PoopReport.com

A Load Of Horse Shit

2009-07-09T10:27:29-04:00

Back in 2000-2001, I owned a horse. Her name was Jubilee and she was a long-held dream that finally became reality. She was a lot of work, but she was worth it. She was also the creator of several interesting situations. You know, poop-wise.

One nice thing was that Jubilee would give plenty of warning before she pooped. She'd always raise her tail a few times and have some gas. The one right before she pooped was always smelly. So at least I never ended up getting pooped on. That did happen to a girl I read about in a magazine.

One time, Jubilee was standing next to the wall when she had to poop. So she raised her tail and pooped. It hit the wall before falling to the floor, creating a brown spot on the wall. She did this at least twice.

Another thing Jubilee loved to do was pull all her hay onto the floor of the stall and create a nest out of it to sleep on. Of course, this meant that the hay was often peed and pooped upon. It created quite the job for me when I arrived in the morning to feed her and clean out the stall.

Sometimes, while I was cleaning out the stall, after I had gotten the dirty bedding taken care of, Jubilee would poop on the bare floor before I had a chance to put down clean bedding. That was a nuisance, but I would simply pick it up and get rid of it. It was worse when she would pee on the bare floor. Then I would have to put shavings down, let them absorb the liquid, and then clean up the shavings and put down more.

Then there was the time that the people with whom I was boarding Jubilee said I had to clean out her paddock. That meant picking up all the individual poops she had made, plus the poops she had made in her huge hay nest. So I had to clean that up. Part of the problem was that this happened in the spring and the nest was still partially frozen. This meant it took me several weeks to get the nest cleaned out.

Those weren't the worst things that Jubilee ever did, though. You know, poop-wise.

One morning, while I was cleaning out her stall, Jubilee was turned to face the door with her butt facing her water bucket. I came into the stall just as Jubilee raised her tail and pooped into the water bucket. I stood there in shock for a few minutes, not able to believe what I had just seen her do. I went over to the water bucket and, lo and behold, there was horse poop floating in the bucket of water.

Okay, now what do I do? I went and got the apple picker (horse poop is often referred to as horse apples, and the apple picker is a large basket with long tines on the end attached to a wooden pole that is used to pick them up off the ground or the bottom of the stall). I used that as much as I could to get the apples out and onto the stall floor, where I would then take them out when I took out the rest of the soiled bedding.

But there were still horse apples floating in the bucket that I hadn't been able to get, because they had started to disintegrate. It was the middle of winter, so I was using a heated water bucket to keep the water from icing over. Then, of course, there was the problem of any horse poop that might have been settled on the sides and bottom of the bucket.

I remembered an old bucket I had used until I got the heated one. I decided to use this to bail out the poopy water and dump it outside.

I got the old bucket. Just as I was about to leave, I saw an old brush that I knew nobody ever used anymore. It had a handle, so I took it and decided to use it to clean out Jubilee's bucket before I dumped it. I grabbed a pair of yellow latex gloves and put them on, too.

Back in the stall, I used the brush to scrub at the sides of the bucket and swirl the water around to get the sediment off the bottom long enough to get the water transferred. Once the water was swirling in the bucket, I unhooked it and poured it into the other bucket. The water was brown from horse poop. It also had bits of hay in it, but that happened a lot because Jubilee would take drinks of water when she still had hay in her mouth and the hay would go in the water. I was used to that.

I carried the dirty water out and dumped it, scrubbing the transfer bucket thoroughly with the same brush before filling the bucket with fresh water and taking it back to Jubilee. It took me two trips to the pump and back before the bucket was full.

From then on, I was always on the alert for horse poop in the water bucket.

The Vacuum Power Of An Average Airplane Toilet

2009-07-08T10:33:56-04:00

Seven years ago, the PoopReport community was embroiled in discussion about an unfortunate traveler who claimed she was vacuum-suctioned to an airplane toilet seat. Her claim was subsequently tested and disproven. But what was never in doubt was the suction power of an airplane toilet.

AirTran Airlines has got some dude living on one of their planes for thirty days as some sort of PR stunt. No, he has NOT gotten stuck on an airline toilet. But he HAS provided an extremely visceral demonstration of just how powerfully these airplane toilets do, indeed, suck. Behold:

Revenge Is A Dish Best Served Steaming

2009-07-07T10:18:04-04:00

It was in the mid-nineties, when I was still living in Alabama. Some friends and I had been hanging out at my apartment playing video games, eating pizza, and drinking beer. Typical college stuff. One of my friends, who I had known since 1982 when my family moved to ‘Bama from New Orleans, asked me if he could use my bathroom. And of course I said he didn't have to ask. That was mistake number one.

He was in there for a good forty-five minutes. What with all of us being half-lit from the beer, we took turns stumbling to the door to ask him if he was all right. When he finally emerged from the small room where I spent many a day contemplating life and philosophy, he announced to the room that he had to go home and take a nap. That was mistake number two (never let a friend drive after drinking).

As soon as he had left, the urge to float some logs down the brown river hit me as well. So, assuming that all was safe in my thinking room, I hopped up and stumbled that direction. That was the third and final mistake. About six feet from the door, I was hit with a smell that I could only associate with the cow pasture on the farm where I grew up. Seeing as my apartment was a one-bedroom with one bathroom, I had no other alternative but to pull the collar of my shirt up over my nose and brave the toxic fumes that my supposed "best friend" had left behind.

When I opened the door, all looked normal. The bathroom was still clean, no paint was peeling off the walls, and the light was off. The only abnormality was that the lid to my toilet was down. I had seen toilet lids down in his house before, and thought nothing of it, as that was what I was used to him doing. But when I lifted the lid, I was met with the sight of a brown rattlesnake poised to strike. It was one solid turd that had coiled itself around the bowl about four times and even had a little tip sticking up at the top of it. In my drunken stupor, I could have sworn I saw a tongue flicking out of what appeared to be the mouth.

The first thought that came to my mind was, "How in the hell am I going to get this down?" as my stomach churned and I felt like I was about to give birth.

I took the plunger and tried pushing it down in the hole, to no avail. I finally got the idea to take the rubber suction cup off the end of the plunger and try breaking it apart for the flush. I lunged with a thrust that would make the Three Musketeers proud; and after a few parries and slashes, I finally got my opponent broken down enough to release it to the wild so I could take my place on the throne.

While I was sitting there releasing the barley- and hop-infested contents of my bowels, I came up with the perfect plan for revenge on my friend.

Day One and Two of my retaliation, I loaded up on Taco Bell, Whoppers from Burger King, broccoli, cabbage, and boiled eggs, and washed it down with Miller Lite (of course) and Bacardi. I patiently waited until Day Three when all of us were going to hang out at his house. During this time, it took all I had to keep from going to the bathroom except for peeing and taking a shower.

As soon as I got there, I asked him if I could use the bathroom. He ,of course, said I could.

As soon as I got in there, I barely got my pants down before it started coming out without even the slightest push. I was on his toilet for a good twenty minutes, thinking that I was going to die of asphyxiation from the fumes and toxins leaving my body. When I finished, I did exactly what he did: I walked out without flushing. Although not before taking a final look at my masterpiece.

It looked as if Picasso and Rembrandt had gotten into a fight, and used their paintings as weapons of mass destruction.

I walked out and let him know that I needed to run to the store to pick up some cigarettes. As soon as I got out to my car, I could hear yelling and screaming coming from inside the house. "WHAT THE HELL IS THAT SMELL?!?" and "OH MY FUCKING GOD, DID THAT COME OUT OF JAMES?"

I pulled out of the driveway with a smile on my face. A few minutes later, my cell phone rang. It was my friend, belatedly apologizing for leaving his bomb in my toilet the other day. He also asked me if I could pick up some Liquid Plumber, and that he would pay me back.

People may say I am evil for concocting such a calculated attack. I say I would have been the perfect military strategist.

The Bagger Who Had Enough

2009-07-06T18:38:45-04:00

I work at a local grocery store in a suburban area. You would think that it would be pretty quiet and uninteresting, but you'd be wrong. Because sometimes eventful... shit takes place.

For the first three years of my career at this grocery store, I was a bagger. In this store, baggers are also expected to clean bathrooms, among countless other responsibilities. In the three years I bagged and cleaned, I saw some things. Horrible things. Things that really shouldn't be talked about. But that's what a site like this is for.

The sight of excessive blood in a women's toilet is something that doesn't surprise me any more. I've seen more solitary turds on a floor than I care to share. But the one mess that stands out in particular in my mind is the one I must share with you all. It was a Thursday, I believe. Mid-afternoon. We were short of staff, which is usual on weekday mornings and afternoons, because a lot of our employees were high schoolers and college students like myself. I was informed by my boss that there was a brown mess in the back men's bathroom that needed to be dealt with, pronto.

At this point I thought I had seen pretty much everything there as to see in a public bathroom. I realize now that I could have never been prepared for what I was about to deal with. I opened the door and left it ajar with a "Caution: wet floor" sign and searched the scene. There was a lone turd on the far end of the bathroom floor, just inside door of the handicap stall. I thought nothing of it, brushing it off as the usual casualty of war with public bathrooms.

I went inside the stall and saw that the toilet was murky brown and clogged. This annoyed me because I now had two tasks to perform, instead of just dealing with a stranger's solitary turd. I decided that I should deal with the turd on the floor before tackling that toilet problem.

I had it all planned out. I went to the meat department and got the hose they use to clean the floors at the end of the night. I attached the hose to a faucet just down the hallway from the bathroom. I turned the faucet on and began to spray the turd in hopes of breaking it down into a liquid state that would go down the drain in the center of the bathroom floor. Thank God for those things -- I had never had to pick a turd up before and wasn't about to start that day. Besides, I had time to kill because it was a slow day.

After about a minute-and-a-half of spraying, the turd was a swirling brown liquid going down the drain. But what I didn't factor into the whole equation was that the faucet I attached the hose to was a hot water faucet. The hot water created A LOT of steam, which escaped from the bathroom and filled the entire back end of the store with a haze of a shit smell. And for those of you who know what heat can do to a smelly situation, you can imagine the stench that filled the store.

As for me, I was disoriented in the bathroom for a few minutes, engulfed in what cannot be explained as anything else but a shit sauna. I thought I was going to choke to death on the smell.

But the story doesn't end there, my friends. Remember the clogged toilet I mentioned?

After the cloud of stench lifted, I investigated the toilet situation. Anyone who deals with a lot of clogged toilets would know that the best way to begin unclogging a toilet is to flush it. As crazy as that sounds, it's not. We call it a test flush. You see, the murky water is full of fecal sentiment that weighs more than water; and when you flush, the poop powder that fills the water can bypass by whatever is obstructing the toilet and thus give you a clearer view of what's going on down there. So who's crazy now?

So I performed the test flush, but it didn't work well as I'd hoped. There was still too much brown stuff in there for me to see what was going on, and the toilet was REALLY clogged, because it overflowed onto the floor, completely undoing all I had done with the floor prior to that moment. A few turds spilled out and were making a beeline to the drain as I scampered out of their way.

I knew I was going to need some back-up, so I called my co-worker, Matt, to come check this toilet out.

When we opened the bathroom door, more feces had poured onto the floor. Matt wanted to leave. But I insisted he stay. I got the plunger and started poking around. I saw that there was a lot of toilet paper in the bowl, so I started plunging. After plunging for nearly five minutes, the toilet was still clogged, but the picture was a little clearer down there. There appeared to be something else in the toilet bowl. Something white and larger than wadded-up toilet paper.

I had Matt grab the toilet brush wand, and together we attempted to tweeze the foreign object from the toilet. We got a hold of it and raised it about two feet above the bowl before we realized what it was: a pair of white XXXL boxer-briefs. Turds were coming out of it legs, and at that moment we both started shouting, because the shorts returned to the water like a great fish made of cotton. I darted to the next stall because I was sure I was going to barf and I didn't want to create another mess.

For an awkward ninety seconds, Matt and I were both dry-heaving at the same time in reaction to what we saw. The soiled boxer-briefs made it easy to see what had happened here. Someone came in to leave a major deposit but didn't make it in time. The premiere turd must have snaked out of his pants leg onto the floor as he shit himself right then and there in the stall before getting his belt undone. The guy then decided to cut his losses, finish his shit on the toilet, and throw the underwear in there for good measure.

We regained our focus, tweezed the soiled shorts out, and put them in a trash bag. After that, the toilet flushed as normal, and I engulfed the bathroom in a final shit sauna to clean up the new mess. To this day, I still haven't seen a bathroom mess top that experience. Maybe because that was the last time I ever cleaned the bathroom at work. After that experience, I immediately went to the service desk and told my boss that that's the last time I deal with a stranger's shit. I had been around long enough and had paid my dues by cleaning up more than my fair share of poop. It was time for some of the newbies to join in on the fun.

And that's what happened. There have been a few smaller-scale occurrences in that bathroom, and the other coworkers always now come to me to explain the proper technique to clean them up. That means that my tale has been passed down from bagger to bagger, and is now one of those store legends that people probably think is a lie at first -- until they are faced with a similar situation.

Moral of the story: if you shit yourself in a public bathroom, don't try to flush your underwear. It won't go down. So save everyone else the trouble and the emotional scars, and just throw the shorts in the garbage.

Toilet twinning brings bogs to Burundi

2009-07-03T11:15:47-04:00

A novel idea has brought much-needed relief for Burundi refugees returning to their home province of Rutana after years of exile in Tanzania.

Over the past eighteen months, 870 pit latrines -- that is, basic but functional and sanitary outdoor toilets -- have been erected in this remote part of Africa. It's all thanks to the charity CORD, which came up with the idea of "twinning" toilets in the affluent west with those being built in Burundi.

Here's how it works: for around $100 donation to the charity, you can have your own personal porcelain throne twinned with a specific outhouse deep in the bush. Its exact location can be even tracked down with Google Maps, so you can keep up with their progress and use.

One of the first toilet twinners, the Bishop of Coventry, invited the press around to his house to inspect his crapper and a photo of its twin in Rutana. "It's a bog standard idea with a great message," he said, "Forty percent of the world's population don't have access to a toilet and it's hard to imagine what that's like."

It sounds a good idea. There must be many people now who have a blown-up photo of a remote African dunny proudly hung on the wall above their commodes.

Mountain Dew: The Return Of The Blue Poo

2009-07-02T10:55:32-04:00

When I was merely a toddler, I had my first sip of Mountain Dew on a warm summer day, deep in the country of southern West Virginia. A lot has changed since then: where I live, how I live... you know, life changes. But my love of Mountain Dew remains.

The popular beverage has cranked out several versions of Mountain Dew with much success. Code Red still remains a popular alternative to regular Mountain Dew. Livewire is still a recent soda that fans swear by. Pitch Black I and II were short-lived summer beverages that rocked my tongue but didn't catch on enough to stay for good. And who could forget the stunt they pulled running three new types of Mountain Dew for a few months last year? Who else could have done such a thing and make it work so well? I mean, it was called "Dewmocracy," for God's sake!

Recently, Mountain Dew has released two new flavors promoting World of Warcraft. Of their names, I am unaware. I guess know the red/orange one is called Game Fuel and was once released before. The blue one, which could also share the same name for all I know, is the one that has captured my taste buds. It is absolutely delicious. When I drink it, my eyes flood with tears and my stomach leaps with approval. I can't help but smile upon sipping my favorite new drink.

Unfortunately, there is a visual downside to the new soda. This siren of a beverage lures you in with its blend of fruit punch, ginseng, and the aftertaste of the good 'ol Mountain Dew -- only to have a significant effect on your poop.

I had this drink for the first time about a month ago. I had one for my first break and then another on my lunch. Almost instantly I noticed that my poop had turned blue-green. I started to think back at what I had eaten and concluded that nothing could have done that. I recalled my liquid intake and knew I had had no Kool-Aid (I'd once had a very blue poop experience after an incident with blue Kool-Aid). Then I had that AH-HA! moment. The Mountain Dew.

But I didn't know who to ask. At that point, no one I knew had tried the new soda and I had no certainty that the blue-green poop was a direct result of the new Mountain Dew.

So I continued to try my new favorite beverage and my poop continued to be blue-green.

When my wife and I later went up to her mother's house, I saw that her little sister was enjoying can after can of the new blue Mountain Dew. Of course, I had my share of the soda that night, as did my wife. So I waited until tomorrow to see what would happen.

Sure enough, my wife freaked out on the can, worried about her green shit. I knew immediately that it had to be the Mountain Dew.

So I've since then severely limited my intake of this new soda. I'm not sure if the soda does anything else to you, but I don't think it's good if you drink something and it comes out of you in a similar color. What are we getting out of it?

But should you want blue-green poop, jut down a bottle or two of this new blue Mountain Dew and enjoy!

You're in a public stall and someone else drops a load that has the industrial powder coated stall dividers peeling. You:

2009-07-01T14:41:17-04:00

ASSCAR!

2009-07-01T10:57:51-04:00

My name is Chris, and I have been diagnosed with Crohn's Disease since about 1992. One of my passions is playing with cars -- and, particularly, racing them. Another thing I do, it just so happens, is poop often. To cut to the point, several of my friends and I are going to participate in an upcoming endurance race called 24 Hours of Lemons. The race is a particularly tongue-in-cheek -- a fun but grueling event.

A portion of our entry application is a team name and explanation of why we should be included in the event. I would like to make an entry that is meant to raise awareness of Crohn's Disease, Colitis, and IBD. With permission, I would like to use PoopReport as a point of interest of our entry.

The event is typically pretty rowdy and fun. I would like to use it as a lighthearted platform for the cause. We would solicit donations to the Crohn's and Colitis Foundation of America, but I think primarily it would just be some good advertising for the Foundation (and your website, if you want it).

I am not asking for any kind of sponsorship financially (although we would definitely take it if offered :-). I would just like to see if you would lend us your permission to use the PoopReport name and likeness for our car entry. I would also probably borrow some tidbits of funny stuff from the website.

We will be racing in the event even if it we don't deck it out in "Got Guts?" regalia. Funny and imaginative car decorations are encouraged, and I just thought it would be an easy way for us to do something charitable with our entry.

The event we will likely race in is at Carolina Motorsports Park, in Kershaw, South Carolina, September 12-13, 2009.

I look forward to your comments or suggestions!

Editor's note: Naturally, I think this is a great idea. I wrote back to Chris and offered to send him a handful of PoopReport schwag. I also asked him if there's anything we PoopReporters can do to help. Here is his response.

Dave,

That sounds great. I will be in touch. Stickers and graphics will be very useful.

I would love it if the PoopReport community could help me with a witty description of why we should be in the event.

I will have a website up eventually at Number2racing.com!

The Stall That Dumped Back

2009-06-30T10:14:23-04:00

Several years back, I worked for a large computer company that shall remain nameless. A year after I moved to my current city, the company moved from some old leased office space to a brand new high rise, one that it would abandon a few years later in one of many dumb moves that were to come for this company. There happened to be one toilet in the men's room that was notorious for backing up -- so much so that you didn't use it unless you had to, or you didn't know any different.

My first experience with this toilet required me to do the old pull-up-your-pants-and-hope-you-don't-get-shit-on-your-underwear-while-you-go-to-another-stall routine. My friend... wasn't so lucky.

This guy was the sort who had no issues with telling embarrassing stories. One day, he told me, he entered the stall from Hell and sat down and did his normal business. As often happened with this cursed toilet, when he did his courtesy flush it backed up -- but he wasn't aware of it, because he was reading. Soon after the flush, he suddenly felt, as he put it, "something cold on my ass." He looked down in horror as, as he put it, "the logs started spilling out of the bowl into my pants."

He was stuck on an overflowing toilet with pants full of shit and shitty paper.

I asked him what he did.

"I didn't know what to do at first. I realized that the only thing I could do was pull up my pants and get out of the office as soon as possible.

"I lifted up my legs and shook the logs out onto the floor. When I got all out that I could, I pulled up my pants and made a beeline to the door. I was planning on simply leaving, going home, changing, and explaining later. But as I was going out the door I met my manager coming in, and I was forced to explain not only what had happened and why I was leaving, but endure his looks at the floor of the stall where I had dumped my logs.

"I never used that toilet again."

Pho Whom The Bell Tolls

2009-06-29T09:56:06-04:00

I had transferred from my first ship to an advanced electronics school in San Diego. I was living in the barracks on the first deck right across from the head. Since I was a fleet returnee, I was able to get a room with only one roommate, a guy who was rarely there. In essence, I had the room to myself.

At that point in my life I was a single sailor out to see the world; but since I was temporarily unable to actually visit a foreign country, I tried to at least date someone from a far-off land. At the time, I was working my way through Indochina. I'd already dated a Vietnamese lady and had acquired a taste for Vietnamese food, particularly pho, which is a beef/rice noodle soup usually spiced up pretty hot. The rule for pho was if you didn't have to wipe your forehead and blow your nose while eating it, you weren't doing it right. I'd eaten pho a bunch of times with no distress, even as spicy as it was. My twenty-one-year-old colon was in peak condition, able to withstand whatever I tossed at it (except for a bout of Samagoo Squirts in P.I., that is). That being said, I wasn't dating Vietnamese anymore; I'd taken a cue from Tricky Dick and snuck across the border to Laos.

The girl I was seeing was nice and we enjoyed each other's company. I enjoyed meeting her family and hearing about their country. I also enjoyed the food. I ate all kinds of Laotian food and loved it all, no matter how spicy. The hotter, the better.

Then the girl learned I liked pho. She invited me to her home and said she was going to fix me the Laotian version of pho, promising I would forget all about the Vietnamese version. Oh, if I only knew what I soon faced, because, Dear Reader, I haven't -- nor will I ever -- forget.

I ate with her and her family. We all had the same food. The soup was delicious and as good or better to the pho I'd had. In modern terms, I'd compare it to a 2 Live Crew song -- as nasty as it wanted to be. Hot, spicy, with meatballs made from ground critter of some type, it was just good. I ate it all up and licked the bowl.

Got back to the barracks, hit the rack about eleven, no trouble noted, no indication whatsoever that my own personal Day That Will Live In Infamy was but a couple of hours away.

0300: I awoke in a panic. I did not wake up and gradually feel the need to go -- I was unconscious one second and running for my life the next. I shot out of my rack, opened the door, crossed the hallway, and ran into the head and straight to the first shitter in the line. I was just able to get my skivvies down before Mount Shitsuvius erupted.

As the first attack wave hit the beach, I knew this battle would be epic. I sensed right away the presence of chemical weapons in my poo-goo, because my brown eye burned like Dante's inferno.

The duration of poo-goo shooting out my poo-flue was inconsequential; the problem was the incendiary chemical agent now coating my brown eye rendered my tender touch-hole into an eternal flame of non-stop burning agony. It burned so bad I couldn't help but moan as I gritted my teeth. I did NOT want to attract undo attention (translation: any attention at all), but my ring of fire burned so intensely that I was moaning louder and louder, totally against my fast-fading will.

I don't remember how long the Mount Shitsuvius eruption lasted; what I do remember is that when the flow stopped, my asshole burned just as bad, if not worse, than it did when the first flow of molten poo-goo lava spewed.

The barracks had a firewatch -- that is, a junior sailor whose job is to patrol the barracks and keep them from burning down. The firewatch on duty in my barracks had heard my SOS moan and was now outside the line of shitters listening to my fire rage uncontrollably. He asked if I was okay. Hell no, I wasn't okay, but I couldn't do anything but moan a few syllables of blather. I wiped (no help, no friggin' help at all) and burst out of my stall.

I must have startled him because all he could say was, "Shit, man, what died in you?"

I HAD to cool the raging inferno. I had to have relief and I had to have it RIGHT THEN. I ran into the showers to the first shower valve I saw and turned the cold water on full stream.

The shower was your standard fifteen-man open shower unit: no curtains, no stalls, just a big room with fifteen showerheads, some soap holders, and a drain in the middle. I didn't care a whit at this point: I broke myself open like a shotgun and pointed my burning breech of a touchhole to the nozzle and spread my cheeks with both hands.

The size of the shower room produced a decent pitch of echo, decent enough to amplify my moans of pain and attract the firewatch from the barracks next door. Now I had two firewatches standing there witnessing my most intense pain and embarrassment. Could it get any worse?

The burning sensation let up, but just enough for me to lower my moaning volume. I had to get the resins/oils/whatever that incendiary chemical was on my asshole off my asshole, and quickly.

I looked at the soap holder in the shower -- nobody had left a bar of soap. Damn! Shit, man, I was desperate! Screw it: spying some soap goo left over in one of the soap holders, I used my fingernails to scrape a wad and smear it over my burning battlefield. I mixed the soap wad with the shower water and made a lather that, thankfully, began to sooth my aching, burning beast bung.

My moans began to decrease in volume and I was able to calm myself a bit in order to take stock and formulate a shitrep. My skivvies were still in the stall where I'd abandoned them (no chemical agents released therein), my t-shirt was soaked as I was in way too much pain to remove it before I broke open my breech to the nozzle stream, and I had these two asshole firewatches staring at me with blank looks, resembling a herd of cows staring at a passing train. I looked at them and quite calmly -- and rightfully, I might add -- asked then both to use a little discretion and keep the last half hour's events a discrete memory.

Thing One kid asks me, "You mean, you don't want us to tell anybody about what just happened, right?"

"Yeah," I replied. "That's about the gist of discretion and all that."

Thing Two asshole didn't miss a beat. "Fuck that, dude," he shot back. "That shit was way too funny! I'm tellin' everybody!"

I hope his next ship sinks under him.

When Mom Was There For Me

2009-06-26T10:00:54-04:00

I was always on the Shameful side, ever since I could remember. Around the time I was fourteen, I developed Irritable Bowel Syndrome. Combined with my shame, it was a difficult battle. Whenever I was heading into the car for an extended trip or heading out to spend a day with friends, I'd rarely eat beforehand. If I had to, it was the smallest bit imaginable. Fortunately, I never embarrassed myself. This story is about one close call.

My oldest brother lives about an hour from the house where I live with my parents. My sister, mother, brother, and myself all piled into the car for the drive out. As usual, I didn't eat beforehand and loaded up on my prescribed pills, just in case.

The ride out was smooth. I had my mp3 player blasting and quietly drifted in and out of consciousness. Upon arriving, I still attempted to avoid eating, but eventually I gave in and finally ate extremely plain, boring, and bland things.

I was doing well. When it came time to leave, we piled into the car once again for the drive home. I sat with my mp3 again, relaxing. I suppose around the halfway mark, I let my guard down.

I was listening to a cover of Blue Oyster Cult's Don't Fear The Reaper when the initial rumblings began. I instantly began to calm myself down, figuring it was just some nerves. The song should have been called Don't Fear the Crapper; then it may have provided some sort of comfort. Soon enough, I got that sort of split-second pop feeling, and my stomach began pounding. It felt like Mike Tyson was preparing for a fight on my colon, a jump-rope contest utilizing my intestines, boy scouts earning their knot-tying merit badges with my stomach.

I was ready to panic. I waited as long as possible before notifying my mother. She had no idea where I could go, but luckily, we were in an area my sister regularly passed through en route to work. She pulled over at a place where she used to get lunch, and I hurried out, taking off into the store with a strange sort of dance that only colon rush-hour could create, my mom following swiftly after. Thankfully, the bathroom was vacant and I hurried in and relieved myself.

I wish I could remember some of the more intricate details (I know we all love them), but I must have blocked them out. It wasn't particularly messy, thankfully. When I had finally finished and cleaned up, the smell was enough to gag a maggot.

As I was about to flush, I looked down and noticed that someone had dropped a can of spray or disinfectant into the toilet before I had gotten in there. In my frantic action, I didn't notice as I hastily had gotten down to business. The aerosol can was now buried under a small mountain. I flushed, but of course, it clogged on the can. Cursing, I looked around for something to at least spray to dim the scent of Satan. Rifling through the cabinet and closet, I finally procured a spray can of air freshener and held the button on it for a good fifteen seconds. I turned to leave, saying a prayer to myself for the poor soul who had to retrieve that aerosol can. I opened the door, and my mother looked at me concerned.

"Let's go," I grimaced through tight lips. We quickly moved out and got in the car and pulled away."

There was a line forming," she informed me. "But I told them you were sick and would be a while, and they went back to sit down." I said a prayer of thanks this time, glad I didn't have to take that walk of shame.

The Old Man And The See

2009-06-25T12:14:15-04:00

When I was a small child, I was a Shameful Shitter of the highest order. I simply hated to take a shit. I would actually hold it in until I couldn't hold it any more (can you say "anal retentive"?) While I don't remember much of my childhood, I do remember that aspect, its impact on others, and one very strange incident with an old man outside a restaurant.

I don't believe my mother actually knew how to deal with my shitting issues. I think I really hated to get dirty. I knew that dry paper just didn't work to actually "clean" you and I didn't want to have skidmarks in my white briefs. So, unless it was absolutely necessary, I didn't shit.

When I was forced to take a shit, there was the cleaning problem. Until somewhere, sometime, someone handed me a wet washcloth and I cleaned my ass with it. Yep, I generated a really shitty, smelly washcloth each time I took a shit. I vaguely remember knowing this wasn't right and actually hiding a nasty cloth behind the toilet once.

I remember one day realizing that there was water in the bowl beneath me and that if I dry-wiped and got as clean as I could and then flushed the offending matter away, I was left with a bowl of clean water, which I could use to wet the toilet tissue. What a relief! No more shame and shitty washcloths! From that point on, I have, to this day, used the dry/wet wipe method, and can proudly say that I NEVER had to deal with skidmarks in my underwear. My wife has never seen skidmarks in my shorts. Gone was my fear of shitting!

But, before that glorious moment, there was one incident that I remember to this day.

I know I must have been six or seven at the time because I was dressed for school. My mother worked as a waitress in a small diner in our small town. I often ate at the diner early before being taken to school. This ominous morning, I had my breakfast and then started feeling the urge to shit. I was away from home and didn't have any way of cleaning myself as this was before the dry/wet revelation I described above. I was in a panic because this shit seemed much different than normal. There was a lot of pressure.

I remember asking my mother to take me home and must have gotten some sort of brush-off, which was normal, as I was a horrible kid. I went outside and found myself with the herculean task of trying to hold it in. I wasn't winning the battle, and I knew it.

To make matters worse, there was an old man -- he must have been at least seventy-five -- who was trying to talk to me. I was standing with my back to the side of the restaurant facing the little service station next door. What with the heat, the pressure, and having to try to talk to an old man, I lost the battle and filled my shorts with some of the foulest, runniest shit known to me at the time. So much so that shit started oozing out of my briefs and down my leg, out the leg of my little boy shorts.

I was mortified, but still talking to the old man with shit running down my leg.

He knew something was wrong but must have been so old that he didn't know exactly what it was. He did notice the shit of my leg after a while, but must not have figured out what it was or smelled it because the next thing I knew, he was offering me his handkerchief to wipe my leg.

At this point my child brain must have overloaded with the shame and the guilt of having shat myself in front of someone I probably knew in a public place. I am pretty sure that I didn't accept the offer of the handkerchief, but I remember nothing else about the day. I do know that I can't remember any other incident of this sort in my childhood.

Thankfully, I must have discovered the dry/wet method soon after this incident. I suspect that my mother beat the crap out of me (no pun intended), which actually forced the discovery. It wasn't the last time I shat myself, but it was the last time I did it because I was purposefully holding it in.

I am now very much a Shameless Shitter. I can go anywhere there is a normal toilet and make as much noise and smell as necessary. Although port-a-lets are a different story.

What do you think would happen if lightning struck right outside your butthole at the same time you rip a big fart?

2009-06-24T16:53:12-04:00

The Untimely Jam

2009-06-24T09:35:47-04:00

When I was maybe sixteen or seventeen, the family had taken the obligatory summer day trip to the amusement park. The drive home was a butt-numbing three hours with very little to look at, and it was getting late. After the first hour-long leg of the journey, we stopped for dinner. Big steak, plenty of greasy onion rings, salad, soup, brownies, the works. I had that wonderful food coma feeling -- which, sadly, wouldn't last long.

The time came to get in the car and go stir-crazy for two more hours, so I stopped in the bathroom (my philosophy: ya never know when the next bathroom's gonna be available). Though I felt a bit of company knocking at the back door, it was not enough to bother. I figured I could hold it until we got home.

WHY?!?!

We got on the road, and shortly everyone but my dad and myself were sound asleep. The highway didn't seem too crowded for about twenty or thirty minutes, but then WHAM! Every car in Pennsylvania and New Jersey must've been parked on that highway, and we were at the end farthest away from the motherland.

We crawled a bit, then stopped, then crawled a bit, and then stopped. And then the steak baby in my belly started kicking a little, then wiggling, and then stopping for a brief moment before starting up again. After about an hour of creeping down the highway, we discovered that it was construction being done on three of the four lanes, and that people don't understand how to merge into one lane.

Before we had even reached the merging point, I started having those electric shock cramps in the undercarriage, and was in a cold sweat. I kept trying to fall asleep, thinking maybe I could ignore the pain and wake up back home and this hell would be over! Bu, my efforts were wasted. Every stabbing pain made me skooch and gave me goosebumps.

Finally, we got into the one moving lane, and were going pretty quickly past the construction as I silently cursed the Department of Transportation. Once we were past the construction the traffic cleared, and we were going at a much faster (and much happier) speed. Just then, the realization hit me: we had been in the car for well over two hours, but we still had more than an hour left to go, and I was wishing for an epidural or a mallet to the skull.

I kept myself together. Basically. Every five minutes, I'd clench my teeth, struggle to breathe around the behemoth in my belly, dig my nails into the seat, and change my position to keep the dinner log in.

After an eternity of doing this dance, I felt a ripping pain where God split me, and yelped. I was going into labor much earlier than I'd hoped. I started shouting at my dad, who was a little hard of hearing, "Dad, pull over!"

"What?"

"PULL OVER!"

"Why?"

"I need to go to the bathroom!"

"What?"

"BATH-ROOM!!!!!"

At this point, he and I looked at the side of the road and both realized that pulling over was not an option. The road had no shoulder -- instead, concrete walls lined either side.

He told me to hold it. Easy for him to say.

For the first and only time in my life, I began to hyperventilate. A combination of pain, panic, and a horrible realization that my father had just passed our exit.

"DAD! Where are you going?!?!"

"The next exit gets us there, too. Just calm down."

It was true, the next exit did get us there, but by the time we reached home I was in tears and had bent the cross I was wearing -- squeezing metal made me feel slightly better than squeezing the seat.

We pulled into the driveway and the whole family was awake, eagerly watching my normally quiet and cheerful self become this raging, angry, ready-to-kill beast. We hadn't even stopped in the driveway and I was out the door, waddling like I was being chased. The garage was opening very slowly that night, and while I was shuffling towards the slowly-opening door, I heard my father laughing. I flew through the house and dove into the bathroom. Door was locked, pants were down, butt was on the seat, and the delivery began in one fell swoop.

There really was no pushing or struggling involved. The only trick was that I had to keep from being propelled off the porcelain bus by the tremendous force. A deuce of biblical proportions, only to be followed by the River Jordan.

I stayed on that porcelain piece of heaven for a good half hour, just to be sure, and gingerly cleaned up while laughing like a crazed serial killer. I emerged from that bathroom limping, smiling, proud, relieved, and hungry again. Overall, a worrying experience, not to ever be re-attempted.

Ask PoopReport: The Dark Urine Death Watch?

2009-06-23T05:28:58-04:00

Dear PoopReport,

I am a huge alcoholic. When I am drinking, my urine is generally clear. However, when I am not drinking, it is extremely dark and stinky, and it has an even darker oily substance within the urine that I can watch settle onto the bottom of the bowl.

Is this something caused by cirrhosis of the liver? Am I going to die soon? Just wondering...