Tag Archives: poop

Like a Virgin

When I was 17 my girlfriend was finally ready to have sex. I, as one might expect of a 17 year old, was excited. Neither hell nor high water was going to stand between me and my final destination.

I get ready for the night, trim everything up, shower extra well. Unfortunately there was also an issue. I have a digestive disorder that sometimes causes my shit to become large and quite solid while still inside me. I wasn’t aware it was a treatable problem; I just thought everyone had to deal with the equivalent of anal kidney stones. I bring this up because I had a mighty one which had been loaded into the gun for several days.

Let me set the scene. Her parents are away. We have her house to ourselves. She is a little kinky so she demands we do it in her parents’ bed. I walk in to a candle holocaust. She’s been working on this all day, apparently, and it’s as bright as high noon in there with the lights off. Which is good, because she proceeds to do a sweet, sexy little dance for me.

I smile and tell her how good she looks. I’m sitting on the bed, watching her, but unfortunately, most of my attention is focused on the dull throbbing from my sphincter and the intestinal discomfort associated with not dropping deuce in days.

But somehow I still get hard and we go to town. We try a bunch of different positions. Due to my built-up distraction, I last for what seems like FOREVER. She can’t stop moaning and telling me how good it feels, and then she says what every man wants to hear “I want to make you cum in my mouth.” So she goes down on me.

She was always average at best in the head department but at least she tries. She pops my cock out of her mouth long enough to look up at me and say “tell me if you like this.”

Then I feel it. She sticks her finger up my ass. My brain hits the panic switch and every muscle in my body locks up. But it’s too late.

I let loose a massive, painful shit, all over her parents’ comforter. No, you aren’t understanding. I mean huge. IMMENSE. Take your largest shit and multiple it by forty-two and you’ll have an idea of what flew out of me. And when I say flew, I mean “hurricane force winds hitting an umbrella stand.” And due to my condition, it comes out as a large, dark brown, smelly harpoon.

I know it hit her. I didn’t see it. She ran screaming “OH MY GOD OHMYGODOHMYGOD EEEEEWWWWWWWW.”

I would like to say I got up to go after her. But I heard the bathroom door shut, and I just lay there. The smell hit me after a few seconds. It smelled like someone rolled a cat in shit and threw it into a tire fire. I looked down and saw this huge pile of shit — and I noticed the blood. Then I noticed the pain.

There was a small pool of blood where my ass had been, a final reminder of the exact place and moment I lost my virginity.

I grab my shit with my hands and go to the downstairs bathroom, feeling a trickle of blood flow down my leg, trying to ignore the sharp pain stabbing my rectum. I find myself wishing I had a photo of this.

Anyway, I finish flushing my baby, clean off my hands, jam toilet paper between my cheeks (I skipped the Band-Aid) and went upstairs. I could hear my girlfriend sobbing from behind the bathroom door. I decided not to say anything to her and just keep moving. The smell in her parents’ room was abysmal.

The scene is burned into my memory for all time. My life. My shame. My very first time smelled like a pile of dead babies. I quickly got dressed since the heat from ten thousand candles was making the room feel more like a port-a-potty. I was aware enough to grab the comforter on my way out and drag it downstairs to their washer, along with the top and bottom sheets, since blood had leaked through to the mattress. Still no sign of her, but at this point I considered it a blessing.

I jammed in the washer with 3 loads worth of detergent and set it on spin, knowing that not even the hand of God would save these linens, let alone Tide and Snuggles. Then I left.

I avoided her calls, so she came to my house. We had a long talk about what happened: talk being synonymous with “breaking up with you because you shit on me.”

She promised not to tell a soul; she was probably as ashamed as I was about the whole deed. Because this was the most embarrassing thing that has ever happened to me.

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Mind over matter

“The ruins at Panduwasnuwara are from this ancient city that ran on shit,” Josh told me.

“Then we have to go see it,” I said.

So we found ourselves exploring the crumbling brick walls of the utterly abandoned archaeological site with our two wives and two three-year olds. With very few signs telling us what we were looking at, Josh played tour guide, relaying to us what monks had told him on a previous visit: Panduwasnuwara is remarkable for its system of sewers that drained to a central holding tank. When this tank filled, the residents would dry the waste and make fuel out of it.

We wandered the site almost alone, joined by a few Sri Lankan couples more interested in canoodling in the tall grass than in archaeology. When it comes to ancient ruins, Panduwasnuwara isn’t at the top of Sri Lanka’s must-see list. My son and Josh’s daughter were playing together on the walls. Josh’s wife was taking pictures, and Josh was telling my wife and me the little he knew about Shit City as we wandered the ruins.

All this talk of poop alerted me that I needed to make a deposit in the National Bank of Panduwasnuwara. There were no bathrooms around, not even a Port-a-Potty. We were in the middle of the jungle, so clearly I was going to have to pinch one al fresco.

There’s no holding it; if I don’t do it now, I will surely pay the price in thirty seconds when things spiral out of control. My fuse shortens exponentially with each passing year; I am pretty sure I’ll be carrying a just-in-case Big Gulp cup and a pack of baby wipes with my AARP card. I was wise enough to have a sweat-soaked handkerchief in my back pocket. I was wearing light-colored khakis (CUE: foreshadowing music), and we all know that khakis have a narrow margin of error.

I spotted a nice big tree next to the ruins – plenty of privacy. I trotted toward it and began unzipping. My sphincter has ears, and the sound of an unzipped zipper is the equivalent of “Taps” – time to put a few soldiers in their grave.

The bad news: while my sphincter ears were hearing a sweet siren song, my real ears heard the sounds of a young couple making out on the other side of the tree. People within earshot and noseshot made it an automatic no-dumping zone.

The good news: it was a large, empty complex, and I could find another spot for privacy.

I zipped up, shouted at my sphincter to have a smoke and relax, and searched for another spot. An inviting cluster of trees was not too far off, so I headed toward them. The Oompa Loompas were screaming to make chocolate, and I told them to get ready.

That’s when I heard the high, shrill scream of a child’s agony.

I ran toward the wail, now punctuated with sobs. Josh and my wife ran in the same direction, the three of us shouting and running blindly, following the crying child sound to a spot at the far corner of the ruins.

I arrived shortly after Josh’s wife. My son stood on a crumbling brick wall, looking down. Four feet below him, Josh’s daughter lay on the dirt, shrieking and holding her visibly broken forearm which jutted at an awful angle. My son’s face was awash in panic.

“We were just playing on the wall and she fell,” he whispered.

Josh came barreling onto the scene, taking in the sight of his wife comforting his daughter, taking in her broken arm. This normally calm man completely lost his shit at the sight of his broken child. He reached down and scooped up his tiny, sobbing daughter.

“What did you do to her?” he roared at my son.

“Josh!” his wife shouted.

My son froze.

I took a deep breath to keep calm; getting in a fight with Josh about mistreating my son wasn’t going to do anything but make the situation worse. My wife came and wrapped her arms around our son, and Josh cradled his daughter in his arms.

Clearly, we needed to get her to a doctor. We got in our rented van, Josh driving and his daughter sitting on her mother’s lap in front, me and my wife sitting on either side of our silent son in back. We sped to a nearby small town not ten minutes away. Josh stopped the van outside of some sort of backwoods medical facility; I couldn’t read the signs in Sinhala script. He tapped the wheel a few moments and then shook his head. He announced that he couldn’t take her to a village doctor; who knows what kind of treatment she’d get? Josh had significantly more Sri Lanka experience than anyone else in the van, so we bowed to his knowledge.

“We have to go to Kurunegala,” he declared, throwing the van into gear and speeding off down the dirt road.

“But that’s an hour away!” his wife exclaimed.

“We can’t take her to a village doctor,” Josh muttered. He was in a crazed state, and there was no reasoning with him. He glared at my son in the rear view mirror, and I pressed my boy closer to me.

My son whispered to me and my wife, “We were playing. She ran past me and fell off.” I believed him, and he maintained his innocence in the years since.

Josh drove through the jungle like a madman, tearing around buses and cars and three-wheeled tuk-tuks, slamming the brakes for every goat and python in the road. Each time he jerked the van, his daughter cried out and his wife yelled at him to slow down.

That’s when I remembered how badly I had to shit. An hour to Kurunegala! What the fuck was I going to do?

I knew Josh wouldn’t stop, and I sensed that if I did ask him to stop, he was going to unleash a fountain of unpleasant that was going to end with my family abandoned roadside in the middle of the jungle, with no ride home and paternal khakis full of hot jungle shit.

I don’t trust my sphincter. For years, it has promised farts and delivered mudslides. It doesn’t wait for the actual toilet seat to go down; it starts releasing at the first song of unzip. So I couldn’t just clench, not with Benedict Anus on duty. I needed something else. It was time to get a little Zen on my ass. Or in my ass.

This was time for serious visualization exercises. I closed my eyes and took control. What the mind can believe, the colon can achieve. Rather than squeeze my sphincter desperately, I pictured a fist closed firmly around my colon like the neck of an upside-down paper lunch bag. No matter how full that bag gets, ain’t nothing coming out. Road closed, and there is no detour: you’ll just have to wait.

We drove on. Josh’s insanity showed no sign of abating, and as we tore through the jungle at breakneck speed, I kept my mind on the prize. It was working. The pain was still there, but none of the urgency. My wife tried to whisper something to me, and I cut her off: I am trying not to shit my pants and I can’t talk right now. It is a testament to her that she understood and took on comforting our son solo.

Josh’s daughter was coming in and out of an exhausted, pain-drenched fugue state, half-sleeping, half crying. It was easier to concentrate on the Zen fist when she wasn’t crying, and each time the van jerked, I had to redouble my efforts to close the fist. I considered praying for Josh to drive better, but that used precious mental energy.

An excruciating hour later, we were tearing through the streets of Kurunegala, Josh stopping at each intersection to get directions to the hospital. When we arrived on the hospital grounds, we left the van in front of the main entrance, and Josh and I both ran in. He went to the front desk to find out about getting his daughter admitted; I started looking for the toilet. A woman in a habit – either a nurse or a nun or both – directed me to another building.

No toilet in the hospital? You’re shitting me!

This was getting dangerous. Running and nun-critiquing and thinking meant less mental effort expended on my magical clutching fist. Things were churning, and it wasn’t good. I ran to the next building; it was nearly deserted. There were no signs for a toilet. Running was not good, either, so I slowed to a waddle.

Nothing. No toilet. As I exited the building, I was nearly run over by Josh in the van.

“Hop in! This place is a nightmare! It’s filthy. We’re going to Kandy,” he said. Kandy was home, another hour away.

I looked at the maniacal glint in his eye, the child wailing in her mother’s arms. I had no choice: I got in the van.

My wife smiled at me. “Feel better?”

“There was no toilet,” I whispered.

The sympathy and horror on her face were enough to void my bowels right then and there. As we’d traveled together over the years, I’d abandoned enough underwear in fast-food restaurants and train station bathrooms that she knew I was beyond my abilities here.

I sat back and regained my concentration on the fist. It wasn’t working, though. It was a struggle now. I had lost ground while running about the hospital. I pictured the Zen fist, but my colon was having none of it. Vesuvius was about to blow.

But what of the poor people of Pompeii and Herculaneum? What of them?

I had to keep trying, so I added a second fist. Two fists are better than one, right? My mind’s eye stacked them end to end the way you’d hold a baseball bat. I made and remade the fists, one finger at a time, like playing a scale on the piano. Reverse peristalsis. Exorcism. In my mind’s eye, both fists squeezed, working the toothpaste back up into the tube.

And suddenly, I was back in control. I was in the moment. I ignored everything around me, focused within, and found inner peace in the form of two fists clenched around a bag of turbulent shit. Transcendence in the back of a van lurching through the hill country of Sri Lanka: I don’t remember that ride. Everything was blacked out.

We got to Kandy, pulled up to the front door of the hospital, and Josh and family rushed inside. Here’s the thing: Lakeside Adventist Hospital was a five-minute walk from my house. My house was right there. So close. Toilet and shower right there in the same spot. A perfect denouement for the Greek tragedy brewing below.

But I had to face facts, and I had the presence of mind to know that I couldn’t walk that far without my house of cards tumbling in disaster. As soon as I stepped out of the van, the fists disappeared. The siren song began its call, and I started clenching as though my life depended on it. Are you there, God? It’s me, John. Please let there be a fucking toilet in the lobby.

I looked around the main entrance and saw a sign for toilets. I walked very slowly and deliberately toward the men’s room. I have to be gentle with my sphincter in this hair-trigger state: I have been known to crap myself right outside the bathroom door. My sphincter is an excitable, piddling puppy.

I got to the bathroom. The good news is that it was unoccupied. The bad news is that it was a squat toilet, a tiny closet of a room with a sopping wet tile floor and two footrests astride a hole. I don’t mind squat toilets, but I had enough experience with them to know one thing: the minute I bent to squat, I would shit all over my khakis.

The only way to make this work was to step completely out of my pants without releasing the Kraken. My concentration was shot, and I relied on SuperSphincter to do me right. I unzipped. I couldn’t let the khakis fall to the floor, or they’d be soaked in the rinse water of everyone who’d pissed and shat in there before me. I clenchedclenchedclenched and, balancing on one leg, worked one foot free of the pants leg – thank God for yoga – stepping expertly out of and back into my flip-flop. I performed the same feat with the other foot, then clutched my khakis in a ball to my chest as I squatted, now naked from the waist down, above that black hole. A Kodak moment.

While shit poured from me, I sobbed. Really, I did. My head on my forearms on my knees, crumpled in despair and victory and relief: never have I been so victorious over my irrational, disobedient sphincter. I shat and I cried and I held my khakis high as I released the Black Plague all over the floor and my feet and my flip-flops.

It took me a good half hour to empty my oil tank and then clean up the Exxon Valdez oil spill. But that’s okay: that’s how squat toilets are designed. There was a spigot near the door which flooded the tile, and it all ran into the squatter, Black Death and drowned cormorants and all. It all washed away.

By the way: if you find yourself in the Kandy Lakeside Adventist Hospital men’s room, here’s a word of warning — there’s no soap.

I walked back out to the lobby a good twelve pounds lighter and learned that Josh’s daughter was with a doctor. (Her arm was set in a fetching, hot pink cast; six months later, she re-broke it in the U.S. because they set it badly.) We were free to go home, so we did. I’m pretty sure my wife had some new-found respect for me that day.

I’ll end this tale of victory, of mind over matter, of man vs. sphincter, with a word of warning: if you picture two fists wrapped around your colon, it has the same physical effect as having two real fists wrapped around your colon. I might have been victorious in the van, but it took two weeks before my off-ramp was working properly. Be careful how you use your powers.

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Gold Mine

My graduation tassel was hanging from a door knob in my apartment. I kept it there because my cat loved playing with it. Knocking it around, trying to catch it. All in all a fun time for him.

One evening I was taking a bath and my cat comes running into the bathroom, frantically rubbing his butt along the floor and leaving a lovely streak of poop behind him and meowing loudly. Something was definitely wrong.

I hopped out of the bath and grabbed his hind legs to see what’s up. There was something making its way out of his butt. It was not poop. It was dark like poop, but it had texture to it. Worms. The longest, most insidious, gargantuan parasitical worm I’ve ever seen. I wanted to scream and run but I knew I had to help my cat get through this. This was a moment when a 20-some year old becomes a responsible, step-up-to-the-plate adult. I knew then that I was being tested.

I got past the gag reflex going on and unrolled a massive amount of toilet paper. I grabbed hold of the end of the worm that was sticking out of my cat’s butt and pulled. He howled. I thought that this thing had hold of his heart and was going to pull internal organs out. But I persisted. I had to get this awful parasite out of my sweet, innocent cat’s body. So I pulled again. More resistance. More howling. Oh, it was so long. How could this thing be living in his body without me knowing he was sick? I pulled one more time and finally all of it came out.

The cat ran off somewhere to hide, traumatized by the entire event. I sat there stunned with this thing in my hand. I had to figure out if I should keep it to show the vet or  just study it so I could describe it. The former was not an appealing option because I wanted to be rid of this thing.

I take a closer look at this poop-stained thing and note that its texture is very uniform. In fact it’s braided and I think that’s really odd for a worm. Then I noticed some of its color poking through. It’s gold.

Just like my graduation tassel.

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The Ugly American

I hopped the pond to visit a friend who was going to school in Scotland. We met in London.

The four days prior to my UK trip, I was away from home for a work conference. At the conference I shared a hotel room with a co-worker. During the day, the only bathrooms around me were public bathrooms. I get a bit gun-shy in those circumstances. The time between returning home from the conference and the red-eye flight to London was about 5 hours. There was no time to fool around. I had laundry to do, packing, litter box cleaning, etc. Not a lot of time to take care of a bunch of crap, including crap.

By the time I got to London, there was much I had to express.  Also, I was joined by cousin Flo as I hopped the Atlantic. At this point, I knew my reluctance to use a public toilet for releasing the hounds was diminishing. I could not do it on the plane. The chaos of the airport was enough diversion to make me forget there was a storm a-brewin’.

After all the car rental bit and figuring our way out of Heathrow and into London, my urgent business became top priority. And there it was: an unsuspecting public restroom near Westminster Abbey. Embarrassed, I warned my friend as we went in that she might not want to stick around, and I offered to wait until she was a safe distance away from the scene of the crime.

Being the good, old friend she was, she said not to hold back and she understood.

It was a lot. A lot. And cousin Flo’s luggage.

As it’s happening, my friend and I talk about it, at one point joking that I’m going to clog up the toilet and how awful it’d be if this spilled over or didn’t flush.

I finish up and reach to flush. This is not a normal toilet; it’s one of those cool, wall tank thingamajigs. This was right up there with seeing a red phone booth. Excitedly, I yank the chain. Nothing happened. Yank again. Nothing. My friend is still in the bathroom so I ask if there’s some trick to this? Not really, just yank and hold for a little bit. I keep trying and no go.

Panic starts. I cannot possibly leave this for some unsuspecting stranger. I’ve seen a lot of assaulted, abandoned public toilets and am always horrified that someone would leave it. I am that person who, in most cases, mans up and flushes vandalized toilets to get rid of a stranger’s mess. Admittedly, there have been a handful of times when it was too heinous for me stomach. Because I am so disgusted that people do this, I never want to be the culprit.

This toilet did not care at all that I’ve set this standard in my life. It was not cooperative.

Despite my friend’s best efforts to talk me through the process, we were both convinced I was, at that point, incapable of figuring out how to flush this toilet.

Then she said it: let me in, I’ll do it. I was horrified.. but I saw no other option. Leave it behind and step all over my principles or accept my friend’s help? It took her a few minutes to talk me out of the stall so that she could come in.

She promised she wouldn’t look at the bowl. She did anyway. I can’t remember if it was “Jesus” or something more British like “for fuck’s sake,” but something came out of her mouth to indicate she’d seen IT.

It turned out the toilet must have been broken before my rearward assault. For the short period of time she could stay in the small space, my friend couldn’t get the toilet to flush.

We were defeated. We washed our hands very quickly and as we were leaving, the first other visitor came walking in. I imagine all blood drained from my face right then. My friend and I looked at each other and walked out as quickly and quietly as we could, until we were outside. Then we burst into giggles.

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Venetian Bathroom

I had the fantastic opportunity to take a cooking course in Tuscany, a glorious week filled with amazing foods, fabulous classmates, a little sight-seeing, and copious amounts of really good wine. It was the best of times for sure.

After the course was over, my little party boarded the train to Venice for a week of culture, shopping, and some basic, unapologetic tourism. Shortly into the trip, I felt the rumble. I knew that rumble. The non-stop copious amounts of wine were taking their toll. It was time for a cleanse.

I passed the time ignoring the rumble by chatting with one of my classmates — a Brazilian and about the most stunningly exotic creature I have ever met. She got off somewhere along the way to catch a connecting train to Milan, and we continued on to Venice.

The urge to purge was getting to be intense, but having experienced this before, I was determined to not use the public restroom in the train station. I was likely going to be in there for a while, so the privacy and comfort of my own private hotel room was what I wanted. It’s what I needed.

When the train came to a stop in Venice, I grabbed my luggage and bolted. I got a cab and made a bee-line for the Marriott, checked in mercifully fast, and received the card key to my room.

My room. The room was lovely and well appointed. At least I think so; I only caught a passing glimpse as I dashed to the bathroom and set about taking care of some simmering, long-overdue business. Once the gates were opened, there was no stopping it. Nothing to do but relax and let the cleanse progress. I checked out the facilities: bidet, sink, glass shower with a chain hanging down that said “Emergency,” TP on the wall to the left, big walnut door —

And then it happened: the lights went out. The air cut off. It was dead dark and calm in there. I felt the wall for the door handle to crack the door for some light. Found it. Turned it. Nothing. Try as I might, the door would not budge.

I started fiddling with the lock, thinking maybe it had auto-locked. Still nothing. It got more and more still in there and hotter and hotter. That’s when I knew I was going to die in a Venetian hotel bathroom without ever seeing Venice, that most beautiful city of canals and gondolas. Nope, not for me. A Marriott bathroom: that is Venice to me.

I made a concerted effort to leave the toilet and cleaned up as best as I could. This seemed an inappropriate time to try to master a bidet, though it could prove useful in the cleanliness department. In the pitch dark, how do you know if you are fully fresh down there? Still, not the time to learn a bidet.

The room was now stifling hot. I wondered if perhaps my group would come looking for me. I deemed myself clean, and I felt my way along the wall to wash my hands. What would happen if I pulled the emergency cord? Did I want to risk finding out? Would it be better to just die in here and let housekeeping find me the next day?

I returned to the throne and made an effort to get out of that hellhole. After about 20 more minutes of tinkering, I learned that there was a fine art to turning the lock halfway while lifting the handle at the same time and pulling. One hour in there — cleanse, clean, and panic totaled — and I was out.

The bathroom door was never shut again the rest of the week.

It turns out I didn’t know the most basic of facts: European hotels are fond of an energy-saving feature where you put your room key in a power slot in the wall to enable lights and air. Leave for the day to tour about, and it eliminates your ability to leave the lights on and the air blasting. Nice feature, but I was unaware.

I was grateful I got out of the bathroom and discovered the power slot, but not grateful enough to tell the others in my group about it. I let them figure it out their own damn selves.

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The Poopetrator

by Peggy Hoffman

On the last Sunday of the every month, we hold a belly dance performance in Minás Gallery, our art gallery/boutique. This particular performance went as planned. When the performance was over, we closed the gallery and went home.

Shortly after arriving at home, we got a call from the police. Apparently, one of the spectators had been in our bathroom pooping for so long that the event had ended, we had cleaned up, put the chairs away, locked up the store, set the alarm, and gone home.

When the finally lady emerged from the bathroom, she set off the burglar alarm. She immediately called the police, identifying herself as the Poopetrator. We had to go unlock the store and let her out.

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Kill the messenger

One day at my school in Georgia during PE we were playing flag football on the football field, and a boy that no one (literally no one) liked named Jacob went out on the field, lowered his pants, squatted, and deposited a warm poop onto the freshly mowed football field. He stood up, raised his pants, took his HAND, and picked up said freshly baked turd. He then walked with it in hand to the nearest sideline trash can and threw away his shameful wrongdoing. The PE coach quickly but loudly told him he was being sent home for the day; he burst into tears for the fear that his parents would uncover his dirty secret.

Jacob and I were not only classmates, but we also belonged to the same church youth group. After I witnessed the unsightly event, I felt the need to share my horror with the other members of the group. However, some of the other kids told Justin’s parents that I’d fabricated this unchristian and unbelievable story – his parents were still oblivious to all of it. Within hours both of his parents showed up at the main office screaming and throwing things because their innocent baby was being bullied by a little girl. I was later forced to make a brutally awkward public apology for “weaving this tale of lies,” and Jacob gave me a dead stare and said nothing –  even though I’d just covered his behind by convincing every adult that I’d made up that true story, which also happened to be telling a lie in church. To this day no one’s entirely sure if the bathroom was locked, the line was too long, or there was some wager lost. There was also a quiet rumor that he may have been protesting the fields fertilizer. Or maybe he’s just that crazy.

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Animal House

In college, I was driving in my big Caddy on my way to class one summer, and I got hit with a real need to go. I didn’t think I would make it to the classroom building in time, so I pulled off and went to my frat house. Nobody was around, and at this point I thought I was going to die. I rushed into the house and up the stairs to the bathroom. Everything was gone. The bath was being renovated. I looked around desperately, and there was no bucket. Not even a trashcan. I ran to a room at the back of the house on the second floor and stuck my ass out the window and let it all out. Not sure if any saw me, but they would have been ruined for life if they had.

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Not my job description: a triptych

I.

When I was 14 and working in a restaurant, someone laid, seriously, a two-foot coil in the loo. So us kids stared at each other dumbly, all grossed out, and asked the head cook what to do. He walked in with the knife he was using to chop green peppers and sliced the log up, then went back to the peppers with the same knife.

***

II.

A woman came into the emergency room saying that she was having a baby. Turns out she gave birth to a HUGE poop that had to be broken up with a tongue depressor before it could be flushed.

***

III.

It was a Saturday. I was the only one working. Earlier that week I had a case of the runs but it had cleared up by Saturday. Or so I thought. I had some gas and because no one else was in the office, I was free to let it rip.

Saturdays were quite slow but I was on a call when another gas pain hit, so I let that one go also. Only it wasn’t just gas. It was a blow out. Well, it could’ve been worse because even though I was talking to someone, I realized I had to do some damage control and held back what I could.

Within a couple seconds I told the client I’d have to call him back, that there was an emergency, and I asked for his number. I sat there wondering what to do. The bathroom was three hallways away, and I was, well, squishy. I was worried I’d run into someone and be forced into a conversation. I thought about closing up for the day but that would require a long, moist trip to the parking lot.

After deciding I couldn’t clean up at my desk, I glided to the bathroom as quickly and motionlessly as I could.

I cleaned myself up using toilet paper and toilet water. A pair of poopy underwear was stashed in the hygienic products bin that day, wrapped in about half a roll of toilet paper.

Got back to the desk, called the customer back, and finished out my shift.

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Baby Krakatoa

by Eli Stratus

My daughter was about 15 months old. In the middle of the night, she woke me up, fussing because she had pooped. In my sleep-deprived daze, I went to change her diaper. I took her out of her crib and put her on the changing table. That’s when I noticed that this was no ordinary poop; this was a poop explosion. The poop had leaked out of the diaper, and it was all over her pajamas and the changing table. I had poop all over my arms, too. She was going to need a bath.

As any parent will tell you, we are trained not to leave a child on the changing table, but I needed help. I put her on the floor to wake my husband, Fred, to help me.

She promptly pooped again on the carpet.

20 minutes later, we were all cleaned up. The washing machine was taking care of the sheets and changing table cover. The carpet, on the other hand, was nasty.

It was only a cheapo remnant, easier to replace than clean. I rolled it up, poop and all, and took it to the curb. Just before we drifted off to sleep, Fred said he didn’t think the trash truck would take it. Trash day was that morning.

When I woke up, Fred told me we didn’t need to worry if the trash truck would pick it up. Someone drove by in the middle of the night and took the carpet.

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