piecing it together in the morning
after a long friday drinking session i began to suspect i had been caught short after finding my tighty-whiteys containing suspicious stains, red brick fragments and several leaves adhered using excrement by the end of the bed.

my suspicions were confirmed by the afternoon when i encountered a long brown stripe down a neighbour's wall and pool of fetid turd-water on the pavement. which i slipped in.

*pop*
length? the pool was almost 2m from the wall
(imallamallama looking forward to llamageddon on, Fri 28 Mar 2008, 0:11, Reply)

...
Sorry I'm late, was having a smoke in the toilets.
(Grey_Ghost has yet to decide on a sig on, Fri 28 Mar 2008, 0:11, Reply)

In quite a few of my QOTW answers, I've mentioned my devout Catholic foster parents...
...and I'm going to again.

When i was about 8, while driving long distance to god knows where, I was in the back seat trying to ignore the tingling of travel sickness in my lips. It was a warm summer day and I can remember I was wearing some of those polyester sports shorts (like the pair Alan Partridge is wearing when his "solders keep popping out of the barracks").

Anyway, at some point i noticed a rumbling in my tummy and raise a bum cheek to ease it out quietly, one that goes "hhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhff". Unfortunately I obviously had an upset stomach from something (probably from my foster parents god awful cooking... minced beef and orange, served in a scooped out orange anyone? mmmm). At the time it didn't seem so obvious though, so i slid a hand down the back of my shorts... I had confirmation - DEFCON 1.

Then, i can vividly remember taking my hand out, covered in liquid shit, and thinking "my hand feels cold now"... so i put it back in my shorts! lol

Soon after, my brother remarked "pwooooar! whats that smell?", foster mum said it was probably just a sewerage farm. But the stink persisted and gained that tang that tells you nobody is safe... I was finally sussed.

We pulled over at the next service station... I WAS GIVEN A BOLLOCKING!?... like i meant to do it!
I was made to sit on the kerb, naked from the waist down except for a thong of diarrhoea while they scrubbed the back seats, hahaaa fuckers!
(A Hospital Carpark, Thu 27 Mar 2008, 23:38, 1 reply)

i went to the post office today...
to get some stamps. the end

that is my shit story.
(Foulkesy123 The one and only..., Thu 27 Mar 2008, 23:33, 1 reply)

ah, shit story...
...and a shit story to be proud of……
In my younger days I used to enjoy, like most young boys at the age of 11 or so, a spiffing good game of the ol’ football. However, being a very fastidious childlet, and running back home if I so much as got a grass stain on my shirt, my worst fears were realised when I went in for a bit of a diving header; duly scored the goal of the century for Hawthorn Albion, only to discover that my hair was now plastered with dog shit. Yeps, the ball had obviously landed in a vast pile of dog-eggs before reaching my blistering headed goal.
I ran home distraught and stinking of canine-cack. Not pleasant.
There it is; a shit story on both counts. Sorry.

n.b.
Just realised my last post was about dog-shit as well. Oh, feck, am I subconsciously scatological?

knobbery reference here...
( Adolf Jitler is editor of Practical Shoelace Collector, Thu 27 Mar 2008, 23:27, Reply)

I am the proud inventer of the shit shooter.
Like a six shooter, only instead of shooting a bullet, it shoots shit. Let me explain.

I am a member of the Hash House Harriers. It is a club where odd folk meet to run around the countryside and drink lots of beer. It is very much like the humour on b3ta only OFFLINE. Google it, you will be amazed at how huge it is world wide. Oh and it has nothing to do with corned beef or OMG!11DRU6z0r5!!!1

One Sunday it was my turn to lay the trail. A sort of paperchase only with sawdust or flour. I took them right out into the Cambridgeshire Fens for about 5 miles, across a couple of streams and when they almost got back to the pub I let rip my new weapon.

To make a shit shooter, you need six one metre lengths of plastic pipe, six stage maroons, some wire, a battery, some cotton wool and a bucket or two of fresh cow shit, which was in plentyful supply as the final run in was through a farm.

Take the pipes and gaffa tape them together. Bury a quarter of the pipes in the ground with the tubes facing your target at a 45° angle. Drill a small hole at the base of each pipe (before you bury them) and thread through some thin speaker wire and attach the wire to a stage maroon (large) which sits at the bottom of each pipe. Stuff a good wadge of cotton wool down each pipe then pour in the cow shit. Make sure the cables are all joined to a single cable of which one end is attached to the stage maroons and the other, several yards away to a PP3 battery. ONLY ATTACH ONE OF THE TERMINALS AT THIS POINT. I speak from experience from a mishap during the experimental stage of the project.

RESULT:
The pack of around 30 runners appeared over a fence at the back of the farm. As they became close I made contact with the spare wire to the other terminal. Then...

 _  __    _    ____  _        _    __  __ __  __  ___  _ 
| |/ /   / \  | __ )| |      / \  |  \/  |  \/  |/ _ \| |
| ' /   / _ \ |  _ \| |     / _ \ | |\/| | |\/| | | | | |
| . \  / ___ \| |_) | |___ / ___ \| |  | | |  | | |_| |_|
|_|\_\/_/   \_\____/|_____/_/   \_\_|  |_|_|  |_|\___/(_) 

I think everyone got a bit.
( Captn Hood-Butter is not dead yet., Thu 27 Mar 2008, 23:24, 2 replies)

I needed a fart. Really badly. My arse was aching, it was all I do just to control my brown balloon knot.
But control it I did. I was with a customer, in her house.

She was female. She was just inches away, in the seat next to me paying close attention to what I was saying.

My arse wanted to say something too. I controlled it.

Eventually I forgot about it, the fart had gone away and I finished up, got out, got in my car and then the fart returned.

This time I was ready and with great relief i opened my valve.

Of course, you're thinking that I opened my valve and I shat myself. BUt you are wrong in thinking that. I opened my valve and pissed myself with liquid brown liquid. This liquid does not qualify, in my book, as an actual shit. It could have been a slightly chunky soup. A cheap one, from Asda. By feel alone I would probably have hazarded that this was what it was, but seeing as it definitely was coming out of my anus, I had to resign myself to the fact that this was not the case. Also soup does not usually contain a strong propellant, like squirty cream does, and like this shit did.

The smell almost instantly melted my Glade vent mounted Air Freshener and as it dribbled down the dashboard onto the plush carpets of my vauxhall carlton my poo followed its own journey along the creases in my undergarments in its effort to escape my clothing and join the freshener on the floor. I opened the window.

No problem. Concentrate. Lift yourself off the seat a bit. Yes. That feels better. Now, drive to a garage and use the facilities. Ok, you'll have to sit back on the seat to drive. Yes. I know the poo has cooled now and feels even worse but you cannot stay here all day.

I drive to a garage, it's quite far away. I get out of my car and walk into the shop and aim for the servicios (i'm in spain) immensely aware that my accident is clearly visible through my lightish blue (but very cool) skater type jeans, but relieved my nightmare is nearly over.

But this is spain. Where they build everywhere, and where they aren't building, they are rebuilding. In this case they were re-building the toilets. Completely rebuilding them. There were builders in there, or i might have just gone in and rubbed cement dust all over my my arse as a temporary measure, as one might use talc.

no. ok then. I'll get some toilet roll and join the queue. i'll ignore the people behind me, the gently crispifying mess i have all over my arse, balls and legs, the embarrassment. everything. la la la.

Pay for loo rolls (FAMILY SIZE!!) only ones there. Longest walk back to car with everyone in shop queue looking, sit back into my 'happy brown seat' and then drive off looking for somewhere local to clean myself up.

A field as it turns out. With horses. And flies. The flies became my friends.
(Nobody Likes Mortal Wombat, Thu 27 Mar 2008, 23:12, 1 reply)

When I was a wee nipper
My dad told me to piss in the swimming pool in Great Ayton, because he couldn't be arsed taking me to the loo.

Twenty minutes later, the whole court went quiet when they heard a little me shout:

DADDY I JUST DID A POO IN THE POOL!

With a big smile on my face.


I couldn't understand what I'd done wrong! :(
( Methylene Blue - electrohead, Thu 27 Mar 2008, 23:07, 1 reply)

Nerve Induced Hyper-Excretion
Now, there are few things in my life thus far that rival the nervousness I inevitably suffer at exam periods.

Why, many is the time that I’ve sat down in front of a maths paper, and wished with all my very being that I had had the foresight to take a preparation dump, as the contents of my writhing intestines make repetitive escape attempts, via my puckered balloon knot.

It is all I can do to hold my focus on the exam paper, tense my buns and pray that the hour or so to come will pass swiftly, and without incident.

It was earlier this week, that I was scheduled to sit a French Oral exam, and was, as they say, “bricking it”. On the morning of the exam, my waking thought was, that if I was indeed destined to fail at French, at least I wouldn’t shit myself.

My thinking was that as a preventative method, I would flush my system entirely of any perpetrating turds that may pose a threat to the integrity of my underpants. And flush it I did!

I had gathered but never put into practice, that concentrated roughage is the best way to purge ones self of nastiness lurking in the digestive system, and short of colonic irrigation, I was willing to try anything. So the night before the day of reckoning saw me sitting at the kitchen table, munching my way through a box of Kellogg’s finest Bran Flakes and off to bed nice early.

The morning arrived with undue haste, and the nerves began to set in. I was practically shaking as I sat down again to finish off the Bran Flakes, which I duly did. I am usually a fairly regular visitor of the toilet bowl, but to my slight unease, I did not feel the customary morning urge to curl one in.

My appointment with the executio-- I mean examiner, was to take place at 3.00, which gave me precious time to do some last minute cramming, which was spent instead watching the clock, and counting the minutes to my impending doom.

It was shortly before 3.00, when I was finally graced with the urge to empty my bowels, and I meandered feverishly towards the bathroom. People have many words for occasions like this. Some would call it an epiphany, a brain wave, but I like to think I found god in that cubicle, and I was truly blessed as I gave life to an undeniably splendid poo.

So splendid in fact that it deemed itself above the laws of mere mortals, and refused to flush. It lodged itself in the bowl and subsequently caused a large blockage. As the water was close to overflowing, my thoughts went out to the cleaner, who would fatefully have to dislodge this symbol of mans ability to achieve greatness, this beacon of hope, this massive turd which I was frankly astounded I had passed myself.

With a strong feeling of triumph, I made my way to the sink, to consecrate this holy deed. But, no sooner had I turned the tap than I felt the earth itself tremor. My stomach lurched, and in realisation, I made a dash for the second cubicle.

This time I dropped several dollops of somewhat less consistent godliness, which conspired to form what I can only describe as a grating over the exit pipe of the toilet, blocking the escape of the paper, and causing a second blockage.

Surprised by myself, I chuckled and made my way once more to the sink. This time, I didn’t even reach it before I was overcome by the dramatic shifting taking place inside me. I made for the third and last cubicle in the bathroom, and just managed to place myself over the bowl before all hell was let lose.

***

Whilst sitting in contemplation, it occurred to me how despite being full of all manner of poos, my insides were in almost perfect balance. Like yin and yang, whilst upon occasion performing spectacularly, I was also capable of great evil.

***

The shear amount of bog roll involved in the wiping of a poo such as this was more than enough to block the third successive toilet.

I tentatively immerged into the room, feeling several kilograms lighter; I looked back to admire my work, and take in the strong sent of my endeavours. I was careful to wash my hands well, and in so doing, noticed the time! It was 3.00! Shit!

In the end I got an A. It was the cherry on the cake, which was the most successful day of my life to date. The day when I blocked every toilet in the college bathrooms.

Length – the ordeal lasted no less than half an hour.
(ShitBitch, Thu 27 Mar 2008, 23:03, 1 reply)

Shitting in urinals.
This one isn't funny. I can't find anything humourous to say about my past shit experiences. Weird that. A few months back I had an early shift so had to walk the four miles or so into work. I put off going to the lavvy before I left, damned if I know why. By the time I got into the spirit of the journey and it was too late to turn back, my guts started complaining about last nights dinner. This being mostly a town center with a few early risers around I couldn't just curl one out on the pavement. As the sweats started coming and I began to walk a little oddly, I was wondering if there were any alleyways or dark places I could go if it became too much... and then it hit me. This one wasn't going to wait till I got to work, code red, had to shit now! By some miracle, my arse cheeks had become akin to superman's and I held on with fierce resolve. It wasn't pain as such, more like the most uncomfortable feeling ever, like rocks being rolled from your stomach, squeezed through your intestines, touching cloth and then back up. Over and over again. I don't think I've ever felt anything like it. Every couple of yards I had to stop and lean against something until the urge to just let it all go passed. I had the turtle by the head for two miles before I finally spied a "bathroom". It was one of those crude concrete shelters with a urinal they have for pissing in, horrible, dirty, smelly and altogether quite small. Didn't stop me though, trousers down, one hand behind me holding myself up, and whoomph, the most liberating, earth shattering shit I've ever taken. It was almost sexual in its bliss. I didn't have anything to wipe with so didn't hang around too long. But I did gaze fondly at my prize. It was so impressive I thought, "I'll come back later and see if it's still here. And it was. Beautiful. I pass by the shelter every day now, I thank god above they saw fit to build it there, and not decided to pull the unholy edifice down. Sometimes I think about popping in, just for old times sake.
(Suddenly, zebras Safe and sound for eternity, Thu 27 Mar 2008, 22:52, Reply)

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.
(Big D, Thu 27 Mar 2008, 22:45, 1 reply)

Fountain of cess.
I work now and again as a medic at band events for young people. Basically you average night out at a gig minus the bar.

Mostly we get nippers who have a few to many shandies or whatever the young folk drink and can't stand up straight. But this girl, well she was something else.

She had managed to consume most of a normal sized bottle of Vodka neat, and a macdonalds, and the proceeded to pass out on the Sick room floor, so I dutifully placed her in the recovery position and set about getting her parents to come collect the grubby little creature.

About 10 seconds later, the girls bowels decide to fail, and due to her sprayed on jeans, the shit litterally sprayed up her back in a 12 inch fountain of shit.

And the smell, twas like satans own rim cheese.
had to throw the blanket out...

*pop* there goes the cherry.
(actiondan is kid tested and mother approved!, Thu 27 Mar 2008, 22:39, 1 reply)

The Biggest
Turd I ever laid was a little while ago now. I woke up, felt this strange longing, amd went for it. Thought nothing of it until I got an email from my wife explaining my turd was so big it had actually landed comfortably on its end, and was protruding from the water by quite some distance.....



Xx
(Exiled Youth [witty comment], Thu 27 Mar 2008, 22:38, 2 replies)

Shit story
Nowt happened.

The End.
( disasterprone "Pyjamas caused the Holocaust", Thu 27 Mar 2008, 22:37, 1 reply)

That's a relief.
A couple of weeks ago, I underwent gastric Banding surgery (wiki it) and since then I've been restricted to a Soup and Coffee diet. For 6 days...nothing was ejected from my arse. Not surprising due to the scarcity of solids in my diet. Then...fecal urgency. A quick trip to the porcelain, and a massive blast of watery detritus. A relief in some ways.

Since then, my diet has varied a little, with the occassional sneaked bar of chocolate or even a nibble of cheese. However, my lower intestine has adjusted now, and has switched to the other extreme. Two nights ago, I delivered a monster of ten days growth. It was only about seven inches long, but the thickness of a juicy cucumber. And solid. Very solid. After a painful 10 minutes squeezing it out on one piece, it somehow wedged itself in the bowl, just above the water. It's still there, resisting the actions of flushing and bleach.

Sniff. I'm proud of my monster turd. I call him Eric, and might use an image of him for a Christmas Card.
( Tepid_Halibut felt like a cold, empty shell of a human...until, Thu 27 Mar 2008, 22:35, 1 reply)

camp shite
We were camping on a rather rudimentary campsite in france, where you had to drop your load in the trees.

One girl skulked off to do her business.

Five minutes later, a shriek, followed by the girl shuffling out of the woods with her trousers down her ankles, shit on her hands and all over her arse.

She leant back against a tree, which gave way, forcing her to land in her own shite, and when she went to get up, she put both her hands in other peoples jobbies.

I have never seen so many people try to look so concerned and disgusted at the same time as wanting to crack up and bork.
(were all dEvO!!, Thu 27 Mar 2008, 22:22, 1 reply)

shit shoes
i work at a very well known luxary shoe company selling all the usual lovely expensive shoes and stuff, there i stand one busy saturday after noon when i get this distinct smell of shit not a fart but real shit smelling smell so i look round to see there just under the prada table lay a massive fat turd right in the middle of a busy shop floor,

i didnt see anyone do this turd of immense proportion so i had to stand next to it while people walk past and i would go " scuse me luv ..dont walk there sumones just shit there ..pointing to the excrement as if had actually done it i, i phoned up the cleaners and said " yeah theres sum shit down here u mind picking it up .. the look on her face when she realised i actually meant real human poo.
(yousatonmybiscuits liberty city has the worst cab drivers, Thu 27 Mar 2008, 22:16, Reply)

Big Brown Crayola
When I was about 7, I asked my mum if I could go to the public toilet.

I went inside, and to my glee, someone had written in huge letters 'Jimmy dies', obviously with a feckin huge cack.

And on the bottom right, someone had written, in marker pen' 'and peter has dirty fingernails'.

I ran out laughing telling me mum.
(were all dEvO!!, Thu 27 Mar 2008, 22:14, Reply)

Poo! Hooray! Pooray!
I've lost more than my fair share of socks to pub toilets in the past. You notice too late that there is no bog roll and the only thing to do is to make a dirty coprophilic sock puppet to drily gum the marmite off.

I've also had to set fire to a pair of boxer shorts to avoid any prolonged contact to my own effluence. After a weekend bender going mad with the drink and the drugs, I was walking back from a friends when the cramps set in . I was equidistant from both the friends house and my own. I stumbled down a side alley (it was still light) to try and get rid but fell over. I voided my bowels for the first time in two days lying on my side in an alleyway, 6 feet from a main road, at 8pm.
I stood up, pulled my trousers to my ankles and tried to assess the damage. Oh lordy the damage.
In my weak-minded state the only way I could think to get my boxers away from me was to burn them off with my lighter, ripping would mean there had to be stretching and therefore the chance of flinging. I started with the elastic around the top which didn't just melt quickly and easily, it set fire to cheap cotton that surrounded it. It made me do a strange kind of dance that managed to pretty much coat my legs in shit.
I screamed, slapped the flames out and pulled up my jeans.
I tried to walk home without my legs touching each other or the jeans i was wearing.

Overall, it was fucking horrible.

Oh and one morning i shat into a girls tupperware tub i found in her room while she was washing our dirty love stink from her skin in her shower donwnstairs. I put it into a plastic bag and then slipped into the wheelybin.
(fatcock has decided to be more mysterious.....or has he?, Thu 27 Mar 2008, 22:05, 2 replies)

The hardest decision to make...
...is deciding which end to aim at the toilet during food poisoning.

When poo is more liquid than the sick and makes puddles when you heave nothing up.
(vampyre_gem has been dead since, Thu 27 Mar 2008, 22:05, 2 replies)

Seafood?
Mrs. Sanityclause & I went out for a fantastic meal last week at a fish restaurant. Unsure which of the menu items looked most tempting, we decided to share a selection platter. The food was incredible: huge fresh scallops, giant king prawns, oysters, mussels, langoustines and a lobster that I suspect may have been conscious only a few minutes earlier.

I'm not sure what it does to your bowels. That night we woke each other up several times by the sheer noxious power of our own farts. The utter offensiveness of the smells we involuntarily created necessitated not only the usual duvet flapping and breath-holding but, at more than one point, her opening the window wide while I flapped the door open and closed in order to aerate the room.

The following morning her phrase "I'd give it a minute before you go in there" became woefully inadequate. It was only after a full 15 minutes (!) that the vapours in the bathroom became just about tolerable enough for me to go and egest my own consignment of pollutant. Despite all the old sayings about one not minding the smell of one's own shit, I don't think I've ever been happier to get away from mine.
( sanityclause is waiting until, Thu 27 Mar 2008, 21:53, Reply)

Squatty Crapulence.
My family, being not-so-hot in the financial stakes, had a habit of not going on holiday over-seas. My father - being a french teacher - had other plans. One summer after months of plotting we set off in our trusty 1.6dl Ford Escort with the south of France in our sights.

Squatter-Toilets: First Contact.
Squatters - for those who have somehow managed to remain ignorant thus far - resemble a shower-tray with two foot-platforms. These allow you to maintain a stance slightly higher than the inevitable flow of shit and piss.

Being small kids, (10/12) my brother and I were still supple and amused by this concept until a series of accidents prevailed.

This is just the first...

The first night we had was spent in coastal Normandy. We fed on Prawns. Half way though the next day's journeying, we desperatly required a shit-stop. Hmm. Squatters. Carefully placing trollies and shorts around our knees (the highest placement available when "assuming the position") we squatted while giggling in adjacent cubicles.
Laughing is not conducive to accurate sphincter control.
Good sphincter control is recommended if you have the shits.
Listening to your sibling's building laughter get accompanied by louder and louder splattering noises causes *yet more* laughter... and resultant shit-torrents.

This is what is known as "positive feedback". The more we laughed, the worse our anal control. The worse our anal control, the more we laughed. 2 minutes later we were howling with laughter desperately trying to maintain balance on the raised areas.

Mirth and merryment quickly turned into dismay as - bawling like a mong and trying to hoik his trollies up - My brother literally skidded in shit and lost footing. The *THUD* represented the moment that both of his feet hit at waist height on opposite cubicle sides as he fell flat on his back in a pile of bog-roll and prawn-splatter, and was also the moment *sigh* where I jumped.

Being caused to jump while laughing and trying to wipe one's arse and heels (I have a blast radius that makes Hiroshima and Nagasaki look lame) had the effect of making me fall over. I instinctively put a hand out behind me to stop the fall.. it went straight down the large diameter shit-hole in the back of the pan. If I'd have known about brake-dancing back then, I'd have been proud of my momentary pose. Sadly my feet then kicked out from under me as the coefficient of friction failed to be big enough, and I too - in accordance with a theme that would establish itself in my life - became a walking shit-monster.

**************

Looking back, Maybe this was the point at which my father became de-sensitized to shit-covered children.
( Humpty Dumpty was Pushed Is unaware of having any limits., Thu 27 Mar 2008, 21:49, 1 reply)

Kitteh Pooh
I used to be quite into acid, as did my lovely flatmate. One night we'd dropped some particularly strong stuff (pink backed strawbs, if I recall) and were sitting on my bedroom floor, playing with our two kittens, giggling inanely and pointing out fractals in the wallpaper. After a while my friend pointed out the trails from the kittens. Oooh! We thought. This suff is strooong! It took us a good, and messy, ten minutes to realise that the cats were leaving actual proper physical trails. They'd both managed to eat spooks - those balls of hair that accumulate on carpets when you have long hair and are too much of a lazy bitch to hoover. The spooks combined with that sudden kitten diarrhoea they get meant that both of the little bastards had foot long shit covered strands of hair protruding from their bottoms and were racing around the house fractically trying to dislodge them.

You would think that catching two tiny kittnes in order to pull pooh-y hair from their nether regions would be a horrible experience to have when tripping your tits off but actually it was so funny and, because of the acid, such an adventure that we both literally (and for the first and only time, I hasten to add) pissed ourselves laughing.

Kittens rule. Even when they have loose pooh.
(mookroolz, Thu 27 Mar 2008, 21:42, 2 replies)

Repost : Lack of shit. ...
I may or may not have mentioned this before.

*hangs head in shame*

One night last year: Particularly bored and on a bit of a low (relationship not going the right way) I was sat watching episodes of Simpson's back-to-back, Drinking Guinness and getting slightly hungry.

Hmm.. hungry. I'd been feeling down for the entire weekend and it was sunday afternoon. Outside it was drizzling, My mates were elsewhere and lazyness was beginning to reach new levels.

NOTE: This may get long... Skip to the starry line if you're semi-illiterate.

Earlier that day I'd been to Netto (yes, we do have them in Sweden) and bought a catering pack of sugary peanuts. I hauled my slightly tipsy arse off the sofa pottered into the kitchen, got another can and a bowl, picked up the Netto bag and - after filling the bowl with peanuts - hunkered down on the sofa again.

I don't remember much more of that afternoon: I just remember feeling rather sorry for myself and dragging my sorry arse off to bed at midnight, ruing the fact that I'd have to go to work in the morning.

Monday came and went.

Tuesday rolled along... and then went away as Tuesdays do.

Wednesday was when it started to get a little strange: In the afternoon I started to feel a bit crap. My lunch hadn't really wanted to go down so I'd sat and chatted... by 3pm I was beginning to sweat. "Flu" I thought. I set off home and collapsed infront of the TV with a bowl of sugar puffs.

20 minutes later I was sat on the bathroom floor with a nose-full of sugar puffs. I'd emptied my stomach the wrong way. No warning. Weird.

I hate the Flu... It knocks me for six once it's beaten my immune system. I headed to bed and had a shit night.

***************************************

A day later and my stomach was in pain: very un-fluish. I was beginning to wonder what might be going on.... Working my way chronologically though my past meals - there weren't many; When I'm down I forget to eat - there was nothing that rang alarm bells until my mind latched onto the peanuts... Jesus no..

I went to the livingroom: There on the table was the empty bag. 2Kg of peanuts. Nice one Humpty you utter arse-hat: you've pigged out on 2kg of peanuts, and turned yourself into a walking peanut-butter Keg.

The Days - unlike the stools - had been passing. Somewhere inside me was the wrong kind of log-jam... If anyone says "butter-nut-squash" I'll kill them =(

Now.. single, Living alone and with my mum a long way away in another country, I did what any self-respecting male would do: I went back to bed.

I'll be the first to admit that I'm no professional when it comes to chronic constipation: I reasoned that the blockage needs encouragement and movement. I massaged my stomach, wriggled around a bit and occasionally would jump up and down. It failed. I failed.

In frustration I gave my stomach and belly area a good thumping (I'm an engineer, and it's always a fairly good last resort) and at least It felt better.

It was a few hours later while watching Jack-ass and Johnny Knoxville getting his colon hosed out that I hit upon a plan. By this time my temperature was going amusingly high and I was feeling *really* shit: It was a surprise that I was capable of any sort of rational thought, but this was it. A stroke of Genuis. McGuyver was trumped.

10 minutes later I had modified my shower hose and essentially had a mix between a super-soaker and Cartman's worse nightmare. Let me tell you that shoving a squirting hosepipe up your ass is hilarious. I had already researched the concept of this pass-time online.. and had discovered that the time to Stop the filling was "when you felt uncomfortable". Mmmkay. :o/

My first effort was a dismal failure. maybe a tablespoon of water? so "When you feel uncomfortable" may not have been entirely accurate. You lasses who whine about "water retention" and "being bloated": you have No Fucking Idea!!!

I had to grit my teeth and go for it. A couple of minutes later and grunting like a hippo in labour I managed to manouvre myself over the toilet before exploding. The sheer relief in itself was worth it... but there was nowt solid to show.

Another Sitting.

... The overpowering odour of Rancid Peanut-crap was horrifying.... though already ill, sweating and committed, I knew it was the smell of victory.

Re-Fill and Puuuurge.

I noted that accidentally turning the water cold was a terrible plan.. The barking spider puckered HARD and threatened NEVER to let ANYTHING out.

Fix the temperature... Re-Fill and Purge again.

It took 30 minutes, but it was an overall success. Within an hour I was starting to feel fine again.

A few days later I was offered a bowl of those sugary peanuts at a party.

I then realised that it had taken Me 30 minutes of watered-down rancid peanutty shit, and from that point on the mere smell of peanuts successfully induced involuntary bodily actions: Pavlov was a mere amateur.


Nuts to the length.
( Humpty Dumpty was Pushed Is unaware of having any limits., Thu 27 Mar 2008, 21:41, 3 replies)

*REPOST* I bet you won't
"Really? I bet I will!"

*****************************

Two friends and I were in the woods, as usual shooting bunnies for the local farmer. It was a cold winter's day, we were togged up far too warm, and our stomachs turned against us (as can happen in that Hot-inside / cold-outside kind of way.)

The other two had already relieved themselves, reporting dangerous bowel-escape velocity... and I was furiously waddling on the spot - buttocks clenched - trying to pretend that my arse wasn't about to explode.

Where to crap? Our eyes rose skywards.

In our woods there were various funky trees, but one was known as "the climbing tree". This name was well earned as it had regular and sturdy branches that any 11 year-old can climb with his/her eyes closed. One side of the trunk was bare, giving a fantastic view from a great height.

"I bet you won't climb that and poo from the top"

5 minutes later, trousers round my ankles and a good 40-something feet off the ground, I was ready to let the pressure go... My mates had retired to a "safe distance" and by Christ I let rip.

With a sound of tearing sail-cloth, mixed with a baked-bean splatter-noise my bowels were evacuated. After the final sputtering squits were squeeezed out, my friends and I were in fits of giggles - leaving me fighting for balance. The relief was marred only by 2 things:

I had negated to take any bog-roll with me.. and as I stood on the branch below begrudgingly hoiking my trollies up, I realised that my footing was worryingly slippery.. and then the final point dawned: my climb down was now dripping in steamy semi-liquid shit.
40 feet of crap-encrusted branches.

I had painted myself into the corner in the worst way imaginable.

Half way down the climb amid shrieks of laughter from my companions - tears of frustration streaming down my face - (And shit dripping on my head from the branches above), I finally slipped; tumbling from branch to branch like a sodden shit-drenched pinball.

The walk home was thankfully short, with no encounters.

I still salute my father who greeted me in the garden. He'd seen me - bloody lipped with a limp making my way across the lawn - and worried, he ran out. The look on his face asked it all, but he kept his lip buttoned.

"I had an accident dad"

He gave me a look that any father would give his shit-encrusted air-rifle-toting 13 year-old and went into the house, emerging 2 seconds later with a bucket or warm soapy water and a massive'n fluffy Dad-sized dressing gown.

"C'mon.. lets get you cleaned up... *sponge - dab - sponge*.... So, did you get any Rabbits?"

***************************************

I hope that when I'm a dad, I too know when *not* to ask the questions that I *really* want to ask.
( Humpty Dumpty was Pushed Is unaware of having any limits., Thu 27 Mar 2008, 21:39, 2 replies)

Re-post Sunny Portaloo Delight.
I was once in a group of people who were in the habit of stopping off at a moto-X course for a weekend, and driving little cars around off-road and generally having a real hoot. This used to be a "Blokey" thing, with only a few hard-core lasses turning up... and then women started to come, and then people bought frikking landrovers and caravans inated of tents.. and it all started to go tits-up.

Before too long, it had become an event that needed to be "organised" and a porta-toilet was ordered at great expense. No longer was taking the shovel up the field a valid option, and sooner or later, it became frowned upon.

One morning after spending the night on the ale my guts and body were't feeling too good. Long after sunrise and desperately in need of lettings a serious Cludgie go, I exited a foul-smelling CO2-rich tent and swayed off to the porta-toilet which - by this time - had spent 3 days in the sun. I opened the door to a smell and fly-swarm that MUST have been piped in from the cup-girls set, and I baulked. No way was I going to manage to keep my guts from exploding at both ends...

I toddled off into the morning with a small roll of bog-roll clutched tightly in one sweating hand, and vainly attempted to walk smoothly lest I should upset the growling beast that was my bowel. About half way up the hill I realised that what I needed most was a drink of water... momentarily I stopped and considered the re-percussions of returning to camp, but carried on pottering towards the woods when my sphincter was nearly overcome by a wave of hot pressure.

A few minutes after I was deep in the woods, surveying the area and getting pissed at myself for not bringing a spade... The day was still, the woods were warm, and the buzz of insects held the promise of a frustrating crap.

After a deeply agonising moment, weighing up the known blast-radius that my arse was capable of, the lack of hole and blast wall (didn't have a spade) and the predicted consistency of what was to follow.... I decided to squat on a slope, hoping that exit would be brought closer to the ground, thus narrowing the blast-zone.

After another brief moment of thought, I decided to remove my boxers, trousers and boots.. working on the theory that it was easier to clean crap off my legs.

So.. Squatting on a slope in the woods, wearing only a T-Shirt and a hung-over grimmace, I closed my eyes, concentrated on the buzzing of the insects and tried to relax my sphincter gently... I jumped as a fly landed on my ring-piece.. calmed my nerves and tried again.

The next 5 minutes are etched into my mind as a "what not to do" tutorial for the future.

The resulting flow of man-slurry exited fast, It flowed downhill at speed, and my placement of the bog-roll (infront of me) suddenly seemed less than smart. Then the smell hit me. Bouyed up by it's own heat, the stench floated upwards in the still humid air and assaulted me. Suddenly i was wretching again, and on an empty stomach I produced only bile. Gasping for breath resulted in large nasal inhalations, more wretching... for the second time of my life I was in a disasterous shit-induced positive-feedback loop. Morbid curiosity forced me to look as green bile surfed a torrent of shit, only to realise with horror what I was looking at - and the cycle would start again.

I moved Sideways - like a shitty crab. Clutching a trees for much-needed stability I evaded the stench and rode out the rest of my bodily convulsions in relative comfort: even the flies trying to munch my ass were pleasant by comparison.

I returned to camp minus underwear and shirt: The clean-up operation had been Wardrobe-intensive. =(

I now drink less.
( Humpty Dumpty was Pushed Is unaware of having any limits., Thu 27 Mar 2008, 21:37, 1 reply)

a soldiers tale
not me.

My best mate is a soldier.

Whilst on excercise at a training base in southern england, they had to camp out for several days and do all sorts of brave soldiery things.

On this particular mission they had to pretend that there had been somesort of chemical attack, and wear protective gear full suit covering everything, and a gas mask)


So one soldier has to take a dump. My mate stands guard for him, whilst he lowers his suit and shits.

He pulls his suit on only to find runny shit going all over his face.

He had shat in his hood, and when he put it back on....oh dear!
(ben_1903 www.crackout.tk, Thu 27 Mar 2008, 21:26, Reply)

Where Is The Chief?
My father told a story of being a volunteer fireman in rural Corrales, New Mexico, USA, my hometown. Their crew once responded to a nighttime fire at a farmhouse, and almost immediately, their chief disappeared. The firemen put the fire out, and then began searching for their chief. Turned out, one of the first things the fire had consumed was the outhouse, and their chief, running around in the dark laying out hoses, failed to discern the outline of the black hole - into which he stumbled.
(Perv With A Dog had his eyes pecked out by scrub jays on, Thu 27 Mar 2008, 21:20, Reply)