Aging or Perscription Poop?
I'm not sure what's wrong with me. I used to pride myself on the distinct lack of stink my feces produced during my thrice daily unloading. But now, I'm down to two poops a day and I will tell you that it takes more than two scoops of plump juicy raisins to get me going a third time. Plus, now the foul poison that eminates from deep within is the source of much shame. I work in a small office, with people who don't know me very well. When the porcelain bears my wastes, everybody suffers.
Is it my acne medication? Heaven knows it's strange enough for a 28 year old man to be on acne medication, but why add insult to injury by causing my poop to carry such a pervasive stink that visitors to the office wonder aloud as to what kind of plumbing problems we may be having. "No," I let them know, "it's just my ass. It appears it's rotting away from the inside out. My bad."
Submitted by: Lothar
I was doing some yard work in this guy's backyard one afternoon when the old gut started rumbling, alerting me that within an hour or so it would be time for a little "sit-down session.” The guy who lived at the house came outside right around quitting time and chatted me up for about 20 minutes past my fecal deadline. Then, the next-door-neighbor took up the challenge and kept me there another half-hour.
They finally left me alone and my thoughts quickly returned to porcelain redemption. I'm thinking, "there's a Target store five minutes away - I'll back in for a blowout there!" My gut then interjected that Target wouldn’t be my target for destruction that day – I’d never make it. Scanning my memory for options, I think to myself, "I sure hope that service station on the corner is a two-holer - and if it ain’t, I'm using the sink!"
As I jumped into my truck, it became evident that I wasn't going anywhere until I cut loose with a sphincter-rattling rectal cruise missile. Keep in mind, I wasn't out in the country. There were eight apartment-style condos to my left and three houses to my right. I had to be discreet, but I was quickly losing the battle to keep the beast within.
I decided to open my truck door and use it as a shield - an impromptu stall divider. I procured a "shit ticket" in the form of a handful of fast-food napkins and planned my move. The strategy was to drop trou, spin around and cut loose in a vein straining attempt at a rapid-fire release. By this time I was Prairie Doggin’ big time! Man oh man, it was like I'd just evacuated Grand Central Station! I scraped my butt-hole relatively clean, pulled up my pants and turned around to take measure of my steaming masterpiece.
I looked on the ground and all I saw was a tiny turd that looked as if a Poodle could have squeezed it out. I'm thinking "WTF" when I discovered where the rest of my landmark had gone. It was inside the cab of my truck! I had misjudged the target by about six inches and had decorated the door sill of my truck with a huge, sloppy, stinky load of brown car wax. But I must admit, it was a truly great "air-drop.”
Angrily Compacted Poop
I haven't pooped yet, but I suspect that it won't be pleasant. Today had been a good day until our airport industry started to weave its way through my colon. Admittedly, it's half my fault. But it's also partly the fault of Avis Rentals, Osama Bin Laden, President Bush and some jackass who tampered with an airplane fire extinguisher.
Arriving at the airport in my rented Nissan Sentra, (A side note about the Nissan Sentra. I'm a big American dude. Not so much fat, but tall. I have size 13 shoes. How is it with all the retarded regulatory minutia impeading our country at every turn, size 13 shoes don't fit in the Nissan Sentra. The transportation safety administration freaks out because my giant size 13's could pack enough plastic explosives to...wait....oh, I feel better. The deep, forboding voice that rules the Columbia, SC public address system has just announced that those looking to fly to LaGuardia have to face the fact that their flight has been cancelled. How do you cancell a flight? What now? "Ok, Mr. Buckworth, your flight to LaGuardia has been rerouted. All you have to do is take the 6:56 flight to Van Worth Ohio where you'll connect with the 9:12 flight to Seattle. From there we have a red-eye flight landing you in New York next Thursday. Have a nice trip. And thank you for choosing Delta. Oh, and don't bother complaining. We're about four weeks from declaring bankruptcy and the federal government will most assuredly bail us out. We are, after all, one of the largest airlines in the world. Toodles! And if you need a pillow on your flight, a flight attendat will be happy to reach into your body cavity and pull out your own liver for you. We don't carry pillows any more and a portly, red faced fellow like yourself has certainly had enough alcohol to bring about a certain swelling to the organ. It's quite comfortable, I hear. I wouldn't know, myself...I'm mormon." I always get that ticketing agent, can't stand her.
Anyway, back to the poop. The Nissan Sentra was only a preliminary point of irritation. It set the stage for what followed.
As I was turning in the keys to my Japanese foot torture device, I realized that I had left my own car keys in my temporary apartment in rural South Carolina. A frantic search through my bags revealed that I indeed was born with some sort of mental handicap that had only just now become apparent. Now I was becoming the red-faced airport guy. The sphincter clenches.
Security used to be a breeze, and if it hadn't been for the Muslim faith, still would be. I blame Osama for the fact that security is what it is, but I blame President Bush for federalizing security and forming the TSA. There couldn't be a more frustrating job, as shown by the impatient TSA agent in his early 40's screaming at me to get my shoes "out of the damn tray and lay them flat on the belt. Flat on the belt, damnit!" I had taken off my belt and thought he wanted me to lay my shoes on my belt. Confused, I looked at him for further instructions. Apperently he meant the conveyer belt feeding the X-ray machine. Sphincter pushing upward, jaw tightens, nostrils experience an increase in airflow.
The flight from Atlanta was delayed because, as the keeper of the PA announced, "a passenger deliberately damaged a fire extinguisher and the plane will take off when the captain is satisfied with the aircraft." I can't imagine that getting another fire extinguisher would be that hard, but I didn't allow my brain down that path...It has had a hard day and really deserves to spend some time fantasizing about the semi-attractive woman working the bar in the terminal, here.
So, I'm in an airport drinking coffee, needing to poop but refusing to. I'm afraid that if I actually enter the bathroom, the fragile state of affairs that promises that I'll be on a plane by 7pm will be shattered. I have to poop so bad that I could thwart gay rape right now. But today is a bad day to poop.
Le Poop de France
Submitted by: Horseplop
Ross (my ex-four-year-boyfriend) and I once took a romantic trip to Paris. One particular evening in the city of light, he whisked me away for a romantic meal at an elegant restaurant overlooking a finely manicured park lined with stoic old trees. The wine was perfect, his eyes were awash with the kind of masculine gazes of loving desire that would make any mortal woman melt. Afterwards, we started upon a romantic stroll down the Seine, now bathed in moonlight. This perfect evening called for an after dinner cocktail, so we headed to an upscale bar across the way.
While on our way, Ross broke into a strange run. “Oh Ross, you’re so playful…of course I’ll frolic with you.” So, I chased him across the street and around the corner, giggling with romantic bliss along the way. He was always doing strange, spontaneous, funny things so I followed my darling through the streets of Pariscalling out to him, eager to find out what we were doing. He kept yelling SHHHHH behind him and swatting madly in my direction as if he didn't want me to follow. I was so caught up in what I thought was a romantic venture to a previously scouted romantic spot, that I ran even faster. I couldn't wait to see what would happen next! “Oh Ross, my sweet. I’ll follow you to the ends of the earth!” Besides, I would be damned if I were to be abandoned in the middle of a strange city in the middle of the night, so I chased him for a good ten minutes before he finally stopped in a parking lot in front of a nice restaurant.
By now, visions of a breathless romp under the Parisian stars were being replaced with a strange curiosity and even a little concern. Ross was hunched down behind a car - and then I heard it. Some of the most explosive poo I have ever heard, smacking against the cobbled streets of downtown Paris. Apparently the food wasn’t quite as perfect as I’d thought. I proceeded to fall down in the parking lot laughing, which then made him laugh and poo even harder. Of course he had nothing with which to wipe himself, so the walk home/subsequent clean-up was not exactly pleasant. Damn it was funny, though! Ah, Paris.
Submitted by Mierda:
For some reason I thought I'd die with this story. Partly because I'm
not a huge fan of bathroom humor, partly because this particular poop
might be considered "environmentally irresponsible" ...but mostly
because my fiance was a mere 30 feet when it happened. I'd hate to
think that a poop story might harm a future marriage, but in the name
of science, I will tell the true story.
Last week, my fiance and I were recently vacationing in the island of
Vieques off the coast of Puerto Rico. It's an island mostly known for
the United States military's controversial habit of practice-bombing
the inhabited island - occasionally blowing up a local who was unlucky
enough to wandering in "protected" areas. Instead of handing over the
complete island to drooling developers, the U.S. converted most of the
island to wildlife refuge.
One little known aspect of Vieques is it's bio-lumniscient bay. You can
take a guided kayak trip out to experience it. See, there's these tiny
things called dynoflagellates, that light up when they are disturbed.
In Vieques's bay, there are 750,000 per gallon of water. So when you
dip your hand into the bay, it's like your own personal acid-trip. The
dynoflagellates light up instantly as if you had broken open a glow
stick in the water. Jump in the water and every limb of your body is
surrounded by the glow of billions of microscopic organisms
(http://www.biobay.com/cd/webhtml/CDcover.JPG). All of a sudden you are
Jeff Bridges from Tron (http://www.internationalhero.co.uk/t/tron.jpg)
As we hopped into our Kayaks and started to paddle our way to shore, I felt
something truly evil brewing in my digestive tract, most probably the
result of some particularly nasty native Puerto Rican food. I knew waiting
until we reached shore would be a serious health risk. So I paddled a
distance away from my group and hopped in the water. This would have been
a slight bit more subtle if my body hadn't ignited in bluish-green glow
once I was in the water - but at this point, I didn't care. The others
were safely out of the water in their kayaks. No harm could come to
them. So, I released.
I guess I hadn't pooped in the ocean since I was probably seven, so I
wasn't prepared with how great of a feeling it was. I happened so
effortlessly. What surprised me initially was the velocity which the poop
exited my body... what shocked me was the imagery which will be
forever locked in my mind... the sight of a glowing fecal torpedo
gently floating away from me. The next act of surrealism was the grand
finale. There seemed to be some sort of small explosion. Three streams
of glowing laser-like lines suddenly appeared from the poop and shot
off in different directions, as if the poop was set to detonate.
Apparently, I had startled a few fish who swam off leaving a small but
impressive fireworks display from my poop. It was beautiful in a very
bizarre but fascinating way.
I apologize to the people of Vieques, and the billions of
dynoflagellates whom I may have harmed in the process... but then
again, it makes a great poop story.
The Exposed Poop
Submitted by: Grizzlybare
There is one situation that can cause even the mightiest of men to shy away from releasing the foulness and not allow them to experience the relief and joy of pooping… The Exposed Poop! These are the times when a patron is lucky enough to find a bathroom stall or entire bathroom without doors. It’s almost like winning a free neck-slitting.
On several occasions I have had the pleasure, nay - the honor of partaking in this very special event in a young man’s life. The first was several years ago while enjoying a typical night of boozing and playing shuffle board with my friends at “Boar’s Head” in Athens, GA. Unfortunately, I had violated one of my two primary rules of boozing and barhopping.
Rule number one: don’t eat an exorbitant amount of food before going out. No one likes to see an already bloated idiot, forcing down beer in the hopes that the alcohol-to-food ratio will tip in his favor and bring on asphyxiation of the brain cells. And by no one I mean my girlfriend (now wife).
Rule number two (pun intended): don’t eat foods that tend to treat one’s stomach to the kind of fun that a cornered wombat would show a nervous college student pretending to be animal control. Of course, these foods tend to be my favorite.
Well, it wasn’t long before the urge hit. Being of sound mind and my sense of self-shame dulled by the beer I had consumed already, I headed to the bathroom. Upon entering the bathroom, I thought, “Wow, this is a nice bathroom. The sit-downs must be around that corner. That’s nice that they separate them.” No no no. Upon approaching the “corner”, I found that the hallway I was headed to WAS the stall. NO DOOR! Well, at least it had side walls, right? Wrong. Apparently it was not enough for the owner to remove the door, but now it seemed as if he/she had installed walls so narrow that the urinal dividers were becoming bulimic out of envy. At least my exposed knees might act as a beacon, I thought, warning others that there was trouble if they came too close. Almost like a snake’s rattler, except whiter and hairier.
I have always prided myself on being the fastest poop in the east and my skills did not let me down on that night. I pretended to pee standing up until the bathroom was empty. And then, in a move that would make the Flash envious, I expelled the waste. And, with such skilled “craptitude”, that I could almost hear cheers as I yanked my pants up and returned to my shuffle board game, a new man.
Submitted by: The Mulc
I pooped in Cumming, GA today, but that's not what this story is about.
You see, I never liked spicy food as a child. Actually, I didn't even
like hot [temperature] food. I preferred Cheerios and cold,
cold milk. However, as my culinary experiences grew and my preferences
evolved (music play in my head: French Fries with Pepper by
Morphine), I started liking hot, then hot [spicy] food.
Flash forward some amount of time... On a cruise in the Caribbean...
More precisely, I am on a side-trip on a 60' catamaran in Antiqua and,
after snorkeling and drinking rum punch and cans of shitty-but-cool
local beer, I felt brave. The crew was cooking "chicken, mon" because
everyone down there apparently wants to be Jamaican, especially the guy
with the gnarly raven's-claw-feet called Wonluv. (Pronounce it.
You'll get it.) They hand me a plate with chicken and a bottle of hot
sauce. No label. No cap. Crusty top. Yellow goo with little
multi-colored floaties, suspended. (I think the science term is
colloid.) The entire crew looking. Me. Open cap. Shake. Shake.
Dot the crap out of the chicken. They smile. "Enjoy de Iii-land flavour,"
Wonluv says to me.
I sit down to eat. Well, mes amis, it would be days before I took that act
for granted again.
So the sauce was HOT going in. Ooooo, it etched its satisfying, tasty
burn down my throat, warming my gut like few things can (and Ron Bacoy
is all that comes to mind - side note, don't drink rum that starts with
the name "Ron B__" as they are clearly trying to win your sale based on
stupidity or desperation, not quality and repeat business).
Flash forward - back on the cruise ship. There's a rumbly in my
tumbly. Again, the sauce was HOT going in, but oOOoh, daddy*, was
it HOT coming out?!? (* Why is it that when I make reference to my ass
hurting I say "oOOoh, daddy?")
Continuing, this was the first time I shat in a cruise ship, right...?
Well, I just sat myself down and did my thang. I decided to do myself
the courtesy (you know how it goes...) and flushed mid-go.
WHHhhOOoOoOoOssHhShhshHHSShhhh! All of the air in that little bathroom
rushed between my legs (scene from Aliens where Ripley is
hanging on to the ladder for dear life as the mother-alien is sucked out of the
spaceship into the vacuum of space). I had to touch myself. I thought
I'd lost my friends.
Moral: No courtesy on cruise-ships. Use the lobby bathrooms.
Class C Poop
I pooped in Class C office space today. Now, from what little I know about the world of commercial real estate in Atlanta, location - rather than condition - often dictates how much a slum lord can charge for companies to pack their lemmings into cubicles. I'm not sure how much they were charging for this location, but I'm guessing that it was too much.
The bathroom environment told the story of southern frat boys that grew up and started a business. Wallpaper that would make Joan Rivers seem young and attractive peeled from every seam and corner. The true color of the marble floors, now browned with age and neglect, was only honestly determined by looking at a small spot in front of the urinal where years of “shaking it off” had periodically deposited enough ammonia to keep the small space comparatively clean. On the sink lay a few glossy postcards from the local Mexican restaurant featuring a bikini-clad trio beckoning me to attend a Cinco De Mayo party that happened a few days ago. I tried to explain that the event had already passed, but the logic was lost on the two dimentional beauties. Maybe they didn't speak much English.
On the wall, an automated pump furiously works to overpower the smells of bodily action with the somewhat less offensive smell of what I’m sure the Dow Chemical Corporation calls FRESH SCENT MOUNTAIN FLOWER #8. The pump activated four times while I was in there, no doubt powered by a tiny Scottish elf working off the cost of his passage to the new world. Whoa, I think the fresh scent mountain flowers are starting to get to me, I’d better finish this up quick.
Big thanks to newsgirlstacy for linking me. It’s quite a compliment coming from a woman who’s had her blog mentioned in an actual book…yeah, a real book with pages and everything Check hers out under my links, it'll make you want to touch your left heel with a blue pen.
Submitted by: Newsgirlstacy
The Japanese are light-years ahead of us in toilet (or toire) technology. The very first toilet I used when I got here (and yes, I pooped in it) had a heated seat. Oh yes, my friends. A heated toilet seat. It takes a little getting used to, but after 3 or 4 luxurious, warm-bottomed poops you realize it is the best thing ever. And then, when you are someplace without a heated toilet seat, you get all indignant and the poos generally are not as satisfying, at least spiritually.
But wait, there's more! People in Japan very, very polite -- and in toilet technology this manifests itself in a relatively new innovation: The simulated flushing noise. If you must poo in a public restroom, you surely would not want to offend anyone with your shameful bodily noises. So you press a little button on the wall next to you, and it makes a reasonably loud, sustained rushing-water sound to cover up the plopping and such. Isn't that wonderful?
Usually on the same control panel as the water-noise button are buttons for things that I think are like bidets, and also some bidet-like thing for girls. I have not yet gotten up the courage to experiment with these, but one day perhaps I will. And my pooping experience will be even further enhanced.
The Unwelcome Poop
Submitted by: Grandmaster Flush and the Furious Feces
I have not pooped today, but will regale you all with the tale of a late night in Athens, GA. It was 80’s Night at the local bar formerly known as A.M.F. The year was 1999, and we were certainly partying like the song suggests. But as my stomach began to quiver, I realized this was not what Prince had in mind. Although his assless pants would make for easy access in a situation like this. Having previously finished off a plate of hot wings, I should have known this would happen. Especially after the gyrations I was subjecting my stomach to on the dance floor.
I tried holding it. That was a legitimate solution for a time, but it was soon evident that my stomach muscles were giving in. I loosened my belt, hoping that a relief of pressure would subdue my rumblings. It was no use. My worst fears were realized as I admitted to myself that I would have to go in a crowded bar bathroom. As I sauntered swiftly to the facilities, butt cheeks tightly clenched, I resembled an Olympic Power Walker racing for the gold. Or in my case, the brown. Luckily for me, there was one stall with a reasonably clean toilet. I could have easily been in a bar with no toilet at all, or even worse, a “toilet tease,” which is a perfectly functioning toilet that has been subjected to a night’s worth of urine, splatter and cigarette ash, rendering it useless.
As I sat there, hoping the sounds of Dead or Alive’s “You Spin Me Right Round” drown out my noises, I had to hold the stall door closed with my foot as drunken frat boys searched for a place to vomit up the night’s spirits.
I finished and confidently strolled back to find my friends as Belinda Carslisle’s “Heaven is a Place on Earth” pumped over the speakers. No Belinda, after my night, heaven is my bathroom at home.
Double Half Caf Poop
Starbucks and New Jersey have at least one thing in common, both are fully aware and prepared for the fact that people dump their waste there. The bathrooms in most Starbucks are cleaned regularly and far more respected by the patrons than bathrooms found in Kmart or at your local courthouse. There seems to be an unspoken agreement among coffee drinkers that says, “Hey, this triple mocha espresso is going to set forth a deluge of feces that will surely overpower the levy that is my sphincter. When it does, I’ll make sure to make the toilet presentable, removing all evidence of the intestinal onslaught. Just do the same for me in case your time comes first.”
The bathrooms are oversized and with nice fixtures and ample extras. It’s so cool on the inside that I could see jazz great Charlie “Bird” Parker nodding in agreement with the surroundings while squeezing out a few brown notes. But the overly accommodating size makes me a tad suspicious. The privacy wall outside the bathroom door could be too tempting for a young couple looking to explore “danger nookie.” This place looks like the perfect spot for a low-class sexual adventure, and I will wash ever so thoroughly after my bowels are fully evacuated.
I pooped in Macon, GA today. The setting was one of a quasi-governmental facility utilized by business leaders either looking to aid or milk the local community. On the way to the bathroom I had to wade through a sea of Maconfolk sporting Dukes of Hazard haircuts and tweed blazers. Inside, the bathroom was a strange mix of frugality and southern whimsical design. The floor was faux linoleum tile meant to look like solid linoleum. Nice. These people are high class, they’re obviously above sodomizing livestock. If you weren’t sold on this fact by the faux linoleum, the wallpaper surely would have made a believer out of you. I think they wanted me to think I was in one of those great Roman bathrooms, as the design emulated such clichéd Roman design elements as columns and…more columns. Ooh, and it’s the textured kind. This almost makes up for the fact that the toilet paper is made from recycled shop tools. The crown molding stands out in its perfection. The maintenance manager must have had an overqualified brother who needed some scratch. Looking around I see ample soap, typical towels. Fixtures are old, I think Sherman missed this building during his march to the sea. Maybe he pooped here.
Of course the best poops are always taken at home, especially when alone and without any time constraints. And I’m always amazed at how the “hangover poop” can vary from weekend to weekend. Sometimes it’s the “beer poop” and it’s as if dozens of gummy worms had lubed up with Vaseline prior to the intestinal exodus. Other times you wake up and your body has had to suck moisture from wherever it could find it just to keep basic functions in order. With a mouth lined with what feels like sandy gauze, arid nasal passages cracked and sore and puffy eyes so dry that you can hear them moving in the sockets, you venture to the bathroom in the hope that a good poop will start the healing process. But that poop, as with the rest of you, is so without moisture that it actually dehumidifies the room upon coming in contact with the outside air. I imagine the feeling as being much like a rusty broadsword slowly pulled from a wounded medieval knight. I’m not sure why the hangover poop helps the hangover, but I suspect that it’s just a distraction. I’d read somewhere that the body has a stimulus threshold, that there’s only so much pain a person can actually feel. The theory states that if someone is in pain, a combination of loud music and blinking lights can actually lessen what the person actually feels since the brain can only process a certain load from the 5 senses. This being said, I think the hangover poop is helpful because it shifts our attention from the top to the bottom of our bodies, but I’m no Neil Patrick Harris…I could be wrong.
An Inaugural Poop
In the course of renovating my home, I decided to add a bathroom. This would entail, of course, adding a new, virgin toilet. I remember gingerly unpackaging my new throne and wiping the dust from its cardboard insulation with a silk cloth. After a few moments, my eyes narrowed and a creepy grin crept up on the right corner of my mouth. I muttered a foreboding prediction, "Oh, the things I'm going to do to you."
Having finished the tile work, I installed the new toilet and took a moment of pride at the accomplishment - as this was my first real home improvement project. Just then, a few of the Quicktrip Taqitos I'd consumed for breakfast started arguing with Mr. Jack Daniels. Though I'd enjoyed his presence the night before, I wasn't expecting him to be around this next morning. I never would have invited my Mexican friends over if I knew that redneck would still be around. So, as a true Kentucky hick, Mr. Daniels started arguing with the Mexicans somewhere near the end of my large intestine. After about 20 minutes, the Mexicans had endured enough and decided to leave...in a hurry.
I had to forgo the pomp and celebration I had planned for the inaugural poop, but as with all poops, initial pain is almost always followed by tumultuous relief. It was then that I realized that I was the only human who had ever desecrated this toilet. In fact, it was a toilet that I installed. The pride and excitement at realizing this moment nearly caused me to injure myself, the resulting, prolonged grunt resembling that of an Ogre being run through with a large spear.
I'd never been so proud.