandered off. Unfortunately another like-minded individual arrived later and did likewise, leading to a properly clogged loo.
So far, so normal. At around this point someone with a weak stomach entered, and decided that the sight of two friendly turds nestling side-by-side in the same bowl was too much for their delicate stomach to take, and they proceeded to yark on top of them.
By now the mountain of bodily fluids had nearly reached the top of the bowl, so obviously one dumb shitstain, in their infinite wisdom, decided to add to it. God knows how they achieved it, but achieve it they did.
When I confronted the hideous monstrosity the top was a good three inches clear of the bowl. He must've stood up as he deposited his final food baby, or else it would've been gently brushing his nipsy like a caring mother removing smudges from her grubby offspring's face...
I had to cover my arm in a bin bag and remove handfuls of damp shit from the bowl to another bag Jemma was holding, with two or three vomit breaks. Not something I'd like to experience again soon.

No apologies for length. The one in the urinal was probably longer, anyway.
(Paolo Nutini's Bikini Better than Frederick Fleet's optometrist, Tue 7 Feb 2012, 14:21, 10 replies)

Not so much a story about filth per se
more about how my reaction to it has changed.

Working as a nurse in on an orthopaedic ward has, more or less, completely desensitised me to poop. I don't balk, get offended by smell, care if it's liquid or that some people choose to keep it in their finger nails just so they can wipe it on you as an act of bastardy. Colostomys are slightly irritating, only because the liquified poop that comes out makes the velcro that keeps the end from spilling out the conetnt of the bag less easy to attach.

Weirdly this reminds me of last night when I was out with the soon-to-be wife and her family celebrating her sisters birthday and, somehow, the conversation turned to bowel movements with people saying how many times they usually went (I presume for shock value) and getting various responses from "Ooh that's disgusting" to "Really? We're eating RIGHT NOW!" I pointed out how I have this same conversation with about 20 people every day usually while up to my elbows in some type 7 stool (Bristol Stool Classification chart for the win!).
( Funkenschlag still likes dogs more than cats, Tue 7 Feb 2012, 14:04, 3 replies)

Dead rat
A few years ago I used to live in a fairly typical-for-the-area wooden framed house. This was San Francisco - wood's better for the earthquakes, y'know. Depending on the quality of the builder, or lack thereof, there can be a number of gaps in the woodwork.

I thought I'd got rid of most of them, but one winter's eve we were settling down to sleep and a remarkably pungent smell wafted across the bedroom. "Was that you farting again?!" says Mrs Biscuit... but lo it was not me, as I can't pull off trying to lie about such a thing without giggling without a loon.

"Maybe it's a gas leak", says she, "let's go to sleep and deal with it in the morning". Flawed logic, but at least I knew that there were no gas pipes under that room so we were safe from being blown up. But wtf was going on?

That night was rather terrible - depending on which way the wind was gusting, the smell was getting worse and worse.

I took the day off to sort it out - perhaps in hindsight I should have been less fucking Scottish about the whole thing and just paid someone to take care of it.

Careful measurements indicated just which part of the ceiling on the floor below to cut into, to see what the problem was, and the trusty saw was taking care of business just fine. I knew I'd hit the right spot as the stench was just getting stronger and stronger... until the saw happened to hit a rather damp patch, and I knew I was in trouble.

But I persevered, and eventually the square of ceiling plasterboard came loose. Using a mirror as a makeshift periscope to see just what was going on I bore witness.

Giant. Dead. Rat. Well now two halves of it at least. And a truly horrid stench of utter pestilence. Grabbing many plastic bags to use as gloves, I reached in to pick up the back half to deposit it into the bin, and my thumb disappeared into its innards, merely perpetrating yet more stench. I'm surprised I didn't puke on the spot. The smell of death is seriously the worst thing ever.

Yes, I should've damn well just paid someone...
(airbiscuit last dropped a meaty one in the lift on, Tue 7 Feb 2012, 13:45, Reply)

To all the
"shared house & no-one did the dishes"

I used to get a box of crockery/cutlery every now and then from any local op-shop for a couple of bucks (it's always cheap).
When the sink reached it's "overfull, use-by date" I'd simply throw all the pottery and gunk out the kitchen window into the garden in a huff and tell the rest of the house to pull it's fucking socks up and do the dishes every now and then.
Took a couple of houses more than once. All up only cost me probably about AUD$15.
All the while I used to regularly wash my own plates, cups & utensils. I even used to clean up at my girlfriends'.
What a prick I was.
What lazy cunts they all were.
(Misery McUglywife an attention seeking sociopathic fuckstain., Tue 7 Feb 2012, 13:07, 4 replies)

Ahhh ... the amonia from one's week-long woollen-sock'd, leather army boot-clad feet!
Bliss!
( Je suis un vagabond is an unfunny, up your own arse middle class knob, Tue 7 Feb 2012, 12:33, 4 replies)

aicmfp
www.vice.com/read/gross-jar-v11n11
(AndySpanners not working too hard on, Tue 7 Feb 2012, 11:18, 6 replies)

Once, when I was feeling lazy
I didn't straighten all the pens on my desk to be at exactly 90 degrees to the edge!

Pffft! Unclean! Unclean!
( Je suis un vagabond is an unfunny, up your own arse middle class knob, Tue 7 Feb 2012, 10:34, 9 replies)

Top Tips
if you don't want to be though of as a filthy cunt, DO NOT:

let your dog lick your plate "clean", then put it in the cupboard.
hide used sanitary towels under your bed.
take 2 outfits and one pair of underwear for a 2-week holiday and refuse to wash any of them the whole time you're there.
eat a slice of someone else's pizza that they've just dropped on the pavement.
collect "interesting" animal turds and keep them in a shoebox in your wardrobe.
go for a full medical wearing shit-encrusted paisley undies with a tear in the back where you've been picking your hole.
conceal bacon in your shoes to keep it hidden from your flatmates.

given time, i may well remember some more.
( Smash Monkey lowering the tone of the whole internet, Tue 7 Feb 2012, 10:13, 12 replies)

There's a lot to be said for Fairy
When I was at college I knew some guys who shared a house. Their particular bug-bear was doing the washing up. They were far too lazy/selfish to set up any kind of rota, and far too selfish/lazy to just wash their own after using it.

Since they rarely actually cooked anything it was mostly only mugs and plates and cutlery that needed to be washed, and while they didn't actually have enough crockery to make the pile in the sink reach the ceiling, they did regularly run low on stocks and actually have to "rinse something off".

Then one day Douglas came back from the pound shop having made an exciting discovery: the Paper Plate.

By simple use of the Paper Plate you could eat, then just throw the bio-degradable crockery away - how ecological! And all you'd have left to do would be to rinse the cutlery off under the tap! Brilliant!

Now the trouble with this is that even when you buy your paper plates from the pound shop it does actually cost you money and after a while this expenditure started to rankle, because it meant that someone had to put their hand in their pocket and buy some replacements.

They hit on a solution: re-use the paper plates. Simple, and even more ecological!

And horrifying.

You've never lived until you've been offered a sandwich on a plate that's seen so many greasy onion bhajis that it's now virtually transparent.

Although in my grimmest moments it's the plate that had previously conveyed the beans on toast that swims into my consciousness.

We didn't eat there much, after that. Although perhaps that was part of the money saving scheme as well.
(richardm, Tue 7 Feb 2012, 10:07, Reply)

A George Foreman health grill drip-tray
Makes quite a useful make-shift tool for scooping puke up off hardwood floors. Something I learned when a visiting friend and his girlfriend who had been staying at my house for few days both decided to begin projectile vomiting in unison all over my living room after a heavy night out and were too helplessly smashed to deal with it themselves.
(TheManWithThePlan cussed your mum on, Tue 7 Feb 2012, 9:20, Reply)

It's fucking cold, so I'm roasting a pea. Times are hard.
From September until December of 1998 I lived in a student flat with three other men.
Whilst I could just let you use your imaginations, I will elaborate. The truth may even be more disgusting than what your terrifying brains can conjure. But I'm willing to be proved wrong :-)

Our story revolves around two pints of milk in a plastic container thingy (what are they called anyway? They're not cartons. Cartons are made of cardboard) which quite literally sat in our kitchen, unclaimed, from September to late November. Our kitchen was, as you might expect, fucking disgusting. There were four of us, so it took about a week to get to the point where if you wanted to cook, or eat off a plate instead of out of takeaway wrappings (rare), or drink beer from a glass instead of from the can (Guinness nights only), you HAD to wash up. But none of us ever washed up more than what we needed right there and then. So two pints of milk just blended into the general carnage until it visibly solidified under the plastic.

I never knew milk could turn black.

A bit of background. Being a boys' flat we were not big on originality. We played Tekken 3, a lot, watched films, drank beer and wound each other up. This last point is especially pertinent to the story. When first I moved in I drove up from Nottingham with a carful of stuff, none of which I still own since I came to discover DVD players/a modicum of fashion sense/a more attractive woman than my then-girlfriend. The others had already moved in and informed me in advance that they would be in the pub when I arrived. Steve said he'd leave a key inside the bathroom window, so I just needed to pop round the back and reach through, then let myself in.

Steve failed to mention the full condom he would enclose the key in for "security" purposes.

The bathroom window was one of those frosted affairs so I was reaching in blind. Imagine the horror. I was expecting something hard and metallic; instead my fingers found a prophylactic filled with a suspicious cloudy white liquid. Try to guess how it feels to work out what you're holding as you drag it back through the window.

So I did what I'm confident any one of you would have done; I let myself into the flat, washed my hands incredibly thoroughly, was a bit sick, unpacked the car, marched over to the pub, bought a pint, downed it, bought another pint and walked into the bar where my flatmates were playing pool, loudly referring to Steve as a disgusting cunt. After they'd finished laughing, by which time I needed another pint, Steve assured me that the worrying substance my key had been swimming in was garlic sauce.

"Don't believe me? Smell your fingers"

Nice. My revenge was a long time coming - not because I believed it was a dish best served cold or anything (spaff is usually quite warm in my experience) but because creativity abandoned me in my stereotypically bombed student mindset. Until I asked, for the hundreth time, whose fucking milk was turning black in the fucking kitchen you disgusting fuckers. And then I had an idea.

Many of you will have worked out where I'm going with this. Bear with me, it was fucking funny.

Steve was, and still is to my knowledge, I don't know, I haven't seen him in years, look him up on Facebook if you really want to know, cyber-stalking is so easy these days, seeing a lovely girl called Donna. We all liked her, and I almost feel sorry for how much she had to suffer as part of my hideous prank. I timed it for when they had a weekend away at her parents'. I took a bowl from the kitchen - picked one which had curry smears around the rim for extra "eeewww, fuuuuckk" factor - and decanted as much of the substance formerly known as milk into it. This remains one of the most hideous experiences of my life. The stench of three-month-old milk is ungodly. It rates somewhere between "Rancor" and "Gillian McKeith" on my patented disgustingness scale.

I then placed this bowl under Steve's bed.

Alongside a box of tissues...

...and a borrowed (honest) copy of "Red Hot 60+" magazine.

I then closed the doors and windows of Steve's room and forgot all about it until the Sunday night, when Steve and Donna returned to our flat for a night of "oh thank god we're out from under the parents' watchful gaze let's have lots of sex" sex.

Myself and the other lads were watching TV in the front room until we heard a frankly inhuman noise coming from Steve's room next door. I muted the TV and sit upright in alert, gleeful anticipation. With hindsight, this may have identified me as the culprit. After a series of half-choked exclamations were crescendo'd with a very, very loud "WHAT THE HOLY FUCK?!!", Steve stormed into the next room demanding to know who had sucked the air out of his room and replaced it with camembert in a gaseous state.

I wish I could tell you I said something witty about garlic sauce, or smelling his fingers, but I was laughing so hard that witty repartee was even further from my grasp than normal. Again, not helping any claims I may have laid to innocence. Steve was proper angry. Apparently the stench and the discovery that her boyfriend was rubbing one out over grannies then keeping the produce of said self-flagellation in a bowl under his bed for long enough for it to turn black and solidify like some hideous splunge Star Trek villain (think of the episode where Tasha Yar dies) was a right turn-off for Donna.

I calmed down long enough to assure him that I'd planned for this eventuality and he could keep the mag for as long as was necessary.

And then he hit me.

Totally worth it.

Length... three months, in a warm kitchen, before it was unleashed into a hot room. Think about it. SO proud of myself.
(Darth Foxtrot A one-man army dedicated to making fetch happen, Tue 7 Feb 2012, 8:59, 2 replies)

Cleaning up someone's rancid backyard with a pressure washer
I was delighted to be covered in a thin slurry of shite, old broken eggs, mouse corpses, chicken shit and other wonderful detritus.
When I gave up and went indoors for a beer my eye was itching.
After I went back to work and carried on swishing the filth, my eye was still itching.
When I got home hours later I had a few pre-bath beers and sat reading the paper, all the while, my eye was itching.

Finally I decanted my filthy self into the bath and had a good old soak to be rid of the day's accumulated horrors, although...my eye was still itching.

Eventually I sprang from the bath, shiny and cleansed and looked hard at my eye in the bathroom mirror. Nothing; nothing that is until I pulled my lower eyelid down.

Crawling along, without a care in the world was a small, white maggot.




I wear goggles now for that kind of job.
( Infidel , shit and wrong, Tue 7 Feb 2012, 0:49, 15 replies)

When you work with disabled adults, you get used to the odd turd
However, when a reportable disease hits your care home, all are forced to retching!

When some one with profound learning difficulties gets ill, it can be hard work to help them, imagine how much your arse hurts after a night of beer and curry, then times that burning ring sting by a hundred. That is what campylobacter can do to the average human sphincter. The fecal matter produced contains bacteria that can start digesting the flesh of the victim if it is not washed off and struggling with a person who is caked in flesh rotting diarrhea while trying to help them get clean is something I hope to never have to do again.

My main job though was as scientific officer, I had to collect samples of the poo so that we could identity and eradicate the bacteria causing the sickness and diarrhea from the congealing pools on the floor, bed, sofa and carpets in the house of the poor woman.

For those of you with a kind heart, she she did better. The lesson learned though was fairly simple, kindly Aunts do not always choose the best places to take disabled nieces out to lunch.
( Rev. Jayneflakes Buy my book, I need the cash for drugs and hookers, Mon 6 Feb 2012, 22:47, Reply)

When I was much younger, in my late teens,
I had a certain affection for a band called Biohazard, who in retrospect were rubbish. When I was 23, I found a second use for their albums. I got a sheet of paper, traced the 'biological hazard' logo from their cover art and then stuck it to Joizi's door. Joizi stank, Joizi was filthy. The cleaner refused to enter his room, because of the smell.

Home for me then was a halls corridor populated by six earlytwentysomthing males. It was reasonably clean because we drank from cans and ate from plastic trays, mess was just dirty forks or a full bin. We had a wall covered in porn. There was a dead christmas tree on top of the fridge covered in porn decorations. We called it 'the clitoris tree'. We had stolen it, from elsewhere. The decorations were ours, though.

Joizi sat in our kitchen, smoking a cigarette and drinking lager. He wore a stained tshirt and his 'ants in your pants' boxer shots. These were the clothes he had worn a few weeks earlier. Then he had run from his room, lapped the kitchen and cheered. He had finally overcome his girlfriend's vaginisthmus. She was nervous and eighteen and it had been her first time.

We called Joizi 'The Monkey' because of his personal habits. He didn't eat and lived on lager. He confessed to only cleaning his teeth twice in the first term. He never did laundry, ever. His clothes stank. He wore the ones that smelled the least. He almost never showered, and confessed he wanked in there when he did. This made me glad it was almost never, because he was a filthy animal. We called him 'The Monkey' because no matter how much shit he flung at the bars, he was always given bananas, and he loved bananas, and we all wanted bananas.

There had been a parade of women through his room, he was rarely single. One had recounted to us how a former lover had drunkenly vomited on her during sex. She had wiped it off and kept on going. One had claimed to have fucked a member of the band Pennywise. It may have been the one who died, but I forget. Another had lain there in his lightless stinking hovel while he thrust past her subliminal reservations and ground away her virginity with his rancid stinking penis. He did a lap of the kitchen afterwards, while she lay there like a badly iced cake.

Joizi sat in our kitchen in his 'ants in your pants' boxer shorts. It was January. In around a year his liquid diet would get so bad that he would randomly shit his pants as he walked down the road. He was never without women. They loved his stinking balls. His latest one did his laundry for him now, now he had lapped the kitchen. She came around, with news.

"Hi Joizi"
"Hi babes"
"We need to talk"
"Ok"
"Can I do this here, in front of everyone?"
"Ok"
"You have crabs"
"How do you know?"
"Because I have crabs, and there has been only you"

Joizi thought. Two of his friends had had crabs. They all had a sexual partner in common, who was ultimately responsible, the Pennywise girl. Joizi had shagged her in September.

It was January.

"I wondered where the itching came from"

He swigged from his can and drew on his cigarette. Those in the kitchen looked at each other in disbelief, then noticed his pants.
(cs1ca, Mon 6 Feb 2012, 21:19, 4 replies)

The Eccles Cake
Named after a local reporter.

JE had been out for the main part of the day and early evening drinking
Biddenden's 8% cider.

Like most ciders, this has a bit of a laxative effect. And like other drinks that are that strong, has the ability to impair one's judgement.

JE came to the realisation that he needed to evacuate his bowels and made a bee line for the gents.

Unfortunately, the cider had quickened his bowel movements but not enhanced his ability to register this fact, or help speed his movements. So, by the time he had made it into the gents the bomb bay doors had lodged themselves and he'd coated the inside of his trousers and the floor by his shoes with the contents of a stomach enhanced by a day on the scrumpy.

In his cider-addled state he thought nothing of this and decided that the best course of action was to return to the bar and order another pint. A pint that he was refused as the stench that followed him in from the toilets was enough to stun a bear.
( monkeyboyalpha jumping on the bandwagon since, Mon 6 Feb 2012, 20:22, Reply)

Essen mein scheisse, ja?
Not really, but...

When my cat were but a mere slip of a kitty, just after I'd adopted him, he had some arse related issues. Mainly that due to a stomach infection, and some severe mistreatment in his previous home, he was having trouble holding down (and in fact, in) any solid food.

Essentially, after using his tray, his bumhole was so sore, it couldn't contract sufficiently to contain the last dribbles of effluvium.

He immediately got whisked to the vet, upon which she lifted his twitching tail, revealing a seriously unhappy sphincter and proclaimed, in her lilting Irish accent.

"See, there's your problem. He has an angry anus..."

Sad to say, this prompted me to dissolve into a fit of giggles, as all I could think was "that would make a great name for a German Death Metal band".

A year on, and the anus no longer struggles with anger issues, thanks to the beauty of antibiotics, and teh fluffeh is as fat and happy as a cat can be.
(Rakky (forgot her password) The muffin maverick, Mon 6 Feb 2012, 16:38, 6 replies)

Notting Hill Carnival

Notting Hill Carnival, sometime during the late 90s. Nipped into a heaving pub for a quick beer before heading on, thought I'd release some of the pressure whilst there and joined the end of the piss queue. Grim bit? The poor chap engaged in the Sisyphean task of bailing the blocked urinal trench out into a sink, armed with naught but an empty pint glass and a cheerful grin, whilst the never-ending stream of drunk blokes carried on filling it back up.

Those who could still focus at least tried not to splash him.
(Go on , touch it, Mon 6 Feb 2012, 16:28, Reply)

Poland, 2003
It was a hot summer and I was working onboard a ship drydocking in Szezecin. Ship was up on pontoons out of the water so the seawater sanitary system was offline.

This basically meant the toilets didnt flush, fine for a piss but turds had to be taken to the spider infested drydock bogs. This wasnt really a problem for the crew and we managed just fine, this somehow didnt apply to the manky fat superintendent who had been sent to oversee work.

He spent his time onboard in one of the spare cabins drinking beers and "meeting" drydock reps. After a few days a smell started to rise up from the cabin to the point where I would take the much longer and colder route via the rear of the ship and up the fire escape, than pass through the main stairwell.

After a month, the entire alleyway was a putrid stench of festering death. The super had filled the bowl and beyond with foul beer turds with such gusto that it would have put pigs to shame. How he worked in such filth was beyond my tiny brain, it was fucking disgusting.

After we refloated it took several buckets of water and a crewman in a EEBD (emergency escape breathing device) to clear it out. This was a man earning in the region of £50k+, as per my previous post regarding office turds.... is it something about the higher paid you are the bigger minger you become?
(Monkeystrumpet monkey. Monkey, MONKEY!!!, Mon 6 Feb 2012, 16:12, 5 replies)