» Nightclubs

Much requested poo stories, with love from me to you.
Hello hello.
Right, you asked for poo stories, so here you go. Who am I to stand between coprophiliacs and their porn...?
For those who missed my first post (where were you?) I worked in a scabby little nightclub in a scabby little town, and the majority of the tales I have to tell involve either stupid people, poo, or stupid people pooing.
I'm not sure if these are gonna be 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 help. Now.
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 waiting 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 the little oiks.
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 Ethel (please see previous post) looked at each other and the same thought went through our minds: there would be no way of detecting that 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 6 (six!) empty laxative packets. Six!
One of the little donkeybonkers had been spiking the other kids with laxatives! We had a hurried chat with the manager and closed early that night to save our toilets from the inevitable splattering. I still wonder if there was a reported outbreak of direa diorh dhier the shits 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.
My fingers!
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 bumfudge 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.
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 piece de resistance. The middle of summer, stupidly busy, the end of the night, and a toilet that smells worse that Satan's 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 composition of crap, 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.
POO STORY NUMBER EIGHT
One night we had two girls come in who looked angelic. Butter wouldn't melt. They weren't heavy drinkers, one had half a shandy and the other had a cup of tea. However, no sooner had she drunk her tea than the other had dropped trou and shat in the cup!
Not to be outdone, the other girl picked up the cup and hungrily lapped it up, before projectile vomiting in the other's mouth! Then the first one...
OK, OK, so I might've made the last one up. Shut your faces, alright? Is seven poo-related stories not enough for you?

Length? I already told you, an 18-inch steamy behemoth! And no apologies, you bloody asked for it...


Jee-zus plee-zus, I need a shower now...
(Fri 10th Apr 2009, 2:32, More)

» The most childish thing you've done as an adult

Little old lady who?
Stitched's comment just down below has reminded me of one of my biggest moments of shame.
A dear little old lady was once doing her shopping in a little old lady way, wobbling from shop to shop with her little old lady shopping bag over one arm. Sadly (for me as well as her) her ankle gave way as she stepped up a kerb and down she went, in a little old lady heap.
As she lay there wailing with shock and pain she let go of her (little old lady) bag, and the contents spilled forth.
Oranges.
Oranges which, suddenly released from captivity, seized their chance and made a break for freedom.
Away they rolled, slowly at first, but picking up speed as they went, and, as it was a cobbled street, they were catching some serious air.
Away they sped, faster and faster, higher and higher, like tiny spherical salmon, while the little old lady continued bleating mournfully, lying on the pavement while people fussed and plucked at her arms.
And what did I, your hero, do?
Did I go over and offer my assistance?
Did I call for an ambulance?
Did I fuck.
I sat on the kerb and laughed and laughed and laughed, til tears pricked the corners of my eyes and breathing became a chore, all too aware of the evil looks being fired in my direction, and all I could do was wheeze "but... the oranges! THE ORANGES!"

I offer no apologies. It was the biggest laugh I'd had for ages, and I hope that, one day, when I'm frail and old, someone, somewhere, laughs just as hard at me if I do anything similar. I'll shake their hand. Life's too short to stifle laughter.
(Sat 19th Sep 2009, 22:04, More)

» The most childish thing you've done as an adult

Firstly: A handful of chocolate hobnobs chewed up and subtly spat into your palm.
Secondly: A noisy fart in the presence of others.
Thirdly: The ability to look embarrassed and disgusted with yourself.
And, finally, a pretend root in the back of your drawers and a theatrical flourish as you splatter the brown lumpy mess from your palm onto their jeans.
Poetry. Pure poetry.
(Fri 18th Sep 2009, 22:20, More)

» Nightclubs

Desperate to impress...
Hello hello. Long time stalker, first time talker.
I worked in a scabby little nightclub in a scabby little town for far too long, and I've forgotten more horrible things than most people would want to see. A woman bumping uglies with a random guy while her husband searched for her, pints of vomit, violent people, obnoxious people, stupid people and more poo-related stories than I care to mention (although I might dredge my memory later and tell you about them. Everyone likes poo stories).
However, I thought I'd humiliate myself here, this being my first post and all.
I was once an 18 year old glass collector with a silly beard and greasy hair, and I was desperate to impress the hot barmaid Ethel (name changed). This club had two floors, and every time I worked downstairs an annoying older couple would stand at the end of the bar, drinks on the hatchway, and lean back ever-so-slightly whenever I wanted to get past. He looked like Brian May, she had a man's haircut, and neither of them had any manners.
For this reason I used to love working upstairs. Better music, no annoying couple and the lovely Ethel's company. One night, however, it all went wrong.
I happened to glance up and see that the annoying twunt couple had migrated from their usual spot downstairs and had assumed the exact same position at the end of the top bar. I sighed audibly and frowned, and Ethel noticed this and asked what was wrong.
"Oh, there's just some people here that piss me off, that's all" says I.
"Who is it?" says Ethel. "If they're being an arse get them kicked out"
"It's not that they're being arses, it's just that they always stand in the way and they don't move when I ask them to, and, well... he always wears the same clothes and she looks like a bloke..."
"Who do you mean?" I nod in the direction of the Brian May-alike and his man-girl.
"Oh" says Ethel, "that's my mum and her boyfriend! Hey mum!"
My eyes expand to roughly the size of dinner plates, my eyebrows disappear off the top of my head and my sphincter threatens to throw open the doors and kick everyone out.
"No" I stutter, "I mean... uh..."
As I look desperately around the room I realise there's no-one else around for a good 15 feet.
By now the man-woman is waving vigourously in our direction, and the only way out is past them, so I lower my head and push past them. I hid in the kitchen for the rest of the night.
Turns out they were lovely people, and I got to see Ethel's magical private piercing. It was in a jewellery box.

Length? A good two feet and curly, but hers was short and spiky.

If anyone out there really wants the poo stories harass me in the replys
(Wed 8th Apr 2009, 17:40, More)

» Conspiracy theory nutters

Guinness Paul*
There's a bloke who comes in the pub where I work who, sadly, isn't the sharpest lemon in the bowl. His story is a long, dismal tale of sticking up for your rights and getting the shit kicked out of you, of head injuries and comas and drugs, both prescibed and recreational.
As a result of his condition (he's not a complete mong or anything, just a bit slow) he sees conspiracies and patterns everywhere. Everywhere.
He has, to date, showed me a blurry picture of the big cat that prowls around his workplace and only reveals itself to him (it looks like a normal cat but up really close), a mobile phone video of the UFO he saw (looks like star to me), a photocopy of a star chart that coincides not only with the pyramids of Egypt (God, he loves Egypt) but also with the freckles on his hand, and a newspaper cutting of Tutankhamun that he kept in his wallet that got damp once. The damp has caused the ink to run and he revels in pointing out the dozen or so faces that have appeared in the smudgy mess. "Can't be coincidence, that. Look, that one looks like you!"
I heard that he only drank bottled water because "they" put fluoride in tap water, so I asked him if he brushed his teeth, and if he knew who "they" were. He showed me a picture of a ghost by way of an answer.
He is also an accidental master of what I like to call "cyclical sentences", especially after a skinful of Guinness. They go something like this:
"Drugs are weird, aren't they? Like, some of them wake you up and give you loads of energy, but others make you sleepy. And hungry, Like a cat. Cos that's all cats do, isn't it? Just lie around and sleep and eat. Except cheetahs. They're always running around. They're like athletes, except cheetahs don't need steroids cos they're naturally fast. Athletes need steroids to be as fast as cheetahs. They're all full of drugs, athletes. See, that's the weird thing about drugs, some of them wake you up, right, and give you loads of energy, but others just make you sleepy. Sleepy and hungry. Like a cat. Just lying around all day, sleeping and eating. That's all cats do. Not cheetahs though. No, cheetahs are like athletes..."
I've lost count of the times I've pointed people out to him and watched with pure, childish glee as he's wandered over and talked them into a confused, gibbering paste. I wouldn't have him any other way.

Oh, and he stinks of TCP. I often smell him before I see him.
_{*Name changed to protect the crazy}
(Fri 28th Aug 2009, 2:11, More)