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This is my place for Uninsightful Adolescent Ramblings. If anyone actually finds it, reads it, and heaven forbid, makes a comment on it, I'll be very surprised.
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HomeComing Weekend
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Posted:Oct 13, 2011 10:18 pm
Last Updated:May 2, 2024 1:51 am
22645 Views
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Exercise is not a very important part of my regimen...but at least once a year, I like to get outside and take a brisk walk around the neighborhood. It boosts my energy and gets the old blood flowing. Well, last Saturday, something else was flowing.
I had just consumed a luncheon consisting of Chef-Boyardee beef ravioli and three chocolate-flavored SlimFast shakes. That's some good eatin' right there, but my tummy was not happy. Nevertheless, I felt the need to walk off my afternoon repast. So, I changed into my jogging outfit, and hit the trail.
The warning signs were all there. I should have turned around after the first stomach cramp. But no, I bravely trudged on, thinking I'd be safe and sound in my domicile well before the shit hit the fan. Indeed, the cramp subsided, and I continued my stroll with confidence.
Part of my route takes me right past my old high school, which shall remain nameless. Note: this is a heavily populated suburban area with lots of houses and busy streets. This is also the halfway point of my journey – the point at which I am the farthest from home base. As I neared the school, the cramps returned and increased in intensity. Pressure began to build. Soon it became quite clear that I was not going to make it home. I needed to dump something...and fast. But where?
My first option was a thin patch of trees that served as a natural buffer between the school parking lot and the adjoining neighborhood. But with people's back yards in plain view, this area did not provide the privacy I would require. Then I eyed the empty school bus parked in the lot. Perhaps I could leave my deposit in the aisle and let the bus driver deal with it. A hell of a way to start the school year, but that would be their problem. Alas, the door was locked. Desperation was setting in.
I waddled with my way ass-cheeks clinched together behind the school and looked for anything I could use for a makeshift bathroom. There was a trailer classroom – locked. There was a dumpster – no privacy. At last, I found my oasis. It was a generously sized equipment room attached to the back of the school – gated, but unlocked!
I entered the area and inspected the situation. In one corner stood a dusty propane barbecue. In another corner, a well-worn snow shovel waited for Old Man Winter to make his return. And in the center, a giant funnel-shaped contraption with a trash can positioned under the business end. The can was filled with something that resembled sawdust. What the fuck was that thing? Beats the hell out of me...besides, I had other fish to fry.
This area was not entirely enclosed. I knew I had to work fast...and judging from the Vesuvius-like pressure building inside my colon, that would not be a problem. I found an empty corner, wedged myself against the two adjoining walls, and dropped my shorts...along with everything else. Within mere seconds, an enormous mud pie, spewing out like chocolate yogurt, jettisoned itself out of my ass and hit the concrete slab with a loud SPLAT that reverberated off the brick walls and shook the barbecue.
As I squatted there and relieved myself, I began to think of the myriad of laws of was breaking: Trespassing, indecent exposure, littering, brandishing a deadly weapon, you name it. Soon, I realized I had another hurdle to overcome. As I squatted in the corner hovering above my fresh turd tart, my thoughts turned to my personal hygiene. I was nearly a mile from my house: How the hell was I going to wipe myself? I searched the area frantically for something that I could use as toilet paper. A lump of coal from the barbecue? (Nah, too awkward.) A handful of sawdust? (Nah, too messy.)
I was considering sacrificing my socks. It was most definitely a two-socker. This was an option, as the lining to my Nikes was already shot to hell, and my feet were sore and blistered from the walk. I needed my socks. So reluctantly, I pulled up my shorts, leaving them low enough so as to prevent any direct contact with my crack – basically the way the wear their pants nowadays. I then waddled my way outside and continued my search for a suitable ass wipe.
Finally, there it was. Lying on the ground outside the door to the boys' locker room. A damp towel. It was like a miracle from Heaven. With great euphoria, I grabbed the towel and quickly returned to the scene of the grime. Two or three passes through my great divide and I was good to go. It was at this point that I got to see my handiwork for the first time. I stood there for several minutes and marveled at the shape and contours of my scatological sculpture. Satisfied that my bowels were sufficiently emptied, I tossed the newly monogrammed towel on top of the barbecue and continued on my journey.
But the story doesn't end here. I was several hundred feet from the school on my way home when the unthinkable happened. The cramps returned, and they were just as bad as last time. That's right, it was time for round two, where the points are doubled and anything can happen. I immediately made a U-turn and headed right back to school to "drop off the ", as it was.
To my surprise, I returned to find the storage room was now occupied...by a swarm of flies buzzing around my pie. "Fuck," I thought to myself. "Those little bastards didn't waste any time! I'm going to have to start a new pile." So I walked over to the opposite corner, wedged myself against the two adjoining walls, and left an another apple for the teacher. This one hit the floor with such force I think it actually cracked the concrete.
Bon appetit, you nasty old flies!
This time cleanup was a breeze since I already had my trusty towel standing by. I just found an unused section of terrycloth, ran it through my ass-crack, and draped it neatly across the barbecue to dry out in the sun.
At this point I was reluctant to leave. I had already downloaded two enormous piles...but could there be a third? I decided I would take a precautionary lap around the building to make sure the urge to purge did not return. Thankfully it did not, for my ass was raw and my towel was out of clean spots. So I made the long walk home and did some final touch-up work in the bathroom.
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The Butt Stops Here
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Posted:Feb 28, 2010 7:12 pm
Last Updated:Jun 24, 2010 9:32 am
22730 Views
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It was a typical Tuesday morning at work. Shortly after ten AM, the second cup of coffee had begun to pry at my lower intestinal tract; hence, it was time to grab some reading material and venture to my second office. The restrooms on my floor are somewhat unsanitary, so when Mother Nature calls, I typically venture down to the thirteenth floor.
Ahh, the glorious thirteenth floor, where the urinal cakes smell like potpourri and the toilet seats are clean and virus-free. To my amazement, the entire restroom was completely empty. This is a very rare occurrence when one considers that there is only this single restroom on this male-dominated floor, and I certainly wasn't the only guy to have enjoyed multiple cups of bowel-loosening java this morning.
"Perfect," I thought to myself. "For this mornings session I shall choose The Executive."
The Executive, of course, is the oversized handi-capable stall. The Executive always provides sufficient bowl roll, grab rails, copious legroom, and is situated at the end of the row. This advantageous stall location eliminates one half of the adjacent patrons and provides optimal mirror angle so that hand-washers can't identify the occupant through the door cracks (unless they've memorized your footwear!).
So I assumed the position and happily proceeded to evacuate. Generally, I'm a courteous customer, and I try to remain mindful of other guests, unlike many who violently vomit out of their assholes and are apparently oblivious to others around them. But, as I had previously stated, I was the sole participant on this glorious morn, so I felt at ease with cutting loose a bit.
Now, I don't specifically recall what I had eaten the previous day, but it was certainly departing my body in a somewhat obnoxious, putrid, and forceful manner. Much to my dismay, I was only able to muster a few solid pushes before the restroom door swung open and someone entered. Or did they? I heard no subsequent footsteps. Must have been a Houdini: that person who peeks in only to find that someone else is already utilizing the highly sought Executive, then vanishes only to return ten or fifteen minutes later.
Alone again, I began to seriously focus on the tasks at hand: grunting, no courtesy flushes, no vent control, every orifice involved and working at full capacity. I was destroying the porcelain. Including proper clean-up, the total session lasted about ten minutes.
Like a murderer trying to wipe away incriminating fingerprints, I tried flushing several times in an effort to erase my damage, but to no avail. It looked as if a cannon loaded with fifty melted Snickers bars had been fired into the commode. Fuck it! This was no longer my problem: mission accomplished.
I pulled up the Dockers, fastened the belt, gave a few quick tugs to straighten the shirt, and opened The Executive door primed to take on the rest of the day. What I saw next shall forever scar my soul: there, to my sheer horror, sat a man in a wheelchair, peering at me with a look of hatred and disgust almost as if I had killed his first-born .
I nearly fainted. Not only was he in there hearing and smelling my endeavors, but he now had no choice but to roll himself into the malodorous abyss and face the hideous carnage.
All I could manage was to get out an apologetic "Hey" and the accompanying head nod.
I raced to the sink, ran water over my hands, and promptly departed. As I exited, I quickly peered over my shoulder and saw the last turn of the wheels and the stall door shut as this poor handicapped man entered my apocalyptic death chamber.
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The Pick Up Fartist
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Posted:Feb 20, 2010 4:14 pm
Last Updated:Mar 12, 2014 11:46 am
36039 Views
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I had been in Milwaukee all day, a good forty-five minutes from home, still dressed in my slacks, and dress shirt. When early evening came, I had some free time after dinner and decided to stop out for a drink at my favorite local hangout. This place was small but cozy, and the old barn timbers and country music from the jukebox lent a relaxed and informal atmosphere. The rudimentary Men's facility consisted of a narrow room with a urinal on the wall, plus one seldom-used stall at the end that didn't have a door. The door to the Men's room itself was usually propped fully ajar, also, pretty much clinching any notions one might have of actually using the Men's room for any sit-down functions. I was pretty sure that even a good fart in that room probably would soon have pervaded the entire establishment.
Not too many people were present yet at this early-ish hour of the day, but I bought a beer; and before long I found myself having a good conversation with an attractive creature who, to my pleasant surprise, was acting quite interested in me. About this time, I began to become increasingly aware of a building pressure within myself. It was the kind of pressure where I had to work pretty hard to keep from farting as the intensity would build and surge, before finally subsiding with a low rumble deep in my gut. The pressure was continually mounting, becoming more and more difficult to handle calmly, and finally I realized something needed to be done. I thought to step outside momentarily, where I could blow off some steam and prevent a fart from happening in a much more public and embarrassing way. Barely managing to even keep a friendly smile on my face amid the building torture threatening me from within, I set my beer down on the bar and told the barkeep and my new acquaintance I'd be back in a minute.
Trying to keep everything going (or maybe I should say, from going...) according to plan, I stepped out the door and walked over alongside my car for the planned, discreet pressure relief. Finally allowing my pucker a long-awaited chance to unclench, I paused and allowed an anticipated, blissful release. To my horror, that small bit of noxious warning gas was immediately followed by a complete, uncontrollable, volcanic eruption of most of my lower G.I. tract into my pants. I stood beside my car shuddering in horror and disbelief at what was happening while I marinated, helplessly, in my own mess.
click to enlarge
With any hopes of scoring a win with the lovely creature in the bar now suddenly quite distant from my thoughts, and my abandoned beer still on the bar and becoming warmer by the minute, I had no choice but to get into my car and sit down with a warm squoosh that spread the damage to whatever few places that hadn't yet been fouled during the initial mass exit. I tried not to think of my fabric upholstery as I began the considerable drive home.
On the way out of town, I pondered how I might get at least some partial relief from my diarr...uh...dire situation. I thought about walking into a gas-station convenience store to use the bathroom and clean up a bit, but this seemed out of the question since I'd be walking in with obviously-damp dress slacks and most likely leaving a very stinky trail behind myself as I walked. I wound up seeking out a dark neighborhood street (which was difficult to find) where I parked on the side of the road. I squatted down between two bushes in a Church yard to finish what little bit that remained of the evening's previous business. With no good means of clean-up available, I took off my socks(it was definitely more than a two-socker, though) and wiped up enough of the disaster so that I felt only slightly better about the conditions in my shorts. It was then was time to get back in my car, which was quite putridly fragrant by then, and drive the rest of the way home.
When I arrived at my house, I barged rapidly in through the front door and headed directly downstairs to the laundry room. I had already removed my dress slacks, noting the Dry Clean Only label inside, and was busy stuffing them into the washing machine as it filled. "I shit myself!" I barked. I didn't see how I could possibly walk into a Chinese laundry somewhere and hand them a pair of fully-loaded dress slacks to pollute their dry-cleaning machines.
Luckily, the dress slacks survived the incident unscathed, and I still think about that evening when I see them hanging in my closet. Friends have said they would've thrown the slacks away, but some things just have too many memories attached to them.
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A Lesson In Fart Karma
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Posted:Feb 18, 2010 8:32 pm
Last Updated:Nov 8, 2011 11:55 am
22557 Views
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I have an aunt who plays the organ at a local church. My uncle was the antithesis of my aunt; while she was a darling, he was just plain rotten. Due to eating lunch at cheap roadhouses and diners for years, his badly abused gastrointestinal tract always loudly produced a rank gas, one known to frighten animals. He had a fondness for toilet humor and considered himself an aficionado of the form.
They always hired their nephews(me)to do chores during weekends, and they often padded my payments with restaurant dinners. However, the amenities came at a price. Bluntly put, my uncle would find ways to fart near my head.
The typical scenario usually began with my uncle assigning some kind of menial chore and then waiting until I was occupied. He would wait until I was engrossed in some task and left with no chance of escape, and then he would strike. The worst-case scenario involved me trapped under a workbench or table. He would stealthily position his ass next to my head, which was now squarely in the kill zone, and fart. I wouldn’t notice until it was too late, and that I was face-on with my uncle’s instrument of death as it uncorked the loudest and most putrid of flatulence imaginable. I was expected to take it all in fun; however, I found it funny only when it was happening to someone else.
I wasn’t the only fool in his capers, as it was obvious that he’d practiced this craft for years. He devised elaborate sneak attacks that made him equally deadly both indoors or out. Many sufferers were complete strangers, mere targets of opportunity in the wrong place at the wrong time. Strategic Air Command had nothing on this guy; he took great pains to determine the direction and velocity of air currents before figuring distance and timing for maximum effectiveness.
Timing was everything. He’d patiently position himself and prepare the trap — sometimes holding back to the point of discomfort to time his release for the opportune moment. Among his favorite targets were young guys trying to make points with girls, especially if it was obvious the poor guy was ramping up to ask her out. Quite often, he was so effective that he’d have to leave the area and go outside to keep his maniacal laughter from giving himself away. He was often so insidious and precise that the victims would blame each other, convinced that it couldn’t have been anyone else.
One afternoon my aunt finished work early, so the pair drove the ten miles to Janesville, which was one of the few places where she could buy new sheet music. Once at the store, she took her time browsing the music while my uncle busied himself by appearing to look through the recorded music. In actuality he was just practicing his evil craft and bombing the few poor unsuspecting customers.
The first few stealth missions went like clockwork. Girls gagged, guys got embarrassed, and my uncle laughed to himself. Before long, though, he began to feel a weird rumbling deep in his belly and a familiar, unwelcome pressure. He’d eaten lunch at a greasy diner and noticed all too late that the situation was rapidly deteriorating. He broke out in a sweat and felt a prickle at the bottoms of his feet as he fought back the first few waves of what was rapidly becoming a surging, internal tsunami. Initially concerned with just getting home, he now realized that he wasn’t going to make it out of the store. A long, low growl emanated from his torso as the pressure built, causing his sphincter to quiver as it approached it's limit. What was once the meatloaf special had become an intestinal juggernaut, careening through the coils of his bowels like a runaway freight train. It became apparent that he had to go NOW.
He made his way to the store’s proprietor, an aged man with thick glasses, and politely asked for permission to use the restroom. After some wrangling over the lack of public facilities, my uncle finally convinced the proprietor that he needed to get to a toilet right away. Resignedly, the old man finally pointed a shaky finger toward an enclosure at the back of the store.
With the pressure at an almost unbearable level, my uncle skootched in the ordered direction, only to find that it wasn’t even a restroom at all. The proprietor was right; the facilities were not up to snuff for public use. It was a poorly-fashioned creation—little more than an old commode on a low riser that was masked from public view only by a shower curtain. It would have to do. He brushed back the curtain and fumbled with his belt and pants as fast as his trembling fingers could move in the tight, dimly-lit confines.
Experts and insurance claims adjusters agree that most accidents are a result of a chain reaction of sorts, the product of several factors. Most of us are experienced with modern plumbing and have honed our skills at using that Wonder of Modern Engineering that is the toilet. Over the years, we have learned to align ourselves, sit, and then go with relative ease. Most of us can accomplish this feat while applying makeup, talking on the phone, or even reading a book. Unfortunately, in his haste, my uncle failed to properly align himself prior to mounting the device, and it was this mistake that became the catalyst for our perfect storm.
He barely got his pants down before his sphincter relaxed, ever so slightly, which allowed a brief "pfft" to escape before the contents of his colon shot forth, much like the waters of a broken dam. The chain reaction had begun.
Failure to align his weight while sitting placed additional stress onto the toilet seat, which was already loose. The unbalanced force of his body on the unsecure seat caused it to skid sideways and break off. Exacerbating the situation were the facts that the fixture was neither flush, nor level with, nor properly tacked to the floor. His unevenly-distributed weight broke the porcelain from its fragile mounting and tipped the entire structure askew, and—in the process—broke the seal between the toilet and drainpipe. My uncle and the whole shebang slammed sideways. The fall drove his shoulder partially through the flimsy wall panel, and his halfway-digested meatloaf special squirted forth as if it were shot from a pressure washer, spraying against the wall. In an attempt to upright himself and the toilet, he moved his weight in the opposite direction, but he overcompensated, tipping the toilet, the broken seat, and his person the opposite way. Foul liquid, now intermittently interrupted by machine gun gas sputters, splattered against the other wall. Although he recovered his balance in a relatively short time, the damage was done.
Poop covered the walls, his shoes, his clothes, and the back of the toilet. The walls appeared as if cows were hit by a speeding train and had created an abstract canvas of neo-art by a delusional drug-crazed adolescent artist. The odor of his raw sewage, mixed with the stench from the now-open drain, could have originated in a chemical weapons factory; and like experimental riot gas, it affected the nose, eyes and even the taste buds. Attempts to clean up and flush the toilet only washed his filth through the broken seal and onto the floor in muddy waves. (He later described this as though viewing a battlefield in WW2 following a great struggle.)
My aunt had been with my uncle long enough to know when something was amiss, and by his body language, she suspected this was one of those times. She calmly made her purchases, and upon hearing my uncle’s banging and grunting, observed their saving grace was that the proprietor’s sense of hearing was as bad as his sense of sight. She paid for her purchase and was moving toward the door when she perceived an odor so unpleasant that it made her eyes water. My uncle exited the facility, pulled the curtain closed, and waddled to the front of the store, where he grabbed my aunt's arm as he passed and made a getaway deserving of the envy of every outlaw since the Barrow Gang.
With the windows down and the fan on high, they drove away, and were three miles out of town before either uttered a sound.
The meal that night was TV a dinner. The music store closed a month later. My uncle had to burn his clothes. My aunt still plays the organ at the local church.
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I Had The Poo-Poo Platter
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Posted:Feb 17, 2010 9:07 pm
Last Updated:Oct 13, 2011 10:21 pm
22899 Views
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A few years ago I decided to try my hand at internet dating. After some rounds of e-mails with a nice lady I’d met online, we decided to meet for a first date. Since it’s basically meeting a stranger, we agreed it should be a lunch date—no pressure that way.
I offered to pick her up but she said she was coming from the opposite direction, so it would make more sense to just meet somewhere. We met at a Chinese restaurant and enjoyed what was actually a very tasty meal. We lingered for a bit after we ate, enjoying some conversation over a couple pots of tea. Towards the end of the tea, I felt a couple big farts build up, but I was able to hold them in.
We were both having a good time, so we decided to take a walk around the area after our lunch. Along the way, I felt more farts forming, and since we were walking down the street into a breeze, I felt safe doing a little "crop dusting." It worked, but at that point I realized why I should never eat Chinese food on a date... I’m mildly allergic to MSG, which leaves me bloated and gassy. Stupid me... I should only go to places I know don’t use it.
I filed that nugget of knowledge away and continued walking, but by then I was puttering down the street like an old Geezer. I started to feel bubbling in my abdomen, and that bubbling told me the day was going to become much windier. While I was having a good time and felt some chemistry between my date and I, it was time to say good day and wrap up the encounter. To my surprise—and relief—she turned down my offer of a ride home. We kissed goodbye, I said I’d call her, and then she headed toward the parking lot to go home. I walked to my car and started for home, filling my car with an ungodly stench. But I had no idea what I was in store for.
Five minutes into my drive, I was working on another fart when it became clear that there was much more than methane gas trying to escape. I managed to clamp my sphincter down in time, but this was some incredible force. I’ve never experienced in my life anything like it. It was as if I was trying to hold back a speeding dump truck with my anus. My insides screamed and groaned, begging to expel this mass that, a moment ago, I didn’t know existed. It’s a miracle I managed to avoid a car accident. Even though I was only five or ten minutes from home, I grew increasingly desperate. I begged and pleaded with God for safe deliverance. At each cursed red light, I put the car in park so I could focus. I turned up the radio to drown out the cramps that I was sure even people on the street could hear. And then it happened.
A block from my house I lost the battle with my rebellious colon, which refused to hold its contents any longer. I whimpered and arched off the seat as a wave of cramps squeezed my bowels like a fist squeezing a tube of toothpaste. I moaned as the liquid hot magma filled my shorts.
Adding to my pain, I arrived at my building just as this brown tsunami ended, and there was even a parking space waiting for me in front. If only I’d left a few minutes earlier. If only.
Thank God I wear boxer briefs, because they held most of the contents as I sprinted inside to the toilet to finish what I had started and survey the damage to my jeans. The searing pain and cramps continued, and wave after wave of partly-digested food filled the bowl, accompanied by a yellow spray. As things subsided and I pondered my predicament, this thought occurred to me: I sure hope she made it okay. I Never did hear back from her again... hehehe
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My Favorite Blogger in the World
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Posted:Nov 28, 2008 11:01 pm
Last Updated:May 2, 2012 1:00 am
22663 Views
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My Favorite Blogger in the Whole Wide world is from Queensland, Australia. She is witty, smart, funny and is just an all-around good person. But I miss her! She's missing in action. I miss her laughs. I miss her comments, and I just miss her. Can anyone tell me what happened to satansblush [blog satansblush]
I miss you girl! Baby come back! I'm Mr. Mop in the swiffer commercials!
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The Worst Thanksgiving Ever
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Posted:Nov 27, 2008 8:04 pm
Last Updated:Feb 19, 2010 9:45 am
23189 Views
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The day was Thanksgiving. The year was 1974. The time was approximately 3:30 PM. I was eighteen years old. It was a gorgeous fall day in Wisconsin. The trees were shedding their leaves and the sky was overcast in a way that makes Turkey Day in Wisconsin so precious. The wind was blowing the leaves around, and the air was brisk, but not too cold. Perfection.
As usual, we were hosting the family. This included fourteen of my first cousins and about twenty-five other family members and friends. We had a very large house and this was something we really enjoyed doing. To make it even more insane, we actually cooked for that many people -- we never got it catered. So it was quite an event.
I'm not sure what my problem was at that time in my life. For the life of me, I could not seem to take a crap without stuffing up the toilet and making a big mess. This was happening frequently -- and, to be honest, my family was a bit freaked out. It wasn't until later in life that I realized that all my toilet could really handle was four two-foot long, neatly folded, somewhat thickly rolled up turds. And that it required a courtesy flush before the evil wiping took place.
In any event, on this particular day, I had to go really bad. I could feel something brewing in the oven and my bowels were sort of flipping and folding in on themselves. It wasn't gonna be pretty, but I knew it would be manageable. I've had worse, was how I figured it.
Problem.
Two of the three bathrooms had people in them. When we had company over, I tried to use the bathroom upstairs so no one would be subject to my noxious fumes. When that wasn't an option, I used my Dad's bathroom. But his crapper was taken too. Shit. This left me no alternative but the front entry toilet. The one right next to the kitchen -- literally within about five feet of it.
OK. Front entry it is. I smiled as I walked by our guests, laughing at something my grandmother said, shaking my mean Uncle Bob's hand, put a comforting arm around my mom as she slaved over the stove. You would've thought I was the mayor. But political ambitions aside, my sphincter was starting to move. I really had to go bad. I slithered through the packed kitchen and entered the bathroom from my bedroom. There were two entrances, thank God.
Once inside, I turned on the water, adjusting the faucet just right to make the absolute loudest possible sound -- to this day, I can't stand when someone can hear me expelling my inner demons. I whipped down my pants, sat on the porcelain god, and tried to do what I call a "controlled evacuation." If you pucker up your ass just right, and lean forward just a little bit, you can make any gas you may have inside you leak out quietly, like a ninja. It wouldn't go over well to have forty friends and family members hear a huge ass explosion from the mayor not five feet away.
I dunno what happened, exactly, but I had some technical difficulties, and it all went terribly wrong. The main-line eruption from my rectum was loud enough to startle me, causing a small yelp to escape my mouth. I could feel the blood rushing to my face as the conversation outside the door came to a brief halt. I was ashamed.
I tried to recover my dignity with a fake cough that imitated the wailing banshee fart I had just released. Conversation resumed, but not with the same enthusiasm as before. I was so embarrassed.
Things continued on as normal for the most part as I let the Chocolate pudding slowly ease its way out of my colon. It wasn't the preternatural, extraordinary type poo I anticipated, however. I've for sure had weightier, longer, more evil-smelling, and even more disfigured fetid dirt piles escape from my deep dark place in the past. I would put this one at an 8, with 9 representing something you definitely remember as, "Wow, that's AWESOME! Let's do it again!" and 10 being something that either leaves you speechless or makes you scream silently on the inside. This was an 8, which was like, "Cool, that felt really good, and I'm proud of myself for ejecting it."
The smell was a bit off, though. I think it was all the apple cider.
In any event, I started wiping my ass. I was taking off huge gobs of toilet paper and just going crazy with it. I guess I was a bit overzealous in my efforts to maintain a clean ass -- as I said earlier, I tended to overdo it at that point in my life.
I stood up, pulled up my pants, and turned and looked down at my creation. It was cool, although a little rank. I flushed the toilet. I was pretty sensitive to flushing toilets at that time because I had been forced to plunge my own turds more and more often. I saw the water fill the bowl and knew instantly that I had fucked up bad. Something was terribly wrong. The water wasn't going in a whirlpool like it should -- it was just getting higher and higher. "Oh my God," I thought. "I have forty people not five feet away from me. FUCK!"
Thank the heavens that the water didn't spill over onto the floor. It would've made for a better story, but it just didn't happen. Instead, the water filled up to about half an inch under the top rim. It was dangerously close to making my life a living nightmare. As is, I thought, it was manageable, but extremely embarrassing. Especially with the main-line eruption from my ass that occurred not ten minutes earlier that brought all conversation to a halt.
Since I'd had this happen before, I knew I needed the super plunger.
click to enlarge
The super plunger is different from your ordinary plunger. It has these valves inside of it that flip open and closed, making for extra suction. It's really odd shaped, to say the least, but it does a really great job. How on earth was I gonna get the plunger out and fix this without them knowing, though? It's not doable...
Keeping the kitchen-side door to the bathroom locked, I walked out the bathroom through the bedroom door. I made my way through the kitchen, keeping my head down, trying not to draw attention. Some of my uncles were smiling knowingly at me, and my younger brother blew out his cheeks, imitating an explosion. I felt like crying.
I made my way to the cellar door, opened it, and retrieved the super plunger. My friend.
I walked back through the kitchen, hugging a wall and keeping the stick on my side, very close to my left leg so no one would see it. Invariably, a few did. They didn't say anything, but their arched eyebrows and slight flinches said everything I needed to know.
I got into the bathroom, sweating a little bit now, feeling really flustered and even a bit dirty, I guess you would say. Being an optimist, I told myself I could have some fun with the scat in the bowl. I knew I had to be careful, though -- this was gonna have to be surgical plunging at its finest, or I was a goner. I started doing my little trick with the plunger, pushing it down, twisting it a little bit, letting the valves open and catch the inside of the hole where waste empties out. I started to plunge the fecal matter, going up and down rhythmically, twisting it, tantalizing the hole, teasing it. It was almost sexual.
By this time the water was two-thirds of the way down. I had the faucet turned on high again, hoping people couldn't hear me. I didn't know if they could or not, but I was too in to what I was doing, going at it with a fierce desire to see my life return to normal. I was at the point now where I needed to flush again. This is always a very risky situation because if the bowl isn't ready to handle the new influx of water that comes from a flush, you're fucked, and all the crap spills onto your toes.
I flushed and plunged furiously at the same time. I could feel the valves opening and closing, opening and closing, back and forth, sucking things up into the plunger and then expelling them forcefully back into the bowl. Those valves rock. Finally, the last of it went down. I flushed again, and rinsed the plunger to get off the nasties that had made their way onto its surface. Finally, the bowl was clean.
I wiped the sweat from my forehead and washed my hands. I combed my hair and tried to relax before making my way out of the bathroom with the shit stick. I couldn't leave it in the bathroom -- we already had the amateur stick in there for normal people. The super stick had to go back to its resting spot.
What happened next is almost too painful for me to describe. I think I have forced myself to forget some of the details, as this was, bar none, one of the most horrifying moments of my entire life. I truly feel scarred from this moment, and I rarely discuss it. I single-handedly ruined -- wiped out! -- my entire family's Thanksgiving Day, and they have never forgotten, nor have they forgiven me.
I walked out of the bathroom, this time through the kitchen-side door. Fuck it, stuff like this happens, and it's OK. I just needed to get to the other side of the kitchen, put the plunger away, and carry on with my day. My mean uncles and sneering brothers could pound sand up their asses.
As I opened the door, half the room -- the half closest to the bathroom -- turned and looked at me, probably fifteen people or so. Apparently they must've heard the mighty struggle I had in the bathroom and the ecstatic plunging. Mind you, we are on minute 20 now. It's been TWENTY MINUTES that I've been in excremental seclusion. People notice these things, ya know?
I flashed them a weak smile, nodded my head a little bit, and made my way into the kitchen, holding the Super Plunger at my side. The kitchen was REALLY packed. It's about 3:50 -- dinner is being served at 4:00. People were STARVING and jostling for position in the kitchen and getting ready to feast. This left very little room for me and my plunger as I made my way through. In fact, such little room was left that I was forced to carry it in front of me like a holy relic. This position revealed to everyone exactly what it was I'm holding, and where I'd been all this time.
I thought things were OK, but as I moved slowly through the kitchen and past the oven, the silence became overwhelming. The horrified look on some of their faces started to alarm me. I followed their eye movements exactly, trying to identify what the problem was. Surely it wasn't just the fact that I was holding the plunger up in front of me -- as freakish as that must've looked, it had to have been something else. I looked behind me and, to my horror, saw a murky trail of brownish-green fluid leading back into the bathroom.
I snapped my head around and looked at the evil stick that held power in my very own hands. My mouth popped open as I saw the nastiest, foulest looking turd you could ever imagine hanging by a thread at the end of the rubber plunger hole.
The plunger had valves. Valves that OPEN AND CLOSE. Apparently, in my last effort to plunge the toilet, I had jammed one of the pieces of the rubber on the inside so that it stayed in this halfway open/closed position. Basically, the inside ring of the plunger, which folds up into itself when not in use, was off kilter, leaving the inner contents inside but in a position to release itself and open up.
At that moment, that's exactly what it did. The valve OPENED! As if it had it's own devilish, fiendish mind, the plunger POPPED OPEN, spilling the contents of my ass down on to the floor, splattering nearby shoes, pants bottoms, low-hemmed dresses, and ankles of varying size. It got dangerously close to the prepared foods. Splashback hit the very furthest edge of the open over door where the turkey was and had not yet been removed. It's like the poo and the stick were in league with each other, and knew what to do, and when.
Various family members screamed, my grandmother the loudest.
There was a veritable stampede as people tried to move out of the danger zone and evacuate into adjoining rooms. My dad started to scream for people nearest the disaster to STAY WHERE THEY ARE! "DON'T MOVE!" he yelled. "YOU'LL TRACK IT ALL THROUGH THE HOUSE!" The French doors of the kitchen were quickly opened, bringing brisk, cool air into the house, mixing the smells of freshly cooked food with the smell of my insides. The commotion was unbelievable. I had ruined Turkey Day!
The aftermath was excruciatingly painful. People tried to be really nice to me and laugh it off, but the images of myself and my mother down on her hands and knees cleaning my crap up off the floor will forever be burned in my head. Multiple family members had to go into the bathroom and remove the brown-green stains off their clothing, myself included. I got it the worst, as it had hit my knees as well.
The turkey was deemed safe to eat, as it was far back in the oven -- forensic-like inspection of the splatter patterns indicated that none of the fecal matter had hit the bird. The bread rolls had to go -- a small droplet had hit one, and no one was going to take a chance. The kitchen, usually the busiest room in the house, suddenly became a ghost town for the rest of the day. People eventually recovered their good cheer -- well, almost -- but the evil omen for the day had been etched in crap. People called it a very early evening and made their way home.
My father, grandmother and mother eventually forgave me. They knew there wasn't a whole lot I could've done to prevent it. We threw out the defective plunger, and I was forced to learn new techniques with regular ones. Of course, what really helped, as I previously mentioned, was the good ol' courtesy flush first, and then the magic number four.
That Christmas, my sister bought me a plunger. If it weren't such an absurd gift, it would've been quite pretty. It was multi-colored, and on the rubber end there was a hand-painted turkey.
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NOT a Poop Story...
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Posted:Nov 26, 2008 11:15 am
Last Updated:Mar 1, 2010 10:41 pm
22522 Views
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Happy
Thanksgiving
Everyone!
Click the pic: This is how to stuff a turkey.
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Once Upon a Toilet Dreary
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Posted:Nov 25, 2008 5:25 pm
Last Updated:Feb 18, 2010 9:31 am
22500 Views
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Once upon a toilet dreary, colon cramped and vision bleary
Waiting for the bomb to drop into the loo
Longing for the morning paper, still I sat there passing vapor
When finally I felt a throb, would I lastly birth the Blob?
Doubting, as my gut kept churning, only then to churn some more
The stench so bad I couldn’t ignore
Deep into the night I’m peering, long I sat there farting, fearing
Doubting, as my gut kept churning, only then to churn some more
The silence constantly broken, and the stillness gave no token
“Shit!” I cried,“ you cursèd mother! Fill the toilet, I do implore!”
One thing did my sphincter answer, as my cheeks were spread apart
Another nasty putrid fart
Was this some occult illusion, some maniacal intrusion?
This was something undesired, one I’d never faced before
Carefully I weighed my choices, as my ass made gassy noises
Should I get up, go to bed…maybe get a little head
Or should I sit here and inhale, as the rancid gasses swirl
And watch my toes begin to curl
My skin is pale, eyes are burning, as the world keeps slowly turning
Longing for a happy ending, “Help me god,” I do implore
Praying for some guarantee, not again, I gotta pee
But on the shitter I persisted, still appearing as before
Ghastly grim I blinked and taunted, haunted, as my patience wore
I’m not playing “farts galore.”
I tried to catch my gut off guard, I grunted again but twice as hard
I pleaded with my large intestine, I begged & cried and then I swore
Now in mighty desperation, endeavoring a huge
Then there came the incantation, just as putrid as before
Asshole’s blinking, angry winking, gas just rotten to the core
Could they smell these fumes offshore?
There I sat, distraught, exhausted, by my own insides accosted
Getting up I turned away and paced across the bathroom floor
My pants around my ankles were, I fell and then I felt the blur
A gasp of horror overtook me, shook me to my very core
As my head struck the sink, all I could think was, “Man I stink.”
Out like a light in the eye of a blink
To this day I know, when the subject’s brought up I say, “Whoa.”
As I laid unconscious on that bathroom floor
Beyond the reach of mortal souls, beyond the ether, to black holes
But since the answer is hidden inside this door
My family was left to wonder, as lost on some Plutonian shore
Who shit all over the bathroom floor?
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Poop At The Piggly Wiggly
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Posted:Nov 20, 2008 8:00 pm
Last Updated:Nov 25, 2008 10:36 am
22675 Views
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It was a slow afternoon in the Piggly Wiggly. We were located in a small town of 4,000+ in the midwest with a lot of elderly customers, so a lot of our business came at the end of the month when pension checks were sent out. We were about a week shy of this, though, so there was little to do.
The apprentice meat cutter, Mike, and I had been amusing ourselves by dancing around with ten-pound tubes of ground beef held to our crotches like giant penises. We were battling with them, having a duel with our meaty members, when I glanced at the small window (perhaps one foot square) that graced the door of the meat department. The horrified face of a little old lady was peering in the window. She looked quite a bit like Jessica Tandy of Driving Miss Daisy fame. We were, after all, in a Piggly Wiggly.
I showed Miss Daisy where the service bell was so she could just ring next time she had a question, and murmured a silent prayer that she wouldn't turn us in to the owner.
We went back to work. As I was breaking down the meat grinder for cleaning, one of the stock boys came in. I used a lot of spices in sausage and pastrami making, so it was normal procedure that if any of the spice containers for sale were damaged, they would be given to the meat department for possible use. He set a large container of cinnamon on my desk and left.
"What the hell?" I thought. "This is a meat department, not a bakery."
I had just taken the plate off the head of the grinder and was removing the build-up of coarsely ground gristle and tough meat that is always left there (usually about one-and-one-half or two pounds) when it hit me. What could prove more entertaining than a strategically placed fake turd?
Swiftly, I modeled the meat into a turd shape, glad that I had taken a semester of three-dimensional design in college. "Mike!" I shouted to the young apprentice. "Bring that cinnamon over here." I shook some cinnamon into a styrofoam tray and rolled the fake turd in it until it was heavily covered. The color was good, but it looked a little dry. I figured an overnight stay wrapped and stored in the cooler would help it. After the ersatz turd was safely stored, we finished our cleaning and went home.
The next morning we brought our creation out of the cooler to admire it. It was perfection -- slightly lumpy, with a delightful taper at both ends and a wonderful moist patina of cinnamon. The dry cinnamon had pulled enough moisture out of the meat to add that perfect touch of realism. Any anus would have been proud to have pinched such a sweet smelling -- and beautiful -- loaf.
click to enlarge
The employees' bathrooms were located just outside the back door of the meat prep room. We entered the women's room, put the commode lid down, and tenderly deposited our creation on top of the seat, and went back to work. Soon we heard footsteps approaching. We were in luck: it was one of the cute little cashiers on her way to a toilet break. Soon the musical sound of her screams assailed our waiting ears.
We rushed back to rescue this fair young damsel. She was standing in the door, pointing at our creation with a shaky finger. "Look!" she gasped. "Look what some lowdown bitch did!"
"Don't worry, sweetheart," I said gallantly, "Mike and I will handle this." We pushed past her and went up to the commode, where I reached down and picked up the fake turd. She looked on in horror as I raised it to my nose and gave it a big sniff. "Whoever did this had a Big Mac for supper last night. We need to find out who that was and we will have the perpetrator nailed!"
"Here," said Mike, "Let me see that." I passed the turd to Mike, who also took a hearty whiff, even getting some cinnamon on his nose. "It smells like they had an Egg McMuffin this morning. That should narrow our search down a bit."
"Yes," I said. "The evildoer is obviously addicted to Mickey Dee's junk food. I don't see any healthy scraps in this turd at all." We spent a few merry minutes passing the phony poo back and forth and adding to the comments. It was so hard to suppress the laughter that was building up inside me.
The poor little cashier finally realized how much fun we were having and figured that she had been duped. She was a good sport and didn't tell anyone else; so, with great joy, we were able to replay our little scenario several times that day.
If I were able to go back and change anything about our trick, I think I would have, after my initial sniff, given it a hesitant little lick. I am sure that would have captured her attention very well.
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Quality Meets Quantity
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Posted:Nov 15, 2008 8:07 pm
Last Updated:Feb 26, 2010 9:32 am
22386 Views
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A couple of years ago here in the Midwest, we had a wicked storm. Rain, snow, and fifty-five-MPH wind gusts. As fate would have it, I lost power at 7:30 PM. Knowing the way the power company works (like snails), I expected that it would be at least the following morning before power would be restored. Normally I can deal with the lack of power, but the boiler was off, along with the water, and the temperature was falling.
So I could tough out a cold night in the dark, or I could crash on a friends couch. Not even a question: I was outta here.
I called a friend the next town over. No luck -- he was in the dark as well. Then I thought of another local friend who has a woodstove. No answer. I was out of options. I had to check into a motel. The closest one with power was twenty miles away. I hopped in the car and drove through the pitch-black mountains to the Quality Inn.
It was your average motel. Nothing fancy. The desk clerk wanted one hundred dollars. I beat him down to eighty-five. Still a rip-off.
As luck would have it, there was a steakhouse joint right next door. Initially, I thought twice about it. You see, I have recently been diagnosed with IBS and hadn't taken a dump in about five days; so the last thing my colon needed was an indigestible eight-ounce sirloin steak trying to punch out of my already feces-laden gut. But I was starved and hankering for some meat.
A prime rib, onion rings and salad bar later, and I was stuffed. I retired back to my room.
My ritual when I am in constipation mode (I vacillate between the two extremes) is three helpings of Benafiber a day, along with a glass of Miralax and four stool-softener pills. This would cause any normal human to shoot around the room as if they had a jetpack on. Not me. Five days of this had brought only a series of hot, sharp, foul-smelling putrid farts. After dosing (once again) that night, I went to sleep.
It was a rough night's sleep, with lots of nightmares. I awoke at about eight AM to that familiar crampy, gassy feeling. I knew it wouldn't be long and thanked God that check-out wasn't until noon. When I get like this it usually requires multiple trips to the bathroom until I have completely emptied out.
So I ran to the john ready to birth a brown-headed stepchild. What came out was a never-ending, neatly coiled pile of soft brown shit. If someone had dangled me above a giant ice cream cone and squeezed my mid-section, I would have created a foul Mr. Softee cone straight out of Dante's Inferno. Satisfied with my creation, I got up and wiped my ass with that horribly rough dump roll that most motels use.
click to enlarge
The first wipe was rancid and covered with more shit than I thought possible. The second wipe? Just as bad. The third? Take a guess. It went on and on. My asshole had turned into some kind of nightmarish ballpoint pen.
Knowing that too much dump roll would clog the toilet, I flushed to make room. Nothing. No movement at all. It wasn't a question of overflowing the bowl -- you would need water to move for that accomplishment.
I panicked. I knew I wasn't close to being done. I started to throw the shit covered paper rags in the small garbage can in the bathroom.
After cleaning up after round one, I went back to the bedroom to contemplate my next move. I could call the front desk and tell them of the problem, but that would only lead to a couple of possibilities:
A) Major embarrassment.
 A wait for someone to come and fix the problem. Even more embarrassing.
C) An embarrassing request for a key to another room for me to sully.
So I opted for D) Do nothing. Keep on shitting and maybe tell them at checkout.
I made about three more encores to the bathroom before I was finally finished. The bowl was loaded by the time I was done, and the small trashcan was filled with my shit rags.
Now, I am not totally heartless. I really did feel bad about the situation. I couldn't stop thinking about the poor cleaning woman whose day I was going to ruin. All I could think about was her opening the lid of the bowl and letting out a blood-curdling, "AY, DIOS MIO!!" and following it with a healthy vomiting session.
At the same time, my evil side found it freaking hilarious.
So I tied up my bundle of shitrags so at least she wouldn't have to inhale my vapors and wrote her a note, which I placed on the toilet lid. Once again my evil side took over, and I had to add a touch of humor to my note. I knew she probably wouldn't get the reference but I did it anyway:
"Beware. Abandon hope all ye who enter here. The toilet wouldn't flush. Sorry. Lo siento." Next to the note, I left a $5 dollar bill. It was the least I could do.
I will never know what happened. But they probably held a Sanataria ritual over the bowl to exorcise the evil spirits of my rotted colon.
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The Good Little Boy in Church
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Posted:Oct 30, 2008 5:34 pm
Last Updated:Feb 22, 2010 4:19 pm
22068 Views
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I posted a shorter version of this tale on some thread, but I can't remember which. Still, bear with this semi-senile geezer and I will regale you with the tale of my life-changing fart.
As a young lad I desperately wanted to be considered a good little boy. A boy about whom Sunday school lessons could be taught. A boy who would never under any circumstance bring shame, dishonor, or embarrassment to his family. Being a paragon of virtue was my sole goal in life. The very reason for my existence.
Since I was the of very religious parents, I was expected to attend church services on a very regular basis. Our Sunday morning routine differed a bit from weekdays. On weekdays my dear mother would prepare a hot breakfast for us. Her normal offering was bacon or sausage served up with eggs from our flock of chickens and biscuits that she lovingly made from scratch. Only on Sunday did we eat cereal.
The cold cereal was served as an expedient, so she also could be properly dressed and off to hear the Lord's word in his house of worship. On this particular Sunday morning, a new cereal was on the table for my sisters and I. We were being exposed to, for the first time, Kellogg's Shredded Wheat. As I now know, this cereal is high in fiber and can cause a certain gassiness that has no place in God's house.
In my role as a good little boy I ate my cereal, even though it tasted as appetizing as a Brillo Pad. The family then piled into our 1941 Plymouth sedan and we were off to church. I felt a few rumblings in my lower abdomen but thought it was nothing to be alarmed about.
Sunday school was normal that morning. I listened attentively as good little boys picked up their toys and put them away, to the great joy of their dear mothers. I paid particular attention as good little boys shared treats with their sweet sisters and never never punched them. All the while I noticed that the pressure in my abdomen was getting lower and lower.
Upon the completion of the lessons, we all went to the chapel so that we might drink in the words of wisdom that would be offered to us by that giant of morality, our beloved pastor. That I might listen and hang onto every word spoken by this good man, I elected to sit on the very first pew. I was there by myself, my nearest neighbor at least three pews behind me.
The pressure in my abdomen increased dramatically as the congregation arose and sang a joyful hymn. I finally recognized the pressure for what it was: I was going to fart. I should have gone ahead and farted while the singing would have covered the sound -- but, alas, I had waited to late.
We sat back down and the preacher began telling us about the fire and brimstone we would endure for all eternity if we did not mend our sinful ways. I, by this time, was sweating bullets and my buttocks were clenched so tightly that a railroad spike could not have been driven up my anus with a ten-pound sledgehammer. Could I retain control of this fart until the preaching was done with and the final hymn was being sung?
Alas, it was not to be. The fart forced its way through my clenched sphincter and buttocks and made itself known to all with a shrill shriek like a steamboat whistle on the Mississippi River. The hardwood pew acted as a sounding board on a musical instrument and amplified the fart to orchestral proportions. All eyes turned to see who this blasphemer might be. They had no trouble identifying me as the villain, as I alone was on the front row and my face was a deep shade of scarlet. The pure putrid stench of this rotten fart made everyone, even the Pastor hold their nose in disgust.
click to enlarge
My dreams of being considered a good little boy were shattered. Good little boys don't fart, ever, much less in church. There would be no salvation for me. I was doomed to the lowest and most vile depths of hell.
Since I was doomed anyway, I soon changed my aspirations of achieving good little boy status and started concentrating on the more pleasurable aspects of life. I wanked my way through puberty and turned to hard drink, tobacco, and womanizing -- all because of a life-changing fart.
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