PoopReport.com

Reveille

2008-07-25T06:52:22-04:00

I guess now that our family matriarch has passed, I can let fly a sort-of family secret. My grandma, who was one of the funniest people I have known, was a tough, non-filtered Camel-smoking, Jack Daniels-swilling piece of work. She was on her second husband -- and my favorite grandparent -- Frenchy, who lost his leg in WW I. (I will explain later why I was not his favorite grandson.) My first taste of Gram's sense of humor happened when I was about seven or eight years old.

Every year in the late spring, my dad would reinstall their air conditioner (the snow in Wisconsin would ruin it if was left in all year). We got started early morning. Our family had keys to each others' homes, like most families did back then, I suspect, and my dad let me in to go wake them up. He did not tell me to sneak in and scare the last breath out of them; but I was a hyperactive, Ritalin-taking kid who had a propensity to screw up simple directions.

I crept down their hallway and snuck into their bedroom. They slept in separate beds like Lucille Ball and that conga player. On my hands and knees, I crept in between them, wishing that I had a Halloween mask of Satan or a skull to wear. (I thank God now that I didn't.) When I was positioned right between them, I sprang my version of reveille on them. I screamed, "Time to get up!!! Good morning!!!" at the top of my lungs and pounded on their beds. (Probably not -- I don't remember exactly what I yelled, but you get the idea.) I imagine the last second of what ever they were dreaming about took place at the gates of hell.

The chaos that ensued is family lore and probably unbelievable to a normal person with intact relatives.

A split-second after my initial attack, my generally short-of-breath Gram was standing on the corner of her bed, two hands clutching a porcelain statue of Jesus over her head, screaming "Frenchy!!!" to wake him, ready to crush my skull. Immediately I figured out I had done a really dumb thing, but Gram gratefully seemed to recognize me through the early morning haze and spared my life. Not quite so with Frenchy.

My feeble Gramps turned into a leopard -- he was screaming at the top his lungs, using words that I had only heard from my Pops and his buds on his just-the-guys vacation up north. "Mother fucker!!! Police!! Hold on, baby!!!!" (Again, speculation -- I was only seven.)

At the time I did not know about it, but I understand now what phantom pain is. When someone feels pain in a limb that is no longer there. Well, Frenchy was phantomly trying to kick my ass with a leg that was no longer there. His stump was jumping up and down and in the confusion his missing limb slipped both our minds.

My Dad came running into the room with his did-you-take-your-pill-Whitey? look on his face. ("Whitey" is my family nickname.) As he gradually restored order, the chaos and fear subsided and turned to general anger. My Gram grabbed me and hugged me like she was trying to smother me, whispering in my ear, "What the hell is wrong with you, honey? You nearly scared us to death!"

I was now crying and probably more scared than they were, but I couldn't take my eyes off of my Gramps' stump -- it was sticking out of his boxers and at the end of it there was a belly button-kind of hole where the bone had apparently been. I sobbingly whispered back to my Gram, "Is that Grandpa's FLIGGER??" (Our family name for penis.) I normally would not have asked such a question, but it was so big it had me mesmerized.

My Grams started laughing at the top of her lungs, like she just heard the funniest joke in the world. Gramps, who was slowly gaining his mind back, asked my grandma what the hell is so god-damned funny. Without hesitation, my Gram, still laughing, in a loud voice, said, "Whitey thinks your stump is your COCK!"

"Mom!" my dad yelled, before Grams could unload all the synonyms she had for penis. He was trying to be a protective parent, but he too burst out laughing. Gramps looked at me and shook his head like he was thinking, "They could have adopted." He started laughing, too, and then lifted his leg up in the air like he got a boner. At the time I didn't get any of this, except for the cock thing, when my Grams said, "Oh Jesus, Frenchy, you put a mess in your drawers!" My dad grabbed my collar and yanked me out of their bedroom and into the kitchen. "Go out and sit on the porch and don't you move a goddamn muscle!!"

I could hear everyone except Grandpa Frenchy laughing inside as I waited on the porch. Still kind of sniveling, I couldn't quite understand what was happening; but I knew that this kind of shit always happened to me. I could turn a simple thing like waking somebody up into a spanking or being grounded for two weeks. Literally scaring the shit out of Gramps would probably get me both, or worse.

As it turned out, my punishment didn't cost any ass skin, but I ended up having to do their yard work for two months. I hated doing their yard because they had one of those engineless, spinning two-wheeled fucking mowers that you needed a mule to push around. Being seven or eight years old did not help, either, especially knowing that Gramps had a riding mower parked in the garage. I think the rusty piece of shit was saved just for my ADHD ass.

I had to mow once a week and Gramps would sit on the porch supervising every move I made. Not sure if it was the squeaking of the shitty mower or what, but every time I wheeled past the porch I thought I heard, "...little bastard."

You Go Girls

2008-07-24T08:19:20-04:00

I just deleted this gem that someone tried to post on PoopReport as a comment. Someone is looking for new talent. But sorry guys... ladies only.

Of course, given the current strength of the euro to the dollar, I might shave my ass and put on a long wig. Anyone got some bran muffins?

==============

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Stanley Cup's notorious history now includes the brownest of pucks

2008-07-24T06:47:37-04:00

When Kris Draper got his turn to keep the Stanley Cup this summer, the Detroit Red Wing center never thought that his contributing story to the cup's notorious history would include poop. However, his infant daughter had other plans. Baby Kamryn decided to make her own statement when her father put her in the cup: she had a bowel movement in it.

"A week after we won it, I had my newborn daughter in there and she pooped in the Cup," Draper said in a Detroit Free Press story this week. "That was something. We had a pretty good laugh. I still drank out of that night, so no worries." No worries? I hope he uses Anti-bacterial Palmolive!

I would be interested to know how the teammates who haven't yet had a chance to host the Cup will now feel about taking their own turns drinking champagne out of it.

Fish Food

2008-07-23T11:03:58-04:00

Editor's note: this was originally published on the author's blog.

I was in the middle of a week of vacation and this girl was increasingly into me. We make plans to go to the beach at night to watch fireworks and I can tell minutes in she wants to sit on my boystick that night. The more it becomes apparent she wants to do the no-pants dance, the more I realize I have to grow tail.

So, after the fireworks, she invites me to her place -- which sounds great, but I need to lay cable. And I'm not rocking her tiny motel room toilet with corndogs and Chinese food right before poking her. So I told her that I wanted to go swimming first. I didn't expect her to follow me. I should have seen it coming. She thought it was romantic. And, that's what happened. I shat standing up in the Caribbean Ocean while flirting and hugging a naked hot girl.

The funny thing about pooping in the ocean is that crap floats. I could feel the turds tugging up when they were still attached; and every time I cut free a candy bar, it floated to the surface. I would lean forward in the hopes I wouldn't feel a fecal torpedo scrape up my back. This is when I would push her or tackle her out to sea. I was herding her against the current of my fleet of food canoes.

I used the salt as an excuse to shower, to which she joined me. From that point on the vacation was a haze of room service, candlelight, me putting things in fantastic places.

Ask PoopReport: Why So Smearious?

2008-07-22T08:56:39-04:00

Dear PoopReport,

Why is it poo sticks to the bowl even in water?

Your dog has just taken a big dump on someone else's yard, and your bag has a hole in it. What do you do?

2008-07-22T08:58:09-04:00

involuntary anus contractions

2008-07-21T14:03:19-04:00

William S Asks:

Dear Motherload,

I'm 19. I have IBS, although I'm not sure if it matters in my situation.

For most of my life, when I get stressed or I go for runs or work out (in other words, when adrenaline gets in my system), I feel like pushing out... nothing. It is so incredibly uncomfortable and sometimes it feels like I want to push out my rectum itself! It isn't painful, but I'm constantly wanting to stop what I'm doing and push out the weird feeling I have. It really does cause problems with my life if I want to work out and such. It feels like something is there, but I just don't know what. "Involuntary anus contractions" is the only way I can think to describe it, induced by adrenaline.

I'm not sure what it is and I'm really embarrassed about it, so I don't know who to go to. If I need to see a doctor, I will; I just want to know my options.

Dear William S,

I am just now realizing how important it is for doctors to get a good history on a patient in order to make a correct diagnosis. Left as it is, I don't have enough information from you to make an informed decision as to what I think is going on with your ass, so I will just just take some blind guesses, if that's alright. I'm sure you won't mind, since, after all, I am NOT a doctor anyway. So, here goes.

One possibility is that you could be experiencing the beginnings of a prolapsed rectum. The early symptoms of this condition include the feeling of having full bowels and an urgent need to have a bowel movement and the feeling of not being able to empty the bowels completely.

I doubt that is the case with you though since you are a nineteen year old male because according to the folks at eMedicneHealth, "rectal prolapse is an uncommon disease and primarily affects elderly people. The disease is rare among children. Affected children are usually younger than 3 years. Men develop rectal prolapse much less frequently than women do (80-90%). In the United States, 0.42% of the overall population have rectal prolapse. In people older than 65 years, the prevalence is 1%."

Another possibility is that you could have polyps or other mass inside your rectum that gives you the sensation of needing to push out a bowel movement when none is really there. This could be life-threatening, since cancer is always a possibility when masses in the rectum/colon are an issue.

Again, not knowing your complete history makes it impossible to rule out something like a childhood traumatic event--such as severe constipation--causing you to react to pooping with an adrenaline rush that may now be linked in your brain to feeling the pushing sensation. Hard to say. You very well could be having a Pavlovian response associating the release of adrenaline in your body with the need to immediately rid your body of something causing it discomfort, even if there is really nothing there.

I first recommend that you see a regular doctor. They will be able to determine after a proper history and physical whether or not there is a problem, and if so, what needs to happen from there. The general practitioner may be able to fix you right up, or may refer you to a specialist, whether it be a gastroenterologist or psychiatrist. Good luck to you!

Thanks for asking Motherload!

Motherload is a Certified Nurse Assistant as well as an IBS sufferer, which means she knows a lot about poop. Got a question for her? Ask it here.

The Secret Society Of The Shart

2008-07-21T08:20:09-04:00

(Editor's note: this was originally posted on the author's blog.)

It happened on Saturday morning. I was driving to Glendale to pick up my mother-in-law's birds. (Don't ask.) The night before, I went to see Lez Zeppelin at The Bluebird. When you're watching four lesbians cover Misty Mountain Hop, you gotta drink.

So I drank, and then I drank some more. At the end of the night, I got that urge that only a drunken Jew in Denver could have at three in the morning: I wanted a beef, egg, and chicharon burrito from Chubby's. It's the perfect combination of pig fat, grizzle, cholesterol, and jalapeno peppers. And it tastes oh-so-good.

After finishing my gastronomic nightmare, I went to bed. The next day, in my car for the bird pick-up, I noticed a familiar grumbling in my belly. In the past, this grumbling had signaled that I had to release some gas. Subsequently, I did what I had always done in that situation: I tightened my stomach muscles, relaxed my sphincter, and flatulated. Unfortunately, this was no normal flatulence. It was one with a partner -- a very determined, wet, smelly partner.

I'd sharted.

As defined by Urban Dictionary, a shart is "a small, unintended defecation that occurs when one passes gas (blend of 'shit' and 'fart')". It's also known as "foop" or "gambling and losing" or "gas followed by mass" or "shitting yourself."

Obviously, I wasn't prepared for this surprise. I knew I had to fix it before I picked up the birds. I couldn't face my mother-in-law literally smelling like shit. Plus, I didn't want to stain my car's interior. So I pulled over at the first McDonald's I saw.

Anonymously zipping past the masses waiting for their McGriddles and Egg McMuffins, I ran to the bathroom. Unfortunately, when I got there, the one stall with a door was occupied by a man teaching his son how to poop. (Which my father probably should have done.) I banged on the door and the father told me to wait. When I frantically told him I couldn't, the son started crying. The father yelled at me. Soon, the manager appeared. At risk of spending more time soaking in my own feces, I jetted before the cops came.

Back in the car, it was like a sewage treatment plant. I made my way to a Taco Bell -- with the food they sell there, they were undoubtedly prepared for this kind of incident. I went into the handicapped stall so I would have enough space get the job done right. I first removed my shorts, set my underwear aside, and began wiping like the wind (front to back, of course). For fear of somebody seeing me bottomless at Taco Bell, I used the water in the toilet for a makeshift sponge bath. Then, I was somewhat clean. Unfortunately, my shorts and underwear were not.

I considered stretching my shirt into a very short dress. I considered making a toga-type sarong out of toilet paper. I considered bribing a Taco Bell staffer for her pants. Ultimately, though, I decided to wear my shorts sans underwear. I did love those boxers, however, so I rolled them up, shit side in, and walked out. Nothing is worse than walking out of Taco Bell and facing those nice taco lovers with your shit-covered underwear in your hands.

Eventually I made it to my mother-in-law's. She had no idea of the hell that I had been through and I wasn't about to blow her image of me as a man who can control his bowels, so I quietly got the birds and headed back to my house.

After showering vigorously with seven kinds of soap, all remnants of my fooping fiasco had been washed away. I put on new shorts and underwear (although I probably should have put on diapers or at least Depends). Quickly, I realized that whatever caused the initial shart wasn't quite finished with me yet. For the rest of the day, which seemed to be packed with wild and wonderful activities, I had anal leakage, also known as fecal incontinence.

I went to see my buddy's band, Rocky Mountain Jewgrass (yes, it's a Jewish Bluegrass band) play at an outdoor festival. In one-hundred-degree weather, my balloon knot kept dripping. To the sounds of country versions of Shalom Aleichem and Dayenu, I ran to and from the porta-potty in order to wipe. Alas, all the wiping and the heat baking my wet anus had some horrible ramifications.

I got taint chafe.

As defined by Wikipedia, the term "taint" refers to "the perineum, the region of the human body between the testicles or vulva and the anus." Well, my perineum was swollen, burning, raw, and irritated. I wanted to go home, shower again, and put this day of soft stool sickness behind me.

Unfortunately, my wife had other plans for me. She had an engagement party AND a birthday party that we HAD to attend. As time passed, my taint was so chafed that it felt like I had gotten a battery acid enema. At the engagement party, I walked around like a duck, trying to keep my legs, ass cheeks, and balls from rubbing anywhere near my anal region. At the birthday party, I couldn't even stand. I just sat there trying to drink the pain away.

As I grew drunker, I began to tell everybody about my plight. It turned out that nearly every person I spoke to, both male and female, had been in my situation at one point or another in their lives. They just never spoke about it. It was as if there was some heavily guarded Secret of the Shart.

Throughout the night, I heard fantastic tales of wet sensations, soaked skirts, and sock drips. I heard from a fundraiser who once sharted on a hike. I heard from a crime reporter who once sharted during sex. I heard from a chiropractor who once sharted on a patient. I learned that married people are more likely to discuss sharting than single people. I learned that pregnant woman uncontrollably shart without even knowing it. I learned that the older you are, the more likely you are to shart.

It suddenly occurred to me: sharting is what unites us as humans.

We could be Republicans or Democrats or Muslims or Jews or Gays or Straights. But we all have been in the horrible situation where our gastrointestinal functions got the most of us. Why do we allow ourselves to be divided by beliefs or backgrounds or orientations when we should be united by embarrassment? I say let's come together as one -- let's come together as one and shit our pants!

Anger Pooping

2008-07-21T13:52:36-04:00

I was talking with a friend the other day about how rude and angry some people can be. I told him that I had worked in customer service for a few years and had my life threatened and asked to step outside more than a few times. My response was usually the same: I'd be very polite and then I'd inform them I can't meet them outside as I was still at work but that I would get off at six. That usually worked. Usually.

One guy walked in and started yelling as he threw his phone at me. "Blah, blah, my phone don"t work." "Blah, blah, you sold me a piece of crap." I let him go on for twenty minutes and then picked up the phone and powered it on. I told him he had to hold the power button on for two seconds, not just jab at it and then cuss a lot. He seemed embarrassed and complained how his service was so bad just to justify his tirade. He then asked to use the restroom. I showed him the way and then went back out to the floor, as we were busy that day.

About fifteen minutes later, I heard my manager yell. I ran towards the hullabaloo and saw him peering into the bathroom. Did someone slip and fall? Why wasn't he helping? I looked in the bathroom and saw a huge, steaming turd in the middle of floor. What maniac would do this? Did someone miss the potty by five feet?

No, this was a revenge turd.

I was angry and disgusted -- and, dare I say, impressed. This guy was so mad that he summoned this demon from the netherworld and crouched in the middle of the room to let loose. He then walked out of the front door as if nothing happened. I can't imagine being so mad that I would just make #2 on the floor. I think the American Psychological Association should name this psychotic behavior "Anger Pooping."

I hope that guy feels better. And that AT&T will charge him for the biohazard team that we had to hire to clean up his chocolate rage.

Seattle to close its public toilets (and why this is good for poopers everywhere)

2008-07-17T04:43:29-04:00

Shiny metal structures have popped up in cities all over the world: automatic toilets that give a user twenty minutes of privacy before the door opens, the person leaves, the door closes, and the robotic sanitation cycle begins. As I've said before, these units make so many design sacrifices to achieve the ideal of self-cleaning that they become unusable for their intended purpose: providing a convenient place to poop.

One of the first cities to adopt automatic toilets was Seattle. They spent $5 million in 2004 to build glimmering steel cylinders that turned out to be less ideal for tourists caught without a Starbucks than for people shooting up and having sex with prostitutes. (Fart Poopie provided this firsthand tour back in 2006.)

So now Seattle is closing their automatic toilets, putting the units on eBay starting at $89,000 each.

From today's New York Times: "Seattle officials say the project here failed because the toilets, which are to close on Aug. 1, were placed in neighborhoods that already had many drug users and transients." What's more, unlike other cities, Seattle law prohibit the city from recouping their costs with ads.

"'Other cities around the world seem to be able to handle toilets civilly,' said Richard McIver, a Seattle city councilman. 'But we were unable to control the street population, and without the benefit of advertising, our costs were awfully high.'

"In Seattle, problems arose almost immediately. Users left so much trash behind that the automated floor scrubbers had to be disabled, and prostitutes and drug users found privacy behind the toilets' locked doors.

"'I'm not going to lie: I used to smoke crack in there,' said one homeless woman, Veronyka Cordner, nodding toward the toilet behind Pike Place Market. 'But I won't even go inside that thing now. It's disgusting.'"

But Seattle's decision isn't a setback for the cause of public toilets. It's a step in the direction of a more appropriate technology: humans with brooms for sanitation, and passers-by with eyeballs for security. As the Times says: "Rather than automated toilets, some cities are looking for cheaper alternatives that would be cleaned by human attendants. One prototype, to be installed next month in Portland, Ore., would cost $50,000 each, compared with some $300,000 for an automated unit.

"Randy Leonard, a Portland city commissioner, helped design that toilet, which in addition has open gaps at the top and bottom of the door, a feature discouraging drug abuse, prostitution and the like."

Public toilets have to balance pooping privacy against the human inclination to do terrible things when no one is watching. The gaps in Portland's toilet doors will mean that someone might recognize your shoes, but they'll also ensure the toilets don't get abused so much that you won't want to use them at all.

Full Of Grace

2008-07-16T12:54:51-04:00

I used to work as a secretary for a church in a college town. I worked alone in the church office; most days, the pastor would only come in for a few hours. One day he wasn't scheduled to come in at all, which was good because my stomach was having some troublesome pains. It might have been the coffee, who knows; but I was about unleash something horrible, and I wasn't looking forward to it.

There is one restroom I use, just outside of the office, so I quickly ducked in. Then everything exploded, and it wouldn't stop. Luckily I had made it to the unholy throne, but I still managed to make a mess of myself and the (very) small bathroom. I cursed and stamped around while trying to clean everything, shouting stuff like, "Oh my God, what just happened?!" "Please, please, make this be the end!" "I can't believe it!" "This is just ridiculous..." You get the idea.

After about eight flushes and a lot of expletives, I walked out of the tiny bathroom to return to work, and screamed and jumped. There, standing before me, was a young man with a scared and horrified look on his face. He didn't say anything; he held out his clipboard and pen in front of him.

I couldn't believe it. The freakin' UPS man just had to walk in then to witness my "show". Who knows what he thought was going on in there?! Well, he probably DID know.

He had barely walked into the office; it was like he wasn't sure whether to get closer or bolt.

I signed for the package and he left. No words exchanged. At least, I figured, it wasn't the pastor.

Chocolate-Colored Mishap

2008-07-15T09:03:12-04:00

Weeknights in my home generally consist of watching television with my husband, and are always uneventful. This particular night I was in front of the television indulging myself in a precious bag of chocolate covered caramels that were given to me as a gift.

In the midst of my ritual of mindless weeknight television watching, I ran to the bathroom to pee. Like most nights of television watching, it was also uneventful. I did my business and was done in short order. However, upon looking into the toilet -- as I always do, regardless of what I am there for -- I discovered something which horrified and intrigued me. There, toward the back of the toilet seat where my ass crack had just sat, was a massive smearing of fresh, steamy shit.

(See my pic on LiveJournal.)

My first reaction was to yell to my husband, "WHAT THE HELL DID YOU DO!?!" Of course it HAD to be HIS crap on the toilet, because it couldn't possibly be mine. By that time, he was upstairs on a conference call, so he didn't hear me yelling at him in shock and disgust. But it was as if God himself heard me and decided to make an even bigger joke of the moment, because I just happened to itch my ass crack at that time, and I looked at my hand to find that it was also covered in shit.

How could the mysterious feces be coming from me? OH, THE HORROR!

I thought long and hard about it. Was it possible that I crapped my pants without knowing it? Perhaps it was a combination of the black-bean-and-corn mixture from Chipotle, and simultaneously losing feeling below my waist in some kind of sick karmic joke? After all, I probably deserved it for one reason or another.

After moments of horrific contemplation, I finally deduced the real culprit of the elusive dung. The epiphany only came after the unfortunate act of me placing my crap-covered fingers to my nose to discover that the shit didn't smell like shit at all.

Earlier that evening, whilst eating my coveted chocolate-covered caramels in front of the television, one must have fallen right into my crack and melted there. Sure enough, upon further investigation, I found that the caramel center intact, nestled in my asscrack. The rest of the chocolate was all over my ass and underwear and the toilet.

As if this is not enough to make this story one of my most memorable on record, it was not over.

I was so amused by this whole thing that I had to call and tell someone. What good is a story about shit if you can't share it? So I called my sister and was telling her my fantastic story. My husband finally comes downstairs and hears me in my wild laughter and breaks in, saying, "I thought you noticed that I threw that down the back of your pants!?!"

UM, NO, I didn't notice that you threw a piece of chocolate down my freaking pants, jerk.

It's funny how quickly this amusing incident turned into the source of a grudge. As a result, I've been plotting my revenge ever since; but I do not have the mental fortitude to come up with something that could even compare to his dumb ass, unbeknownst to me, throwing chocolate down my pants. If I meet this challenge with any success I will let you know.

Poo De Grace

2008-07-14T13:26:06-04:00

Editor's note: this first appeared in the forums.

While visiting my granny yesterday, I was asked if I would get Mr. Load to come over and look at her toilet in the front bathroom because it was leaking. So tonight when he got home from work, we went over there so he could check it out. After a quick examination, he determined that the innards of the tank are simply old and worn out. The gaskets are starting to crumble and the water is just seeping out under the tank or something. I just take his word for it that it's no big deal. He said that he would stop at Lowes on the way home tomorrow, pick up a new assembly, and get her fixed right up. So that's the end of that.

So we went into the living room to sit and talk with Nanny for a bit. Usually when I visit with her, it's just the two of us, and it is not uncommon -- in fact, it is quite ordinary -- for our conversations to include pooping, the lack of pooping, or some complication thereof. But since I had my other half with me tonight and the two are still quite formal with one another due to not really having had much interaction, I assumed that there would be no talk of that.

But I was wrong. Poop did manage to become the subject of conversation -- but not her poop. This time it was dog poop that would become the hot topic of the hour.

Nanny began by telling us about a new dog in the neighborhood that has decided that the best place to put a steaming pile of poo is on the edge of the lawn just off her front porch. There are landscaping rocks, flowerbeds, and bushes that make maneuvering for an eight-eight-year-old woman difficult at best, and the consistency of these quart-size piles is like soft serve ice cream. She said she has to wait several days to clean up a pile so it can "firm up some" before she is able to successfully scoop it out of the rocks without too much mess.

But Nanny said that every time she scoops up a pile, she remembers something that her sister-in-law had done many years ago in Florida. As I listened to her telling us this story, it became clear to me that I am a PoopReporter by blood. And I am also related (by marriage) to a turd terrorist.

Nanny's brother was burned very badly from the waist down in a gasoline fire when he was seventeen, and this resulted in his legs becoming drawn up, twisted, and unusable. But he was not crippled. He walked with his hands for the rest of his life. He would sit Indian style, put his hands down on the floor on each side, lift his butt off the ground, and "swing" himself forward. He developed such strength in his arms and upper body that he was able to climb up onto things, and he got around so well that he made a living as a mechanic. He lived his life like a normal person. The only difference was the way he walked.

He married a woman named Grace. They moved to Florida after he retired from his job. The people who lived next door to them had a Great Dane. The dog would deposit massive piles of poop in my great uncle's yard, and Aunt Grace would had to clean up.

One day Aunt Grace went over to the neighbor's house and very politely explained to them about the unique way that her husband had to get around, and how unpleasant it was for him to have to put up with cow-pile-like heaps of feces on the walkway where his hands had to go. She asked them to please not allow their dog to do its business on their property.

One night, after a few weeks of still scooping the dog's nasty poops up from their walkway, they were on their way home from dinner. They pulled in the driveway just in time to see the big dog being let out of the house next door. It meandered around in his own yard for a few minutes, peeing on a bush here and there, and then marched right over onto my uncle's lawn and shat out a big pile right on the sidewalk.

Well, this was the breaking point for my aunt. She got out of the car, walked over to the porch, picked up her pooper-scooper, walked out to the fresh pile, scooped it up and walked over to the neighbor's yard. The dog was back inside the screened-in porch of his masters' home, and the dog's owners were sitting in their wicker chairs there out on the porch enjoying the nice Florida summer evening.

Grace simply said, "I think this belongs to you." And with a flick of her wrist, she sent the stinky pile of poo from the scooper splattering right through the screen onto the dog, the furniture, and the people.

According to Nanny, nobody said a word. My aunt just casually walked back to her house and went inside. There was never another pile of poop from that great Dane on my great uncle's lawn again.

So getting back to the original point of my grandma's story: she said that in order to restore peace to her relationship with her own neighbor in regards this current dog situation, she might have to give them a little dose of Grace. I just smiled.

You're camping in the wilderness, with no bathrooms nearby. What's your pooping technique?

2008-07-11T11:29:44-04:00

large poops, early pinching, lots of chafing

2008-07-10T12:32:11-04:00

Zoe asks:

Hello Motherload!

Generally, I love to poop. I find it to be a very satisfying activity. However, my experience pooping tends to be marred by a number of factors, detailed below, that all seem to work together to piss off my anus and make my pooping a big waste of time and toilet paper. Please note that I eat fairly well: a lot of fruit and vegetables, but a little low on carbs, and maybe a bit high on fats. Little-to-no dairy. I get in some exercise (twenty to thirty minutes a day on average). I am a twenty-two-year-old female.

So, here are my symptoms:

I have very large, very solid shits. I don't usually clog the toilet, but they average maybe ten-fourteen inches in length and about two inches wide. Although they are solid, they seem to be, well, spongy. I can't think of an appropriate word to describe it. I guess you should imagine a moist clay log that was slathered in Vaseline.
I seem to be unable to let my poop run its course. Try as I might, my butt seems to always to pinch it off early. I've tried concentrating on other things, concentrating on keeping my butt open, shifting positions, etc., with no luck. This means that not only do I have a lot of extra wiping to do, but I get stuck with lumps of shit lodged up my ass, robbing me of total satisfaction.
My ass is always chafed from previous million-wiping sessions. I tread lightly, but always end up with a bit of blood on the toilet paper.
Don't know if this makes a difference, but I wipe from the front. I'm always careful not to spread shit around (perhaps this "flicking" wiping motion causes some of the irritation!). I didn't even know people wiped from the back until I started reading PoopReport. I tried to do it, but it hurt my back.

Anyway, shitting is just a pain in the ass for me these days. Do you have any suggestions?

Dear Zoe,

Your diet could probably use a tune-up, even though its not completely horrible. Sometimes fruits and veggies aren't enough on their own to provide the amount of fiber necessary to form good healthy poops. You should probably cut down a little on the fatty foods and replace them with whole grain foods, and maybe even take a fiber supplement as well.

There are two sphincters associated with pooping: the internal anal sphincter and the external anal sphincter. The internal one you have absolutely no control over, as it is an "involuntary" muscle. You can, however, control the external one. (Well, there are exceptions to this rule, but you know what I mean.) So even though you are trying to relax the external sphincter to have one continuous long poop, the internal one is most likely sabotaging your efforts.

You do seem to have a strange wiping technique, but to each his/her own. I just hope that even though you approach the area from the front that you at least do your "flicking" away from your vagina. If not, you might end up writing to a pee report site for advice at some point when you end up with intestinal bacteria colonizing your bladder, giving you a wonderfully painful and itchy UTI.

I suggest that you change the brand of toilet paper that you use to prevent the chafing from now on. Also, wet wipes with aloe could prove to be quite beneficial to you.

Thanks for asking Motherload!

Motherload is a Certified Nurse Assistant as well as an IBS sufferer, which means she knows a lot about poop. Got a question for her? Ask it here.