PoopReport.com

Feek Thoughts - Round Two

2009-11-06T08:28:06-05:00

If I were a rich man, I would replace my underwear at least once a year. As it is, I use them until they develop holes in places where there aren’t supposed to be any holes.

Underwear serves a vital function in all societies. People walk around farting all the time. If they didn’t have on any underwear, they would end up with little brown strips in the seat of all their clothes.

I have a nephew that needs to burn his underwear. They look like he has been wearing them since the Depression. He has farted in those things so much they are damn near black and will not get white again, no matter how much bleach is poured on them. I folded his wash for him one day and could not believe what I saw. Now, the boy makes good money at his job, so it’s not like he can’t afford a new pack of tightie-whities, he just won’t replace them.

I was at his house one night and he let rip with this enormous fart that shook the floor. A couple minutes later he did it again, then again. I then understood why his underwear was in such bad shape.

But even for us normal farters, the dreaded brown strip will appear at one time or another; nobody is perfect. You just have to know when you have to fart and when you have to take a shit. Thankfully, I have never been in a position that I have not been able to find a restroom when needed. But, I have talked with a few people who did invariably shit their pants. Try as I might not to, I always ended up laughing uproariously and pissing the person off.

People who shit their pants never think it’s funny. I think it’s funny as hell. I figure that someday, if I live long enough, I will get old and shit my pants too; and I think I will still laugh about it. But for the present time, I need only concern myself with keeping my underwear spot free and smelling good. Speaking of smelling good: One could always chew pine needles. That way when you fart, it would smell like you shit a Christmas tree!

White Lies

2009-11-05T12:35:18-05:00

I rarely ever get diarrhea, even if I have the flu. One particular day last week though, diarrhea decided to rear its ugly, uhhm...color.

I was at the mall with my husband; he was looking at new cell phones at the local AT&T store. I had been sick the night before and had shit twice, but both times it was very solid. These first few ass torpedoes didn’t show any warning as to what was to happen next.

My husband was hooked on a new phone he had wanted to buy, and so I looked at accessories for the one that I owned. I felt a fart coming on and walked to the other side of the room to let it off. It wasn't loud, but it was a mile long. It was like my ass had exhaled, and man, did the ass have bad breath!

I quickly trotted over to the other side of the store, trying to look as if nothing had happened. Husband had begun to play with the cell phone display, checking out all the features. By this time, I felt another fart coming on and proceeded to try and rip, but stopped - this one felt a little different. Nothing came out, so I must have brought down the gates at the right time. Everybody knows the feeling when a fart is a little more than what is expected.

Within the next few minutes, my ass was screaming for salvation (silently of course). My husband and I were newlyweds, so we still had a few nervous moments when the other was present in the house during a long and obvious shit. I excused myself to go to the bathroom, to which he replied, "Well I'm coming too, I have to piss anyways."

Well there went my hope of him never knowing I was about to let loose the chocolate chute. oh why did this have to be the one day I wear a belt
but nevertheless I made it.

As soon as, or maybe even seconds before, my bunghole approached the cold seat of the toilet, it opened fire. Warm, loud as hell, and absolutely horrifying to the olfactory sensors, whatever it was that my body had not had a chance to digest was now filling the restroom; and anyone within earshot was probably going to leave the bathroom with a story to tell. As I continued to explode endlessly, I wondered... how long before the toilet filled up? Would it run out of room soon, or would the excess shit force itself down the pipes?

I only hoped - for the sake of others - that I would be able to flush without causing a chocolate flood in the bathroom, from which I would have to run in horror.

Finally, it seemed that I had cleared out what I couldn't have physically had room for in my body, and I cleaned my shit chute thoroughly. I flushed and my prayers came through; my dirty deed swirled away into a land where it would join other human waste, and it was gone.

Exiting the stall, I trundled over to the sink to clean my hands and saw standing there the restroom attendant. She glared at me as if I had just committed a murder in a church.

"Sorry," I said, and hurried out. By the time I got past the doorway, I was laughing so hard tears were streaming down my face. My husband stood in the hallway watching and asked what was so funny. I thought about telling him my whole ordeal, but then I simply lied and said, "It was only a fart."

What is the most unusual way you have been interrupted while pooping (crappus interruptus)?

2009-11-04T15:09:37-05:00

Driving The Michigan Peninsula

2009-11-04T08:35:33-05:00

October of 2009 marked the eleventh anniversary of pooping my pants. It happened the day after my twentieth birthday, which I had spent like any good American near the border would - drinking with my sister in Windsor, Canada.

I was carpooling back to school in Michigan, specifically to the Upper Peninsula, with some friends and their dog. Along the way, we stopped at an outlet mall and then decided to and grab Taco Bell. Well, not long after ingesting some pintos and cheese, I felt a massive rumble in my lower regions. Shortly thereafter we passed a sign stating that the next rest area was just a few miles away. I was sweating a little, but I told my friend to keep on driving because I thought I could make it.

What was I thinking? Did I really think I could make it to the Upper Peninsula?

Yes, I did, and on we went.

The following sign said that the next rest area was forty-four miles away, and I immediately thought, “Oh, crap. We shoulda’ stopped...” You must all know what happened at this point. I began sweating and cramping, and in a panic, I begged for my friend to pull over. All the while her dog was getting in my face because he was so excited that I was so excited... and then...

I crapped myself. Of course I crapped myself - what else would I do with a stomach full of Taco Bell, no restroom in sight, and a wound-up, large dog jumping all over me?

Because I didn't want to ruin my friend's car, I got on my hands and knees right there in the back seat. And this was when the dog got a whiff of the situation. All hell broke loose.

He was an eighty pound chocolate lab, and he tried his best to get at my butt. Meanwhile, my friend driving the car was apologizing for not being able to pull over, and her boyfriend at the time started harassing me for losing it in my pants.

My friend pulled off the interstate at the next exit, which happened to be a small town; but since it was Sunday, nothing was open. I ended up running into the woods to poo a little more and try to clean myself up. (I had to use three t-shirts and some underwear.) It wasn’t until we had driven about ten miles away on I-75 that I realized, while cleaning myself up, that I’d put my shoes on top of the car and forgot to grab them afterward. We had to drive back to the exit. By the time we arrived back to where I’d cleaned up, the sun had gone down.

As we were retracing our steps down that lonely, two-lane road, we saw a minivan pulled over on the other side of the road. in the beam of the headlights I saw an older gentleman stooping over to pick up my shoes where they had fallen off the car. I started banging on the window, yelling, "Those are my shoes!" I jumped out of the back seat and just grabbed them out of the man's hands. All I could say was, "Those are my shoes."

Finally in possession of all my gear, we headed back to the highway, and at the next rest area I washed my poopy pants in the women's toilet.

Reno Man Kickin' it Old Stool for a Buck

2009-11-03T07:09:52-05:00

Shannon Peterson does not like to clean up after her two dogs, so when she saw someone on Craigslist was offering to pick up dog poop for a weekly fee per dog, she called him. The man, a recently-unemployed, former pet store owner, had decided to take control over his jobless situation. He now scoops poop to make ends meet.

Frost was unable to gather enough funds to start a new business and stated that the recession hit him hard. However, he didn’t let that fact stop him. In fact, his gumption is downright refreshing.

"I said, well I could go start picking up dog poop. There's not a lot of people in town that do that."

Damn strait, Jeff!

Frost charges eight dollars for a one-time weekly cleaning for each dog, ten dollars if you’d like him to pick up poop twice. He even spritzes some sanitizing yardpourri on your assaulted lawn at no extra charge. If you’d like your dog’s nails clipped, or if you’d like it walked or to be baby-sat, Frost offers these services, too. In fact, if you have a horse, he’ll even pick up its poop – for a slightly larger fee.

He now has ten clients and hopes for more. In fact, this entropooneur would like to have enough dog owners on his route giving him the business from the business end of their dogs so that he can hire employees; this way he can increase the area that he can serve.

His website, poopbegone.biz, offer 100% satisfaction guaranteed and a free week for new customers. He has other neat features on his site. For one, he offers pet waste stations from Dogipot to the public. Parts of the site aren’t filled in yet, but it seems that he will deliver this waste basket/receptacle that has a doggie stick figure sign and baggie dispenser on top of it to the area of one's choosing. He also has an Amber Alert banner that runs along the top of each page. That's a nice touch.

It’s great to see someone who wants to work so badly that he’ll pick up dog poop instead of doing nothing. Our hats are off to you, Jeff Frost. You are most definitely one of us!

Briggs Needed A Slogan...

2009-11-03T06:01:29-05:00

Years ago, I worked for JP Industries building one-piece toilets and bidets under the Briggs brand name. During that time, they had a contest for a new slogan celebrating their seventy-fifth anniversary. I submitted the following entries:

"Your shit is our bread and butter"

"Seventy-five years of your shit and we still can't get enough"

"Dirty it b'night, wash it bidet"

The winner, however, was generic-assed:

"Seventy-five years young"

I thought this would be a great place to solicit further submissions, although the one hundred dollar savings bond was awarded long ago.

Making It More Than A Toilet

2009-11-02T06:31:07-05:00

Recently, an email arrived from a guy named Chuck. He had an idea of how to multi-task his toilet here on his blog, and he thought we might appreciate it.

Toilet Terraforming

Lately, I've been working on tons of different projects, but every day I take time out to think, to ponder, to touch my oversoul... to think and reflect in my own way.

Where do I take this time? Do I go to the woods, to nature, as suggested by the traditional Transcendentalists?

No. I do my pondering on a much smaller pond than Thoreau's Walden. I do most of my really deep thinking in the same place and position as most of you... on the toilet.

Recently, I was philosophizing, and the oversoul reached out and touched me... Not like that! No... but it did touch me... deep down, and this idea came to me, this idea that has to be my single most viable and marketable idea to date. It combines two things that people love: gardening and pooping. Moreover, this idea promises to enrich and simplify people's lives with minimal effort. Everything I just said can be summed up with one symbol: $

What is this brilliant idea?

A planter that replaces the lid on the back of your toilet, allowing you to grow flowers or herbs in your bathroom, allowing you to get in touch with nature while you are getting in touch with your crossword puzzle, Uncle John's Bathroom Reader, and your deep philosophical ponderings.

I know. I know. You have no gardening skills at all. You have killed everything from ficus to ferns, from daisies to daffodils. You either overwater or forget to water your plants. Here in lies the beauty of this idea, you never have to water these plants! A wick hanging down into the toilet reservoir soaks up just the right amount of water to keep your bathroom garden perfectly watered.

Think about it. You could have a little herb garden or wonderful smelling flowers growing in your bathroom, acting as living potpourri. Try telling me people don't like potpourri. Go ahead try. You can't! People don't just like potpourri, they love the word, "potpourri." Next time you go to a party, drop the word, "potpourri," and see what happens.

Are you a naysayer? Do you think this idea won't sell? Try telling that to the guys who invented the Chia Pet. They will laugh in your face, take this idea, and make another couple of million dollars, because the price points are perfect and this idea has that kitschy quirky "it factor."

In my research for this, I came across a self contained herb garden selling for $180.00. If there are people out there dropping that kind of cash on herbs that you can't smoke, then I know you can move at least a million units of the Toilet Gardener® for $19.95 at Walgreens or $59.99 at Brookstone.

Don't let the Chia Pet guys laugh in your face. Take this idea and make millions of dollars with it... and send me some of that money, or at least a complimentary Toilet Gardener®, so I can rename my toilet, Chuck's Pond....

....As you can see, I did find one reference to a retro toilet designed to hold a plant, but I am sure that the self watering mechanism was not a part of their design, and that is the genius part of this idea.

Thanks for allowing us to republish your idea, Chuck! Now it's your turn, front page readers. Do any of you have a toilet multi-tasking idea brewing?

Ask Poopreport: What Are These Things On My Toilet Paper?

2009-10-30T10:31:12-04:00

I have been finding hairlike things on the toilet paper when I wipe. I scanned two under a microscope and created images. Does anyone have any idea what these are?

Thanks.

What Happened At The G-20 Summit?

2009-10-29T09:52:47-04:00

Fresh from the G-20 Summit in Pittsburgh, I recently made a tortuously-long journey back to Almaty, Kazakhstan — a two-day, multi-leg odyssey during which one must manage with short cat naps and must nourish oneself on bad airline food and pray that a bowel movement will come due at one of the many layovers. I, however, had neither luck with the food nor the bowel movements.

Hence, upon reaching Almaty, I had only managed to liberate from my intestines a single forlorn turdlette - an Ebeneezer Scrooggely desiccated affair that resembled the calf muscle of an Ethiopian marathoner donning Slobodan Milosevch’s toupee.

Without a place to stay, I set up at a friend’s three-bedroom apartment despite the presence of his two perennially lachrymose urchins and a roster of extended family members. Given a veritable revolving door on the cramped closet passing itself off as a shitter, I looked for any pretext to spill out on to the streets, say, to the Almaty 2 Train Station, to TSUM, a nearby department store, or to a restaurant whenever a bowel movement came due — that is, to some public shittery.

The day following my arrival, I enjoyed an elegant lunch with a former secretary whose name I cannot pronounce. With this secretary, I had once been working at one of the premier universities — famous in Central Asia for its progressive western ideas: democracy, freedom, and equality of opportunity. Since one of those ideas was advancement for minorities and women, PoopReport readers can well understand my elation at seeing my former secretary having advanced to a director’s position of sorts herself since the time I had quit her place of employment; readers might equally understand like elation for being able to sneak behind her desk, fondle her lovingly (albeit professionally) under her green sun dress and around the tong underwear stripe running down the crack of her tangy buttocks - whilst she and I pretended to take interest in Lantolf’s naive and indeed slavish treatment of Vygotsky’s Sociocultural theories of learning. …Indeed! Unfortunately, our "pouring out” over Vygotsky had been fully reflected in the glass panes of the book case behind us for all the students to see, the cheeky, zitty impudent little cretins…

Unable to control my elation and admiration for my former secretary, after six p.m.’s hasty sunset, my former secretary freed herself from work and she and I were quickly able to shuffle her off to a forsaken back entrance to Almaty’s Gorky Park along a winding path. I was just as expeditiously able to begin orally administering to this former secretary’s winsome, albeit astringent, backside. Doing so, however, I was somehow assailed with the gnawing reminder that I had not passed substantial stool for at least four days. I brushed the thought of this necessity to defecate aside, as I had earlier brushed aside the tong under string, for we both needed to hurry; my former secretary needed to get back to her young common-law Kazakh husband. So, in an attempt to advance the evening along, in the throes of passion, she threw her arms around a mature pine and raised her buxom rump to me amid half-hearted protests of chastity or fidelity to the aforementioned husband. In the night air, a harvest moon reflected off her soft, pretty, artificially chestnut dyed hair and my ugly graying & balding scalp.

The rich, black earth around our heroic pine having been thoroughly seeded, we hustled my former secretary into a taxi near the main entrance to Gorky Park. After a protracted, breathless sendoff replete with promises for a diurnal follow-up under motel conditions, my former secretary ensconced herself in a 2001 Grey Zhiguli taxi and sped off. At this time, however, perhaps I was aware that either due to a thick and clumpy draft of my former secretary’s love lubricants, my pelvic thrusting, or her own reciprocal bumping and grinding to meet my assaulting poonterprod, a week’s worth of fecal material was now dislodging itself and making its way southward.

I had to decide whether to catch a taxi back to my friend’s apartment and queue-up to his well-populated WC, stinking out the whole family in the process and going through an entire box of matches in a heroic masking attempt; or whether to risk going back into the park to find another valiant evergreen; or whether to try to find a dark building to duck behind. Long having been a decision maker and recently have grown inspired with seeing my former secretary taking the initiative, I would myself make a decision; I would take a taxi to the nearest open public privy, but one closest to my friend’s apartment.

Therefore, I had the taxi driver deposit me at the front of TSUM department store on Ablai-Khan Street. Therein, I made for the subterranean crapper, the descent to which seemed interminable. Furthermore, descending meant paying off a thirty tenge cover charge and snatching on the fly the meager portion of ass paper that a perennially sullen and misshapen toilet troll meted out, a Russian woman of about one hundred and seventy-three years. It surely must have seemed to her that I had discharged the thirty tenge into her crusty paw at the end of a grenade launcher as I hobbled past her, plunging lower into the Hades of this subterranean shithouse. In shuffling past, I held the inner portions of my thighs together in an attempt to stem the chestnut-brown tide about to make a violent egress from my violently-pulsing, winking aperture. My aim was to be off this evening, though, and I almost didn’t succeed in closing the stall door or pulling down my Arrow dress slacks and underwear when a dry, burnt cork-like Slobodan Milosovichian grogan popped out of my cork-hole as though it had been forced out under steam pressure. I even imagined it bouncing off the wall.

Close behind a scalding fetid stream followed, however, never making it into the trough of the sunken in-ground toilet, and thus splashing against the back wall, which would have dismayed even the most rebellious G-20 summit protester/fecal terrorist. Having wiped, I crawled out of the depths of Hades, past the govno gnome and headed two blocks north along Ablai Khan Street to my friend’s apartment.

All told, I had made the right decision. And why wouldn’t I have done so? Am I not from the same great land that gave the world Donald Rumsfeld, Dick Cheney, Raul Emmanuel, Ted “Liberal Lion” Kennedy, ( and George Soros...)? I could beam with pride knowing that I, as an American (spoken with a Newt Gingrichian drawl), was a reifier, delivering demonstratively in word and deed abstract concepts like leadership, good decision making, democracy, and freedom. And I was doing so in country. Whether ensuring fair elections by the judicious use of cluster bombs on hapless Arabs in Iraq or busting up a weeding from stealthy drones in far flung Afghanistan, I and my power-charged anus were, likewise, bringing progress to the backward peoples of the world!

The world didn’t need to come to us in Pittsburgh; we’re taking it to them. And I’m proud to be an American!

The Million Calorie March

2009-10-28T08:23:49-04:00

This past summer I embarked on a two-thousand mile journey of the Appalachian Trail. The contents of my pack were minimal; I brought about twenty to twenty-five pounds total, including only one roll of the cheapest toilet paper money can buy. Every day was a new Poopreport, so if y'all enjoy this one, I would be happy to share the rest of my outdoor defecation experiences.

I was around eight hundred and fifty miles into my pilgrimage, which put me somewhere in northern Virginia. I was in the best shape of my life, because I was hiking an average between twenty to thirty miles of hiking each day. For breakfast and lunch I ate Honeybuns and Snickers bars, and dinner was instant mashed potatoes. These were the lightest foods that gave me the most energy to climb mountain after mountain each day. I was having a regular BM daily around lunch time.

About every few hundred miles I'd come to a half-decent town, one with a good selection to eat other than my trail food. When I flipped through my handbook, I found a chinese all-you-can-eat jackpot! After running the usual errands of re-upping my food supply and stealing a roll of shitty TP from the local convenient store, I dropped my pack off at the cheapest motel i could find and made a beeline toward the chinese restaurant.

Now, I consider myself a chinese food connoisseur - and this place was a complete dump when I look back on it - but it was my oasis from the woods. In order to stuff myself to maximum capacity I didn't even touch the rice, because it would have filled me up too quickly. I ate everything in sight. Parents were keeping their kids away from me because they thought I would mistake their children's hands for chicken on a stick. Crab ragoons by the dumpster full, beef with broccoli, chicken with broccoli, Moo Goo Gai Pan, even the two day old crab meat - they all met quick and merciless ends.

I went back to my motel room a happy man, and yet I wasn't satisfied. I needed more food, a bigger sample. To shorten things up I woke up bright and early next to an empty pizza box, an empty pint of Ben & Jerry's Cinnamon Bun ice cream, an empty family-sized bag of Cool Ranch Dorritos, and an empty two-liter of Mountain Dew. My stomach looked like I had worms, but I felt great! I consulted with my handbook and noticed I had a huge climb ahead of me out of this valley on top of a twenty-five mile day. Little did I know what was in store for me.

I always leave my motel as late as possible to soak up the comfort before sleeping in the woods for a few more days, so it was eleven o'clock when I finally left. I made it about two miles up this bitch of a mountain when I heard a groan in my stomach. I looked in the handbook to find where the next shelter was and to see if it had a privy.

The first shelter was about four miles away. I averaged three miles and hour, so it would take me an hour and twenty minutes to make it there. The pains exponentially worsened; every step was agony. You should try hiking up a mountain with your butt checks clenched shut. it's hard. So, I started looking for a place to give birth, as any good mother does.

Upon my left it was an extremely steep uphill, and to my right was an extremely steep downhill slope; there was no flat in sight. I had two options: suck it up and keep climbing, or try to find a tree to hold onto so I wouldn't fall down the mountain. I sucked it up and tip-toed up the mountain.

When I finally found a half-decent place to shit, I then had to start the long process of taking off my pack, opening it, digging for the TP, digging a six-inch cat hole, and then letting it rip. I didn't dig the hole this time. Sorry, fellow hikers.

There are a few rules to pooping in the woods:

1.) Poop four hundred yards away from any source of water.

2.) Poop one hundred yards away from the trail.

3.) Bury it in a six inch-deep cat hole.

I shit about fifteen feet from the trail and didn't dig a hole, but I really couldn't help it. It was either poop right there and then or hike a few hundred miles in my own shit.

After the whole ordeal was over, I had a huge grin on my face, because it just felt so good to get that sucker out of me. I was wiping and laughing like I'd just stared death in the eyes and won.

And at that exact moment, a father and son hiking duo passed me.

I hadn't even pulled up my pants yet.

And I was mid-wipe.

For Your iPhone: The Poo Log

2009-10-27T05:33:02-04:00

I don't normally publish any of the toilet-related press releases I receive in my email. Usually, I just badger them to buy advertising space on the site. But I like this one for two reasons: first, it provides a great tool; and second, they made some fun videos.

Here's how it's explained in the email I received from Brian, the developer's marketing guy:

If ever there was a perfect fit for our product -- your site is it! I'm working with AvatarLabs to promote a hilarious new iPhone App -- the Poo Log! Based on the best-selling book, What's Your Poo Telling You?, the Poo Log has everything you need for that special time -- a digital timer, journal, graphs, medically accurate info and even quizzes about fascinating poo facts."

I've always felt intense jealousy towards What's Your Poo Telling You?, of course, for the same reason I never read The Big Necessity: their publishers promoted those books far better than my publisher promoted mine. But WYPTL was a genuinely good book, and now they have a genuinely useful iPhone app -- that is, if you're the kind of person who wants to track their movements. Which I suspect most of you are.

You can learn more about the app here. I don't have a fancy phone, so I can't download it and test it out. Somebody let us know how it works!

Willy Wonka's Revenge

2009-11-02T03:43:12-05:00

The movie says, "life is like a box of chocolates. You never what you’re gonna get." This may be true in one form, but in another form you'll either get diarrhea or a monster solid mess. This happened to me years ago; it was my eighth birthday, and I can remember it so vividly...

My aunt had given me a box of chocolates as a birthday present. I'm not talking about your Rite Aid Russell Stover box. I mean a triple stack See’s Candies box with three layers of chocolate. Now everyone knows eating one of these things by yourself is downright foolish. There are three plastic holders with fifty little candies on each. The calorie content you'd have at the end of the day would horrify your doctor, but being eight, I could give a damn.

My parents told me that day to take it easy on the box, as I had already finished the entire top layer by myself. I should have listened. It was about twelve midnight and I was still hitting the box, and I continued until there was nothing left. I felt a sense of joy.

"Oh what a delicious birthday present" I thought.

About an hour later when I had turned in for bed, something came over me - a cold sweat from my head to my toes. There was no pain but my ass became wet, like something was trying to sneak its way through; and I knew what it was. I ran for the bathroom faster than I had ever run in my life, where I plopped my ass down and immediately felt the ass juice spray out. The pressure was so great that if I hadn't been holding on to the toilet I might have rocketed right off. It felt like I was shitting out every ounce of life that was in me.

I spent an eternity in there and later I would realize I fought the war for two hours! Once I was done I wiped and got up to look at my mess. I was horrified; it looked like chocolate stew. The water was completely black in color, and I don't even think most of the pieces of chocolate even had time to digest, as they were right there in bowl! They were the same shape, size and everything, only they were covered in shit. However, the smell wasn't that of chocolate at all. It seemed like I was cooking a brown stew with some really bad old parmesan cheese thrown in…

The Dangers of Dumping in Durban

2009-10-27T04:03:26-04:00

South Africa is known as a crime-ridden country; rapes and murders per capita are among the highest in the world. However, you`d think that going for a crap in your workplace restroom would be relatively safe.

Not so for poor Rajubi Hasani, who worked in a general store in Durban. He`d been employed for only three weeks at the store and apparently was not acquainted with the shop`s strict toilet code. One afternoon Rajubi was overcome by an urge to defecate and proceeded to the store`s only commode where he duly downloaded a satisfactory set of logs.

On exiting the facility he was confronted by his boss, who inquired as to what had been going on. Upon replying, Rajubi was told in no uncertain terms that the toilet was for the sole use of his boss. Ignorance of the rules regarding the crapper was clearly unacceptable as his employer pulled out his gun and shot Rajubi in the knee.

The manager casually went about his business as Rajubi stumbled outside, collapsed, and was taken to hospital to have the bullet removed.

He said, after being discharged, “Who does this to another person? Where was I supposed to go if I was not meant to use the toilet in the store?”

The police don`t appear to be overly concerned; a case has been opened but no arrests have been made or guns confiscated. Toilet etiquette in South Africa is obviously taken far more seriously than in most countries!

The Planters Plant

2009-10-26T09:35:32-04:00

My friend Louie is a commercial plumber and quite an asshole to be around, which is why he works commercial projects instead of residential; his bosses don’t want him anywhere near the customers that pay the bills. He was working on a large hotel project last year where there were many different tradesmen working on many different stages in the building process. There was alot of pissing off others on the jobsite. The plumbers pissed off the painters and the carpenters when they had to cut holes in finished walls to install sinks; the painters pissed off the plumbers with their stinky fumes, the dry-wallers pissed off the other trades with all the dust. The framers pissed off the other trades if the walls weren’t up on time, and that held up the rest of the crews... The list goes on and on and on.

There was usually a storeroom where all the supplies for all the tradesmen were kept. The plumbers had their fixtures and pipe bundles and supplies kept there. The painters had their pallets of paint, and the drywallers had their lifts of sheetrock. The framers had the lifts of wood and buckets of nails, and everyone kept their Greenlee boxes with tools there. Etc, etc, etc.

Most of the trades started work at five or six AM. The painters tended to start at nine AM or later due to the fact that they needed the natural daylight to do a better job. They started later and ended later than the rest of the crews.

Well, Louie was a real dick with a smart mouth and not very good at making friends. He didn’t tell me exactly what he did to anger one of the painters, but I’m sure it had something to do with making holes in finished walls so the painter had to come back and redo his work. Louie told the guy off and made another enemy on the jobsite. The painter in person started checking in on him for a couple days and made comments and such that led Louie to believe he was responsible for the act of turd terrorism he was about to encounter.

Louie was getting to the point of installing toilets and sinks and went to grab the materials from the storeroom. Upon opening the packaging on the toilets he was to install, he found that someone had already used them in the previous days. There were five toilets that already contained shit in various stages of decay and dampness...

The culprit removed the cardboard packaging and dropped his deposit into the brand new bowls and then, he put the packaging back together. He knew it was the painter that had been making hints and comments for the past few days, and the painters were on the job later than everyone else, so they had the opportunity to perform such trickery. This gave Louie plenty of time while pressure washing the new fixtures before installation to think up an act of revenge. Louie was going to just punch the shit out of the guy, but he has been fired for such an act in the past; his wife would not have no more of his getting fired for fighting.

Louie went home that night and bought himself a big can of peanuts and began to eat. He didn’t chew them into a paste because his act of turd terrorism revenge would require small chunks... Louie doesn’t even like peanuts. His wife and I asked him why he was eating so many and he just smiled and say he would tell us later.

He ate handfuls of peanuts everyday. Then he took the time to pop into where said painter was working and offered him some peanuts with a smile. The painter never accepted his gifts, but Louie kept on going in and offering up his peanuts, savoring his sweet revenge in the making at every coffee break.

He went into work for the next few days a little early to give himself some time to take a morning steamer into the painters’ five gallon pails before the rest of the guys got into work and started populating the storeroom. Louie’s shit logs dropped in the buckets and sank to the bottom, chock full of little peanut particles, where they disappeared under gallons of different colors of paint. Then, he pounded the lid back on just like a new pail. Louie told me he avoided white paint so that his revenge would go un-noticed for as long as possible. His revenge was taken out; he went back to finishing his job at hand knowing that he made much more work for the painter and his co-workers. Louie didn’t have to beat anyone up and was going to be able to keep his job while getting the payback he needed.

In case you didn’t know, painters on large jobs use a drill with a mixer wand on it to stir up the pails before use; this also busts apart the shit logs in the bottom of the pails and fills the paint with little chunks of peanut that don’t like to pass though the paint gun’s tip. I’m sure the painter figured out who was to blame for his equipment malfunction when he kept finding little chunks in the sprayer outlets, or when the finish on walls that were roller-painted seemed to be a little 'spackled', not semi gloss... I haven’t mentioned all the paint that they would have to throw out after the gag was discovered, and all the explaining that would have to be done to the people who pay the bills.

To top it off, Louie left a few empty peanut tins on top of the painters’ tool chest with a note that just said "Enjoy".

Here's Mud In Your Eyes

2009-10-23T10:01:12-04:00

My High School football team was big on pranks, practical jokes, and hazing. It was technically against the rules, but the coach looked the other way as long as Nobody Gets Hurt rule was followed, since hazing has been a Badger tradition since he had been on our same football team thirty years before!

I won't say exactly what high school I'm talking about, but this was a few years ago; and it will probably be obvious that we're talking about a cold, Northern-Midwest country township area where people fart in the Sporting Goods section at Walmart, eat brats, date fat girls, watch football, and make their own fun since there ain't that much to do.

The rules had been laid down from the school disctrict Superintendent: NO HAZING on the football team. The year before, two seniors nicknamed Fletch and Biscuit took a waffle iron from home, heated it up in the locker room, unplugged it, and mashed it into the big white wet butt of a freshman just out of the shower. I didn't see it happen (I was talking to an assistant coach) but we all heard the scream, and then the "You've Been Pranked!" team chant. The poor kid went home to his mama and tried to tough it out; but she wound up taking him to the ER in the middle of the night where the story goes that some Indian Doctor took one look at it and called in a cosmetic surgeon, because there was a significant burn.

Rumor had it the kid's stepdad built him some kind of rigged-up hammock to squat-poop Sumo Wrestler Style while his butt healed. He still gets called Waffle to this day.

Anyways, the hazing ban made my day since I hadn't been hazed yet, and I was one of the so-called star seniors on the team. But after the first game another kid got hazed when a dead racoon was duct taped to his muffler and actually caught on fire at a stoplight downtown. It became a minor sensation in the local paper the next week. The coach heard about it on Monday, laughed, and the hazing ban was apparently over and all bets were off. So, I started to worry again.

The next week a buddy of mine on our offensive line asked me if I wanted to be on the Saturday morning maintenance crew. Football games were on Friday nights, and Saturday there was a crew that cleaned up, picked up trash, hauled things away, etc. He said it was a flat fifty bucks for what was supposed to be five hours of work but really only took around three hours. That was easy date night money, which was always on Saturdays, so I agreed.

I arrived on time, and they gave me the worst job right away picking up trash and cleaning up the Women's rest room. I swear I couldnt believe it! I thought women were always prim and proper, but the crapper stall was filthy! There was toilet paper everywhere, poop on the seat, some orange grunge in the sink, and tampons in the trash. Some hooligan had written "Badgers Have Both Sex Organs" which I didn't quite understand then but made me laugh anyway.

When I came out of the Women's restroom the other three guys had loaded the huge plastic Porta-Potty onto a trailer. They told me it had to be secured with a four-way rope tie, which we did, then it had to be cleaned inside, which they said I had to do. I got my stuff, starting spraying the walls with windex, and then the three guys shoved me back, slammed the plastic door shut and jimmied something into the door lock. I realized I was being hazed.

"VERY FUNNY." I called out. I wasn't too worried because there was an air vent at the top, but it still smelled like somebody had hosed out a monkey cage with a pressure washer that was squirting out nursing home vomit.

I sat down on the pot and said, "OK, I guess it was my time anyway." I then waited for them to let me out. It at that point that I heard the pickup truck sputter to life and my buddy Brandon say, "You're screwed!" through the door. The trailer lurch forward. We were going for a little ride. I squatted on the floor of the crapper like some illegal alien in a Motel Six parking lot, and then Brandon slammed on the brakes of the pickup... and fifty-nine gallons of a stanky, sulphurous muck came up from the deep and plastered my face, eyeballs, tongue, and hair with a monstrous bacterial volcanic hosedown.

I suddenly realized that I'd stuck my face directly in front of the port hole but then the truck started up again and we were moving. Horrified, I wiped the crap out of my eyes and tried to slam the toilet lid down only to discover -there was no lid! There was only a toilet seat and a flimsy one at that!

Getting slightly calmer now, I finally used my head and simply sat down on the pot. I took off my shirt and tried to rid my pie hole of any loose dookie and forced myself to not get too angry. Yet.

The boys decided to have a little fun and began an impromptu sightseeing tour of our downtown area, slamming on the brakes every couple minutes in the hopes that a a parade of dopplar would rain down on my head again. I felt whatever was left come splashing up on my hindquarters whenever that happened, but it wasn't so bad.

After what seemed like an hour - but was really about ten minutes - I felt the truck stop. Brandon said to me through the potty, "Now don't get all mad. We were just having a little fun. I'm gonna' let you out now, but you gotta' promise you're gonna' be calm and not start a fight."

I didn't say a word. I just sat on the pot. I felt them unjimmy the door and I calmly got up; and when I opened the door, I discovered that the trailer was sitting in the middle of town right in front of the town green. I never looked back as I walked across the green and into the Luncheonette, where I asked to use the phone; then, I called my mom. When I was done on the phone every one of the twenty people in the restaurant were staring at me, and one little girl pointed at me and said, "Daddy, that man don't smell too good."

I went outside and sat on a curb and every car (I know just about everybody in town anyway) slowed down and either rubbernecked to a crawl or tooted their horn and started laughing. My mother pulled up in front of me and exlaimed, "Now what in the tarnation Have you gotten yourself into this time?" I got in the car and she started to laugh, which always makes me laugh, and we laughed all the way home.

After I got showered she forced me to drive with her to one of those medical clinics where the doctor gave me a shot of some kind of antibiotic. Coach heard about the prank Monday morning, but what he didn't know was that payback was going to violate the new team rules and involve several elements, including social and sexual humiliation, cruel and unusual punishment, psychological warfare, and old-fashioned physical agony.

Stay tuned for my second installment, "When Brandon Met Smelly".