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...
(Paolo Nutini's Bikini Better than Frederick Fleet's optometrist, Fri 10 Apr 2009, 2:32, 12 replies)

I can't stop laughing at some of that language
I'm just that immature. It's pathetic, really.
(StapMyVitals wouldn't mind a bit of that, Fri 10 Apr 2009, 2:50, closed)

Slappy - same here
thank you. I feel so much better. This is far more interesting and amusing then Russian History.
(Poppet some assembly required., Fri 10 Apr 2009, 4:50, closed)

Hurrah!
*click*
( Enzyme is powered by sunlight, Fri 10 Apr 2009, 9:33, closed)

Score!
Nice one *clicks*
(FightingComet got Boost Power on, Fri 10 Apr 2009, 12:07, closed)

hahahaha Brilliant ! :D
I've experienced the joy of seeing a Poo # 7 (but not quite as spectacular as yours).

Some wit named it a Fecal Lasagne
( Dixipoos Bye Bye Blackbird, Fri 10 Apr 2009, 17:58, closed)

Hmm...
Strangely appropriate in both colour and structure.
Not, sadly, in consistency or smell.
(Paolo Nutini's Bikini Better than Frederick Fleet's optometrist, Sat 11 Apr 2009, 2:59, closed)

Or taste!
What?
( Agnostic Antichrist Baltimora, Tue 14 Apr 2009, 9:37, closed)

Yay!
^______^
(Scritty Bakerman., Sat 11 Apr 2009, 0:06, closed)

I do love a good poo story...
I have a deep affinity and sympathy with stories two, five and seven, (no I didn't do naughty time on your friend's car, but finding that the hunger strikers have redecorated the cubicles has a similar, albeit non personal effect). Mind you, bin bags are much better than plungers for clearing a toilet. Poo Stories should be a question of the week in its own right, I believe. Keep up the good work!
(GonkHerder, Mon 13 Apr 2009, 0:16, closed)

WTF
FTW
(TheColonel, Tue 14 Apr 2009, 12:28, closed)

You poor sod
At least you have something to tell your grandchildren when you get old
(gentleman mongoose the Lion, the Witch & the Robot, Tue 14 Apr 2009, 16:36, closed)

Brilliant!
Just got to rid my brain of some pretty disturbing images now, but still brilliant! *click*
(Assorted Jellybean, Tue 14 Apr 2009, 22:06, closed)