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.
Hot Poop
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.
Japanese Poop
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.
Macon' Poop
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.
Hangover Poops
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.
