Special Delivery

 

I'm sure everyone remembers their first job. I know I do. Not because of the measly pay or bullshit work involved, but because there is a poop story related to it.

 

Like a lot of you, I had a newspaper route when I was a lad. I delivered Sunday papers about five blocks from my house. It sucked, but it allowed me to afford some of the smaller pleasures in life like sugary kids cereal and Star Wars figures (otherwise, my mom would only by generic cornflakes or whatever was on sale -- which usually tasted like wet cardboard -- and I would only get toys on birthdays or Christmas).

 

One fine Sunday morning I set out to deliver my printed version of misery, filth, corruption and cartoons to their designated destinations. Eyes barely open, crust still caking them, I started out towards the drop-off point. Before I left I had a slight urge to defecate, but it wasn't urgent and I was late (as usual), so I figured it could wait.

 

I walked the five blocks, thinking of the next box of BooBerry cereal that my tips would help me purchase. Tips. Yeah, right. If what I was receiving for my grunt work of toting forty-some-odd newspapers could be referred to as ""tips,"" then waitresses receive a six-figure gratuity.

 

Anyways, I trotted along and delivered the papers according to my address book, lazily tossing them between the usual screen and storm door. Two streets up on my route I was lucky enough to encounter a dog on a customer's front lawn.

 

As I approached the house, the dog sat quietly, staring at me. There must be a huge difference between mailmen and newspaper boys in a dog's eyes, because as I returned the glare I noticed the dog was ejecting his red lipstick missile.

 

Obviously a male dog, and obviously homosexual.

 

I delivered the paper successfully and moved on. The dog sat with his wet tentacle still searching for love. I had broken another heart.

 

Flashing forward, I had one more street to go, and the urge to defecate was stating its demands. My colon had finally woken up, and it did not know nor care that I was nowhere near any type of place for it to release its vomitous wet yawn. It was 6:30 AM, blocks from home, and there was no discreet wooded area or place of business to relieve myself of this burden.

 

Now, I know we have all heard and read stories of having to poop and having no where to go, so I will not bore you with the run-of-the-mill details of my strife. I finally finished my route; now it was time for the long, long trek home. After about two blocks I felt a pain best described as a giant piston pushing down on a gallon of brown oil resisted only by my 11-year-old clinched starfish. The starfish was certainly earning its pay; it may have lost an arm.

 

Every twenty feet I was forced to stop and call the balloon knot back to work. I walked gingerly to avoid any malfunctions, stopping to endure my labor pains, each contraction worse than its predecessor. A large brown infant was going to enter this world, and I had to make sure I got to the hospital on time. ""I'll name it later,"" I thought.

 

I finally reached my block, heel-toeing it all the way. I stopped. I could see my house, the hospital with the glorious side door that would admit me to my porcelain stir-ups that would help me assume proper birth posture. I pondered between contractions -- should I make a mad dash or continue the Charlie Chaplin walk?

 

Because the pain was so furious (and the balloon knot was halfway unraveled), I decided to make a break for it. I ran for what seemed an eternity and landed on my side porch. I quickly stopped, took a deep breath, and sucked in with all my might. The run had progressed my dilation, and I had to ease baby Ass Phlegm back into the womb.

 

I went to open the door. And in the infamous words of John Cusack from Better Off Dead I yelled, ""KEEEYS!"" I fumbled around through my pockets. Found them! Can't get them out! Because my neurotic mother safety-pinned them to the insides of our pockets so we wouldn't lose them!

 

A safety pin is a simple contraption to operate, but in this scenario it was more like defusing a bomb with seconds to go. Ping. YES! I opened the pin and released my key. As I tried desperately to get the key in the hole, another contraction hit. Sucking up even harder this time, I grimaced and distorted my face to withhold a kicking newborn that just wanted out!

 

Contraction passed. I inserted the key and turned the knob. Success! I took one step through the door and suddenly heard the cries of my newborn son cradled in my white Hanes. Apparently he couldn't wait fifteen more steps to the delivery

room and decided to enter the world right then and there.

 

Well, first came a sigh of relief. No more pain or agony... but I had shit myself! I juggled the contents of my pants down to the basement while everyone was still asleep upstairs. I undressed and looked upon my son. Alas, he was a stillborn. The brownish-green embryonic fluid had gone straight through my tighty whities and stained the new jeans my mom just bought for me at Chess King.

I was in trouble. She had bitched the whole time buying those pants, proclaiming that I'd better take good care of them, or else it was back to Sears & Roebuck for some good ol' reliable ""Toughskins"" (shudder). What to do?

 

I said goodbye to my departed, wadded with my soiled undies and thrown out in a plastic bag hidden under all the other garbage. I took my Chess King pants and racked my brain. Being an 11-year-old, I had no idea on how to remove shit stains from jeans. They certainly never mentioned it during the Bugs Bunny & Road Runner comedy hour.

 

I decided to ball up the jeans and put them in a filing cabinet in the basement under a box of my father's cancelled checks from years past. No one ever went down there and I figured I'd be safe at least until mom wanted to know where my jeans were.

 

About two weeks later I was confronted with the question of the missing jeans. I made up some story about some school bullies who beat me up and ripped my new jeans, and that I had disposed of them, afraid of the consequences. I received the pity I knew I would get from such a tale -- my mom was not mad, just glad I was ok.

 

Here's the funny part.

 

Fifteen years later, after divorcing from my dad, my mom decided to sell the house and move to an apartment. I helped with getting rid of junk and packing stuff up.

 

That's when I came across the filing cabinet in the basement. I had forgot all about it! I cautiously opened the drawer in question, lifted the box of old checks and sure enough, there they were! My coveted Chess King jeans! The shit had petrified to some kind of hard crackly plastic; fortunately, there was no odor.

 

I grabbed the jeans and decided to fess up to mom about the true fate of my expensive pants. I brought them upstairs and told her the ""real"" story. I figured that I'm an adult now... what is she gonna do, ground me?

 

After hearing the story, my mom grabbed the jeans and started whacking me over the head with them, proclaiming how disgusting I was and that she had paid ""good money"" for those jeans!! Jeez! I thought for sure after all this time we could've had a laugh about the whole thing, but my mom is frugal to the end. We argued, and I left, and we didn't speak for about five months.

 

Arguing with my mom about shitting my pants fifteen years prior. No wonder I ended up in therapy!"

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An Imbalanced Breakfast

 

Everyone loves cereal. I love it. You love it. Everyone loves it. And there's a shitload to choose from -- Trix, Cocoa Pebbles, Lucky Charms, Quisp, Capn' Crunch, etc. etc. etc. I don't count cereals like Corn Flakes or Cheerios -- it has to be able to put you into a diabetic coma to make my list.

 

You're probably saying to yourself, “What the hell does this have to do with poop?” Well, believe me, my friend, everything in my world can be related to poop. I'm just that sophisticated.

 

Anyways, my favorite cereal of all time is BooBerry. Hands down. If a box of BooBerry had female sex organs, I'd marry it and live a happy life. (If you are a box of BooBerry with female organs, please feel free to email me.) So, what's better than eating cereal? Eating it while watching kick-ass cartoons on a Saturday morning!

 

Well, at one particular time there was a sale on BooBerry at the market (a god- sent miracle!). I ended up buying eight boxes. The following Saturday couldn't have come to soon. I retrieved my large mixing bowl, my color-changing cereal spoon, a gallon of milk and four boxes of my coveted BooBerry. It was 7:00 am and time for “The Roadrunner & Wile E. Coyote Show.” I plopped myself down, served myself a heaping bowl full of BooBerry and began to enjoy.

 

Well, before I knew it, it was 10:30 am. After being caught up in the excitement of the morning's program scheduling and my heroin-like sugar high, I finally started to notice my surroundings: an empty bowl with a few drops of blue milk in it, a spoon in between the couch cushions, a gallon jug of milk with about 1/10 of it's contents remaining, and three boxes of BooBerry... TWO EMPTY AND THE THIRD HALF FULL! Holy shit! Did I consume all of that and not realize it?!

 

I got up to relieve my bladder. NOW I realized it. After taking a LONG whiz, I went to my comfy bed and collapsed, bloated belly and all.

 

I awoke around two in the afternoon and realized I had forgotten some work I needed to take care of. The rest of my day was full due to my schedule and the fact that I had lots on my mind (this is relevant later). I finished up my daily events and arrived home about 6:30 PM.

 

That's when it hit me. First, a low rumbling, then a sound similar of a cat in heat, followed by a sudden powerful plunge of pressure below my abdomen. This was serious."

 

"My girlfriend was in the bathroom at the time so I screamed, “HONEY! I'M ABOUT TO GIVE BIRTH! GET ME SOME FORCEPS, HOT WATER & A GOOD "MAGAZINE!!” She blew me off, thinking I was kidding, so I picked the lock on the bathroom door and practically ripped her from the toilet seat (she was not pleased with this). She was only going #1 and daintily patting herself with a wad of toilet paper... she was almost done anyways.

 

I slammed the door shut after grabbing the newspaper and sat down. Ahhh, finally I was set... or at least I thought so. I began to push... nothing. AGAIN! Nothing. My gut was in extreme pain. I knew there was a brown infant in there trying to get out, but it wouldn't budge!

 

"I threw down the newspaper, grabbed hold of the sink with one hand and the windowsill with the other and pushed like I never pushed before. I pushed as if I was pushing on the door of a locked room with a guy named Harold wearing a french tickler and swim goggles saying “Is you is, or is you ain't my baby!”

 

Just as the veins in my forehead were about to burst, the tip emerged. I pushed some more. Slowly it started its departure, gaining momentum like the space shuttle taking off. It was on its way and my cornhole felt like it had expanded to about 5 inches in diameter!

 

It kept going. I had to stand up to make room for the tail end. Whew! It was finally over. Sweat pouring off my brow, sore muscles and a bright red throbbing anus... but at least it was over.

 

I don't know about you, but I always look at my dearly departed before flushing. I turned around to look. I couldn't believe my eyes! Before me sat a three inch in diameter, eleven-inch long... BooBerry! I mean this thing was BRIGHT BLUE! Amazing!

 

At first, I was scared. I was thinking, “What in God's name did I eat that was BLUE?” -- not remembering my hearty breakfast. I called over my girlfriend to observe. She took one look and left the bathroom. I started shouting, “Honey, what's wrong with me...it's BLUE!” She returned with three empty boxes of BooBerry. “Um... I... uh... I was... I was hungry?” She looked at me in disgust and left. At least the mystery was solved.

 

My only regret besides having an asshole that swayed in the breeze was that I did not have a camera handy. It really was an incredible sight!

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The 1997 Ass Olympics

 

Back in 1997 I used to travel with my best friend's carnival up & down the East Coast.  Since I was best friends with the owner, I got to run the games -- money, money, money!

 

Jeff and I have always been fascinated with grossing each other out in competition. It started in high school (yes, I'm a grown adult and no, I don't care about the immature nature of my past) with licking our hands when the other wasn't looking and then wiping it directly on the other guys face, yelling ""Ball sweat, ball sweat, I wiped ball sweat on your face!!"" I know, I know, you're saying ""How could they possibly out do that amazing prank?"" Tough act to follow.

 

We ended up progressing to the old fart-in-the-face trick, putting pubic hairs on each other’s toothbrush, pleasuring ourselves in each other’s shampoo bottles (I'm not proud of that one), and other jerky stuff. Even though all of this was great, we were overlooking the greatest folly known to man! It finally occurred to me. Pooping! That's where the fun begins.

 

Right before we left for our annual trip with the carnival, I proposed a challenge my partner in grime. I said, ""Let's have a poop contest!"" Jeff replied with, ""What do you mean?"" I said, ""I'm not sure, but I'll figure something out!""

 

We set off on our journey. First stop: New Jersey. We checked in at the hotel after driving for about six hours. We both had to poop, so we rushed the bathroom door, knowing the other would suffer from losing this race. I decided to poop in the trash basket in the bathroom. It had a plastic liner, but I figured I'd stay in there just long enough for the stench to rise.

 

I exited the bathroom only to get run over by an anxious person dying to use the facilities. After about five seconds I heard a loud ""AHHHHHH!!"", which lead to me falling off the bed, hysterical from laughter.

 

But things were quiet. Too quiet. All of a sudden, Jeff came flying out of the bathroom, laughing like a deranged elephant and swinging in circles above his head a plastic trash basket liner. He had added to my pile and thought it would be ""funny"" to throw the tied up bag of waste at me! It hit the wall with a splat/thud-like sound. Offended, I picked it up and whipped it back at him. This went on for about five minutes before we began to notice something was wrong. THE ROOM SMELLED LIKE SHIT!

 

It hit like a ton of bricks. I couldn't breathe! It was horrible (yet, somehow funny, since we both couldn't stop laughing). I yelled, ""Open a window, FAST!"" but we were on the 5th floor and the windows did not open. Terrified, we ran out of the room and into the hallway. ""What the hell are we gonna do now?"" Jeff said. ""I don't know, asshole! You started it!"" was my reply.

 

Truly a real dilemma. We decided to say ""screw the room"" and have more fun with the feces. We took turns placing it on the elevator and sending it to a random floor for a bit, but somehow it wasn't as fun. So we decided to put it in the ice machine and checked out.

 

Here's where the competition came in. The idea was to poop in the most outrageous place without getting caught. Since this story could easily be 5-6 pages long, I'll just run down the events.

 

• A dump on top of a toilet at a truck stop, replied with a dump on the roll of toilet paper and dispenser (that was a little difficult). One point for me.

•A pile in a McDonalds bathroom sink, replied with one in the urinal. One point for Jeff.

•A turd in an ashtray on top of the motel TV

• A turd dropped on a napkin and tossed off the balcony onto the bench in the courtyard.

•A poop in a cut-open can of Coke which was then put back in the bottom of the soda machine

•A poop dropped straight from my ass onto the yellow pages... opened up to ""S"" for shit, then closed and put back in the vending room.

•A pile on the hood of a car (at night)

•A pile dropped into a sunroof of a car (that one goes to Jeff).

 

Well, the games continued on and on all the way back home from the trip. There was one more rest stop before we hit our destination. One more chance to go for the gold. I was in the lead and Jeff was not happy. He kept rattling off places to shit and I would knock them down, claiming they would not beat my last victory. (I cannot reveal the place I pooped that put me in the lead -- people are still looking for me!)

 

As we entered a Roy Rogers rest stop, he asked what he could do to win. After going in, I said ""Take a dump in the ketchup dispenser!"" He wasn't interested. He was, however, determined to win, so he kept hounding me where to put his final piece. Tired of his whining I broke down and said, ""O.K., if you shit in the bubbler, you win.""

 

He thought about for a few minutes, looked at me and said ""How?"" I said, ""Back up to the bubbler (kiddie height), slowly bring the back of your pants down, push one out and then we'll make a break for it!"" He thought some more. ""I'll do it!"" he exclaimed. He took off and I took care of the garbage and wrappers from our meal. (Well, I didn't want to leave a mess! That would be uncivilized!)

 

After I finished, I walked around the corner to where the bubbler was. Sure enough, there was Jeff backed up against it, looking all around to make sure the coast was clear. Then all of a sudden, HE PULLS AN UNCOVERED TURD FROM HIS COAT POCKET AND DROPS IT IN THE BUBBLER!!

 

What was this?! It seems while I was cleaning up the table, he sneaked into the bathroom, pooped a small pickle-size nugget on the floor and put it in his pocket.

 

Jeez, what some people won't do to win! We ran outside and he quickly rubbed his hands in the dew-covered grass (like that's gonna help), and we headed home. I had to smell his filthy hands the rest of the way as he laughed it up.

 

Of course, I won by default, but to this day he claims to be the winner of the 1997 Ass Olympics. I say, ""Can you really be a winner with your own feces on your hands?"" You be the judge."

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Recipe For Ass Faucet

 

I live the typical bachelor life. My apartment is the typical bachelor apartment: once in a while my girlfriend comes over to clean up and stuff, but other than that it's pretty much a mess. I do the typical amount of bachelor shopping, so my fridge and cabinets are perfectly predictable. Condiments, bread crumbs, an empty jar of jelly, two eggs (each a year old), Ramen noodles and some powdered sugar. I don't drive, and the stores in my area close pretty early, so when it's late and I want a snack, I go through the sad contents of my kitchen (even though the same shit has been there for a year) and try and concoct some sort of edible meal.

 

A couple of nights ago I was in such a pickle. ""Let's see, what can I put together that won't make my stomach feel like that guy from Alien..."" As always, it was slim pickings, but being the creative-yet-incredibly-stupid idiot that I am, I started to experiment.

 

Driven by visions of myself triumphantly touting my incredible new culinary invention on Letterman, I started experimenting. I grabbed some outdated Cream of Wheat that was just sitting there, waiting to be thrown away, and poured it in a bowl. Next, I added about four tablespoons of powdered sugar... not too bad yet.

 

That's when I remembered how much I hate the taste of Cream of Wheat (I think it was in the cupboard when I moved here last year) and decided that it was time to be truly inventive. I poured about a cup of white cake mix into the bowl, figuring, ""I like cake! Cake is good!"" But I needed something thick to add texture (I'm an artist, I know all about texture and stuff), so I threw in half a stick of butter and some corn muffin mix. Yum.

 

But... I didn't feel artistically complete. I knew something missing. What could it be? Ah-ha! Some Pina Colada mix left over from last New Years! That should do it!

 

But before I ate, I lightly sprinkled some ginger on top -- all good chefs know that presentation is important.

 

I hope you realize I am not proud of this story.

 

I managed about three spoonful’s before my mouth went numb. Suddenly I wasn't hungry anymore. So, not being one to waste, I threw the bowl in the fridge.

 

Morning! Need to eat! Not remembering the three spoonful’s of repulsion, I grabbed the bowl and finished my gourmet cuisine. Things don't taste that bad when you're half awake and late for work.

 

I made it to work and started my busy day. About an hour later, I felt this enormous build-up of pressure in my gut. Since I work in a quiet art room where you wouldn't want to just bust out a big beefy, and since mine are always LOUD, I excused myself to use the facilities. After the bathroom door shut, I let out this huge pocket of wretched ass wind that quickly engulfed the entire room. Gag! I went to leave when I felt more pressure from below. Another giant muck cloud... this one lasted like a minute!

 

This went on all morning. Get up. Go to the bathroom. Come back. Sit down. Get up. I couldn't get any work done!

 

I discussed my problem with my friend at lunch. Ever astute, he asked, ""So, basically, you ate a bunch of powdered mixes and batters?"" ""Yeah,"" I said, ""but I added water!"" That earned a look of contempt.

 

My friend said to be careful, because ""ass faucet"" would be next. He also just had to point out that because I ate a bunch of uncooked mixes, I probably had a giant rancid gut muffin baking in my stomach. His wit was so appreciated that I graciously told him I'd give him the first bite when it was ready.

 

The rest of the day went the same, except now I did indeed have ass faucet. The farts were so loud and long that I was laughing out loud between fits of pain from the burning liquid death cake. (Why would this mixture burn? I have no idea.) I didn't realize that sort of combination would create such gas, such pain. But then again, I also didn't realize that this would not be the greatest snack in the world.

 

My friend busted on me all day without mercy. At the end of the day, as always, he gave me a ride to the bus stop. As I was leaving, he quipped, ""Try and make something non-toxic to eat tonight!"" ""Yeah,"" I said, blowing one of my giant stink biscuits in his vehicle and quickly shutting the door, ""thanks for the advice.""

As I waited for the bus, pondering my awesome revenge, I realized that the last blast of gas had left some residue behind. Yes, I shit my pants. It was only a little, but well worth it. I did not mention this to my friend the next day."

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The Time Capsule

 

I'm sure everyone's had some sort of twisted story from their wacky childhood. I know my childhood was chock full of them! Some relating to poop, some not. Most of my poop stories involve a certain person I'll call “Malcolm Dickstain”. He was my best friend all through growing up. Although, since he lived right next door, I didn't have much of a choice.

 

Malcolm was one sick individual. Put Malcolm and me together and you had a therapist's worst nightmare.

When Malcolm and myself were about 7 or 8 we used to spend our days playing together. Well, sometimes not together, but within the same vicinity of each other. Case in point: I remember playing with Tonka Trucks and Fisher Price toys while Malcolm would be... um... ah... playing(?) with Tupperware and his mom's Maxi Pads (unsoiled, thank god!). By this point nothing Malcolm did surprised me.

 

One particular day we were in the sandbox doing whatever. We were always bored, which is probably the reason for our undying love for the demented -- and when I say demented, I'm serious! Malcolm once tried to fuck a jar of nails “just to see if it would feel good.” Huh?! Oh yeah, I see the similarity: sharp, jagged, pointy metal objects vs. a soft, warm, loving female (or hand).

 

Anyways, Malcolm holds up a bright orange Tupperware salt shaker. It was about 4” high, 2.5” wide and had a removable top. He exclaimed, “I have to take a shit!” “OK, take one.” I said. “No, I mean I REALLY have to take a shit!” Well, what the hell does that mean? I said, “Look, if ya' gotta shit... go shit!” He sat and stared at a woodchip or something for about five minutes and then said it again, “I gotta poop!” “Your house is fucking 10 feet from here! Go in and poop all you want, you idiot!” I said. I couldn't figure out his problem. What was he getting at?

 

Looking back, it seems as if I was in a VERY bizarre episode of “Ren & Stimpy” or something. And yes, we did swear like that at our age. We both had well- versed parents who cared enough to prepare us for the grown-up world early.

           

"That's when I saw it: that all-to-familiar glaze in his eyes. He had an idea brewing (among other things).

 

See, whenever Malcolm wanted to do something that would be considered stupid by others, he'd try and get me to “dare” him. That way, afterwards he could just say, “Well, HE DARED ME!” This was one of those moments. He picked up the Tupperware container, studied it, looked to the sky as though there was a lightbulb in a cloud above his head, and said, “Dare me to shit in this Tupperware cup.”"

 

“"What? No! You wanna shit, go in the house you diddler!” I replied. “C'mon, just dare me PLEASE?!” This was pathetic. “Why?” I said. “I don't know... I just wanna... c'mon, PLEASE!” I couldn't take his whining anymore. I said, “Fine. I dare you to shit in the cup. Ya happy now?!” Like a wild screaming banshee, he flew across the yard into a small patch of trees in the undeveloped lot next door. I started thinking to myself that maybe it was time to make some new friends.

 

He returned five minutes later with this huge grin on his face, holding the cup and skipping. He showed me his monumental achievement with glee. Out of sheer curiosity I glanced over. The fucking cup was brimming full! And not a speck of shit on the outside!! Fucking amazing! I was about to ask how he was able to do this and then a sense of better judgment came over me. That's when he started chasing me with the shit filled cup yelling, “Poop in a cup, poop in a cup... it's gonna get ya!”

 

I'm guessing by now you've figured out that this is not an intellectual story.

 

After I finished kicking his ass, I demanded he get rid of the Cup o' Plenty. He carefully put the lid on and waited for the patented Tupperware “burp.” He looked at me, then at the cup, and then threw it into the patch of trees. We made up from our fight and I said “I'll see ya later.” I assumed it would be much later, considering he'd be spending most of his time pulling his poopspackled underwear off. No, he didn't wipe.

 

Well, it might have ended there, but eleven years later, while visiting my mom's house (right next door to Malcolm's house), I got a phone call. It was Malcolm. He was visiting his parents as well. I guess he saw my car and knew I was there. He was screaming hysterically to come over his parents’ house and that he had something to show me. I had nothing better to do, so I headed over.

 

As I crossed the yard, I saw Malcolm jumping in place by the curb side. I reached where he was and saw a crooked smile on his face, which could only mean two things: either he had gas, or something was gonna happen that would result in me kicking his ass. He said nothing. “What?” I said impatiently. He said nothing, still holding his crooked smile. Suddenly, my eyes were drawn down to a brightly colored object lying next to the curb.

 

Apparently the land next to Malcolm's parents’ house had been purchased and developed. I guess somehow during the process the time capsule had been resurrected and thrust yet one more time into my miserable life. I looked up at Malcolm and instantly saw him transform back into the seven-year-old I so fondly remembered. Before I could say a word, he dove for the cup with intentions of opening it.

 

“Oh no you don't!” I exclaimed. We fought and wrestled like two primitive animals fighting over a kill. During the process, Malcolm somehow managed to open the cup. We froze.

 

Curiosity , that cursed demon, had gotten the best of me. We both slowly peered inside the cup. What was once brimming full of Malcolm's brown butt custard was now a quarter full, and by god -- he had created a color! Amazing! As I was pondering which of the primary OR secondary colors could have possibly been used to create such a blend, Malcolm had retrieved a stick. An ass kicking was in order.

 

With a rebel yell, Malcolm plunged the stick into the orange cup and shook it about. I lunged at him and began to serve him his punishment. We fought and punched over his adolescent-like behavior when suddenly we were stopped dead in our tracks by a horrific odor. It engulfed us like an invisible fist (although, I'm sure I saw a green cloud) determined to choke us to death! After puking my guts out, I slugged Malcolm in the face and went to my mother's house.

 

OK, you've hung in there so far, so I'll get to the end of the story. After about an hour, Malcolm called me again and said I had to come over AGAIN! I guess he had forgiven me. Considering I felt bad for hitting him in the face (and that I was leaving anyways), I gave in and went over.

 

He was once again standing next to the curb where the cup had landed. Pointing down, he said “Look!” I stopped staring at the red fist-shaped mark on his face and looked down. Before us, a pure white slug-type creature slowing making its way out of the orange cup! It was about 1 1/2 inches long with an extremely fat circumference. Whatever this thing was, it had been eating Malcolm's anal meal for eleven years! I would have puked again, but my stomach was empty.

 

Malcolm, on the other hand, was so excited that I thought he was gonna run around handing out cigars like a proud papa. He yelled “I'm gonna step on it!” He looked at me, I looked at him, and then I punched him in the face.

 

What's the point of this story? Nothing. It's just another turd in the toilet bowl of my life. But I did learn one thing: sometimes, a seven-year-old's intellect is right on the money. I should have found new friends."

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Shaming The Shameful

 

I made a trek on over to J.C. Penney the other day. Not my usual place to hang out, but the girlfriend had bared her fangs and said that we we're going. I don't argue with a woman on a mission. For those of you who have accompanied a significant other on their shopping sprees, I don't have to tell you what a boring and painful experience it is. I'd rather have my fingernails pried off with a butter knife. What I won't endure to get me some!

 

Anyways, after about an hour of looking at the exquisite fall fashions and overpriced housewares, I was about to jam a fork in my ass, 'cuz I was done! That's when I was saved by my truest of friends: my bowels. Yep, I had to drop a mean load -- which meant I could get away, for at least a little while, from the excitement of a white sale.

 

“Honey, I have to drop a parcel. I'll be back,” I said to my disinterested girlfriend. I ventured through the layaway department, found my sanctuary, quickly went in and identified my throne of choice. Thankfully, the facilities were somewhat clean and pleasant. I dropped trou and let loose my vengeance on the cursed department store.

 

It was a sloppy departure, requiring lots of grunts and groans to push the ass mud out. That's when I noticed I had a comrade in the stall next to me. Being the Shameless Shitter that I am, I decided to ham it up and let out my battle cries and other sounds of excruciating pain -- just for my audience's amusement.

 

I heard a muffled cough from the other stall. Obviously a Shameful Shitter. Great! My mission was to liberate this poor bastard from his Shameful shackles, or just make him feel extremely uncomfortable.

 

After I had finished with my symphony of bowl destruction, I heard my neighbor start to unravel some TP. I did likewise. He heard me and stopped, so I stopped. He started, I started; he stopped, I stopped. This went on for about five minutes. He obviously did not want us to leave the stalls at the same time -- typical behavior for a Shameful Shitter.

 

My ass was growing numb as a thumb whacked with a sledgehammer, so I decided to finish up. I flushed, exited the stall and proceeded to wash my hands.

 

Total silence.

 

Well, since I was bored and wanted to have some fun, I decided to toy around with Mr. Shameful.

 

“How's it going in there?” I said out loud. No reply.

 

“You almost done in there, slick?” I said with an expression of glee. “Uh... yeah.” he said. Finally! A reply! I had him now.

 

“You should have seen the gruesome display I just unleashed! I'm barely alive!” I said, snickering.

 

No reply.

 

“Don't spend too long in there, or you might flame up your 'roids,” I said. “Um... OK,” was the response."                                

It was time to let the poor bastard finish his duty. I left, saying, “Ok, I'll see ya,” as I exited the bathroom.

 

When I got into the layaway section (right outside of the crapper) I decided I needed to see whom I had been sharing a brown moment with. I sat on the bench and waited. After about a minute or so, he emerged.

 

I said to him, “Everything come out OK?” He said, “that was you?!” in a surprised tone. “Yep. Why? You expecting Dom Deluise?”

 

“I thought you were my boss!” he shrieked. Obviously, we had a fine young JC Penney's employee on our hands. “I thought I was getting busted on for spending too much time in the can,” he said, relieved.

 

“Well, rest easy, it was just me. And by the way, any boss that grumbles over long bathroom visits should be shot.”

 

“Yeah,” he said. “They're really cracking down on that here.”

 

After our exchange of words we had a good laugh over the situation, and he was pretty cool about it. I explained that I was bored waiting for my girlfriend. I told him to never put his bowels in jeopardy over some overbearing superior -- it's just not right. He told me I was a little loopy.

 

I found my girlfriend and demanded (well, more like asked politely) to leave. But at least the trip wasn't a total loss.

 

So there you have it. I have taken a step in the Liberation of the Shameful. I encourage all of you to do the same. Did I mention that I stuck a PoopReport bumper sticker on the inside of the stall? Hopefully, others will be liberated and thus drawn to our fine site! (Yes, I am such a loser that I carry around PoopReport.com bumper stickers.)

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Would A Boy Raised By Wolves Clean His Ass With His Tongue?

 

Chatting with a friend the other day, an interesting topic came up: underwear shit stains. Why were we discussing racing stripes? Well, I'm not sure, but it probably had something to do with the fact that Seinfeld wasn't on at the moment, so I had time to kill. I watch that show about seven hours a day.

 

At first, we were laughing at our encounters with the brown remains -- not so much of our own buttprints, but of witnessing others with this terrible affliction. I remember giving someone a wedgie in grade school and seeing the brown line rise from behind his pants waist. Not a bad deterrent against giving further wedgies. I was so sickened that I never bothered him again!                                                                                                               

 

The conversation continued that way until my friend (who insisted on remaining nameless for the purposes of this story) mentioned that his mother's husband had a “problem” with the topic at hand. This piqued my curiosity because I knew the afflicted. The chat turned a corner, and we found ourselves in an in-depth discussion about why brown streaks seem to be a problem for some people. It seems that my friend's mother's husband -- let's call him Wentworth, just for the hell of it -- has had this issue for quite some time. Wentworth is a short, thin, relatively healthy man in his sixties, so his issue has nothing to do with being unable to reach his nether regions. And yet it was told that this man would soil his whities beyond repair -- and that he's also been known to leave the dreaded skid mark on his pants as well! That's some serious soilage!

 

Apparently, Wentworth and his wife weren't getting along, so he was sent to sleep on the couch indefinitely. Which meant, my friend said, “he would also leave racing stripes on the sheet covering the couch in the living room!”

 

“Did he soil the sheet THROUGH his underwear?!” I asked in astonishment. Can you imagine being able to penetrate a double layer with your crack tracks? (Truth is, he probably sleeps nude... but still!)

 

My friend explained that Wentworth had grown up poor and that his mother had died at a young age. Considering his other personal hygiene issues, it is believed that he simply was not taught how to take care of himself. Wentworth's wife (my friend's mother) says that she is almost 100% certain that he either doesn't wipe, or just wipes once and figures that it's good enough. She also said that she was tired of trying to clean shit stains out of everything. (My question: why the hell did she marry this guy?!)

 

Common sense must tell you that you wipe until your bottom is clean -- but for someone who did not have the proper upbringing and toilet training, it may not be that simple. Can a person honestly walk around with a shit-spackled butt and not know it? Or -- can a person walk around with a shit-spackled butt and just not care?

 

I guess these issues must also be at play for those who reek of body odor, considering they have no problem shoving their pits in my face on the subway. There are many aspects to this question! The smell, the obvious evidence on the underwear, the discomfort one must feel with dried shit in their ass... I could go on, but I'm sure you get the point.

 

I can only theorize that people with this problem were not taught how to take proper care of their bodies. Not only from the age of their first poop, but straight on through their school days (surely someone should have noticed!) and in to the working world -- a lack of oversight both from mom and dad, and then society in general. It's fascinating to me that a person like Wentworth can exist in this world without caring about anyone else's opinion of his offending (non) habits. (The fact that his wife put up with it adds to the mystery.)

 

Perhaps we take our post-poop rituals for granted. Have you ever thought about how you developed your bathroom habits? Until now, I never did. I always assumed my knowledge, habits and preferences related to the potty were instinct, second nature. But it's obvious now that these are learned behaviors. Could it be that everything we do in the bathroom is taught -- and that instinct plays no role in the bathroom whatsoever?

 

My friend and I wrapped up the discussion, deciding it was a mystery best left alone; but I extend the discussion to you, my fellow PoopReporters. Still, regardless of what is said here, I stand by our conclusion: Wentworth's underwear is something that is best left alone. Shudder.

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GoBidet: I Doo

 

As most of you know, I recently got married. I also had the extreme pleasure of having PoopReport's own Dave, his fiancé Jenny, The Big Wiper and Will in attendance. Considering the fact that I had never before met these PoopReporters, and not knowing when we would get the chance to socialize again, I suggested we get together the night before the wedding and shoot the shit.

 

Well, we did and fun was had by all. We discussed the site and its members and other miscellany. Believe it or not, we also discussed non-poop related topics. Yes, we are just that sophisticated.

 

And then the surprise: Dave and the gang told me that while I was busy planning my wedding, he was busy gathering up some of my PR friends to go in on a token of their best wishes. He pulled out a box and handed it to me, saying something like, ""Here man, this is from your friends at PoopReport."" I was shocked and awed!

 

I opened the gift. What is this? Could it be... yes... I think it is...a ... GO BIDET!! What a most fitting gift! I was overcome with emotion. I would've given Dave a tongue kiss, but he didn't look interested.

 

Go Bidet is an attachment that turns your toilet into a bidet, or buttsink, as we like to call it. The Go Bidet has a long history here at PoopReport -- Dave reviewed one for the site, and Doniker tried one out in The Journal of Ass Production. I'd heard the stories -- the sweet rush of water over the most tender areas, the economics of a TP-less life (which is good, considering I'm a thrifty, cheap son of a bitch!) -- and now I was going to get to see for myself.

 

Since the wedding, I've dreamed of my soiled rim being gently kissed by a spray of heavenly warm water, washing it clean after a physically draining episode of Murphy's Brown. What a sweet, sweet feeling that would be. Last week, I finally found some time to install my most coveted wedding gift (besides the fuckload of cash!) and officially enter the life of luxury.

 

I opened the box and, like a typical man, cast the instructions aside. I observed the shiny object in all its splendor. This thing was so freakin' cool! I broke out my toolbox and headed for the bathroom. After getting into position on the floor, the first thing I realized was that the area behind my toilet was fucking filthy. There was no way I was going to work down there before scrubbing the neglected area with some heavy-duty cleaner. Plutonium would have come in handy."

 

"That done, the second thing I realized was that despite my primal urge to figure

this thing out myself, I was going to need the instructions. The last thing I wanted was a broken toilet thanks to my dominant primate brain.

 

I grumbled out frustrated utterances as I tried to make sense of the installation process. The Go Bidet came with an extra part for ""one-piece"" toilets. Huh? What the hell is that? Which do I have? The top of the tank comes off -- does that mean it's a two-piece? Whatever. I assumed I had the standard toilet and proceeded.

 

Then I realized that to connect the hot water to the bidet, I would need to drill out part of my cabinet to access the hot water line. I wasn't prepared for this. In fact, my toolbox only contains a multi-use screwdriver, a few rusted screws and graham cracker crumbs. Bob Villa I ain't.

 

To hell with the hot water, I decided, and I finished up the installation. I turned the water main back on and cleaned up my mess.

 

Now, by chance the bidet just happened to be installed in the ""off"" position -- which is good. I wouldn't have known if it was on or off because I had failed to read that far into the instructions.

 

After admiring my handywork, I decided it was time to see how this nifty gadget worked. I started to play with the levers and knobs. The lever swung the arm part of the bidet under the rim, and the knob released a spray of water, which ricocheted off the rim and on to my face. You saw that coming, didn't you?

 

After wiping off the water and whatever crap from under the rim that was now on my face, I finally put two and two together and realized how this thing worked, which is all the more reason why the next thing I did makes no sense. I swung the arm into center position (middle of the bowl) and turned the water on.

 

Okay, so I'm not the brightest bulb in the bunch. A rocket of high pressure water jetted into the air, hitting my ceiling with so much force that an explosion of plaster chips scattered everywhere.

 

I quickly turned it off.

 

I'm supposed to sit over this thing? Whoa.

 

I burst into laughter and called my wife over. She was very agitated -- she needed to use the facilities and I was in her way. I said, ""Watch this!"" and did it again. More of the ceiling fell down. I was in trouble.

 

After finishing my dinner and pondering the lecture my wife gave me about the toilet not being a toy, it was time to REALLY test out this new bathroom feature. I proceeded to sit down for my daily shit. When I was done, I moved the lever into position under my ass and slowly moved the knob for my cleansing. I turned the knob only a little bit and felt a splash of cool water on my o-ring. I increased the pressure gingerly, kind of like how you hold your hand over a flame and lower it to see how close you can get before burning your stupid hand. I remembered the beating my ceiling took and turned it off before water bolted through my ass and out my eye sockets. It was a very crisp, cool sensation. Kinda like eating a York Peppermint Patty with my ass.

 

I'd like to thank my friends here at PoopReport.com for this wonderful wedding gift -- for my wife and I, the gift of rectal Xanadu.

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TOTALLY FAKE POOP STORY...OR IS IT?

 

It seems that a lot of the stories posted here on Poop Report are doubted

and deemed "fake ". No one really knows for sure (except for the author), but

lots of comments question the authenticity of either certain aspects of a

tale or the whole story itself.

 

Well, I've decided to submit a different kind of story. A story which is

partially truth, partially fiction. See if you can decipher which is which.

Here goes.

 

My poop interest really had started to develop in my teens. I would talk

about it with my friends John F. Kennedy, Robin Williams and Luke Skywalker.

I remember enjoying explaining what my shit looked like to them and getting

their responses. I remember telling Luke about this odd plaid colored turd I

dropped after eating a chocolate covered kilt. He wasn't buying my story,

though. He said, "Bullshit. They don't make chocolate covered kilts!"

 

Anyway, the same day, I was dropping off Babe Ruth from baseball practice in

my new Porsche (I could afford the Porsche because I had just sold the

rights to a song I had wrote, "Hey Jude") when Babe said, "Thanks for the

pointers today. Pretty soon I'll be able to hit a homer!". I said, "No

problem." and drove off.

 

Just then as I drove down a deserted highway a strange, flying object landed

in front of me. I slammed on the brakes and looked in awe at the huge,

awesome object. A door opened. Out came 20 guys all dressed like Rick James

with snorkel gear and holding ice cream scoopers.

 

They approached me slowly. They were muttering something like "Can't Touch

This" and clanking their scoops. The leader stepped forward and said. "You,

human. We need a stool sample."

 

Talk about demands! I said, "Umm...ok...but I don't have to go right now."

The leader said, "This will help." A bright light flashed and gallons of

chilli, coffee and moldy chocolate came flooding into my car as I helplessly

consumed what pushed its way into my mouth.

 

"Hammer time!"  the leader proclaimed. "Follow us to extracting table".

Well, I would have no part of having a turd "extracted from me", so I gunned

the gas and ran over all 20 of the little super freaks.

 

When I arrived at the Playboy Mansion, Hugh greeted me at the door and said,

"Where have you been! Carmen Electra has been looking all over for you!" I

told him of my strange experience and that I suddenly needed to use the

bathroom.

 

After literally fighting off the bunnies I made it to Hugh's personal

bathroom (which, in comparison, was nowhere near as big as mine). I sat

down and began reading as I awaited the alien induced muck. After about

3/4's of the way through reading War & Peace I felt the rush...but something

wasn't right. It also tickled. I pushed out my liquid stream with a few

chunks for texture and turned around to view my departed.

 

Too my amazement, there was Mick Jagger’s head coming out of the bowl

holding a feather duster...covered in shit! "Mick!" I said. "What are you

doing in there?!" He said, "I know it's only slop in bowl...but I like it!"

Whatever. I flushed Mick and my shit out of sight and decided to call it a

night.

 

I went home, had sex with my maid Gillian Anderson and called Burt Reynolds

to tell him it was time to lose the 'stache. I think he was a little

occupied, though. I could've sworn I heard Dom DeLuise yelling in the

background, "Time for the cannonball!"

 

I woke up the next morning and took a shower with Suzanne Sommers. I let her

call me "Jack" and she proceeded to thoroughly wash my 12 ft. penis. Joyce

Dewitt was sulking in the other room. She'd have to wait until Wednesday for

her turn.

 

After drying off, I decided I needed a new look. I was gonna get my ass

pierced today! And maybe a tattoo of Lassie licking herself on my chest. I

proceeded to do both and was complemented when I wore my buttless jeans and

unbuttoned shirt. I was styling!

 

Here's the weird part.

 

After eating Van Gogh's severed ear for dinner I really had to shit. Must

have been all that wax. I went to the toilet and proceeded to push out some

nice soft serve. Clearly a multiple wiping situation.

 

I went to grab some toilet paper (the special kind made out of silk and velvet) and realized

that I was all out! Hmmm. The only alternative I had was some left over

wrapping paper from Christmas. I proceeded to endure the pain with each wipe

and finally finished. I saved the soiled wrapping paper for next year.

 

By then the feces will have dried and might make a nice festive addition to the

decoration of a package. I would have showered, but it was Monday and on

Mondays my shower only emits strawberry milk. I was more in a vanilla type

of mood.

 

The day was over and time for bed. I put on my Mork from Ork Underoos on

and drifted off to sleep dreaming about my alien experience and just how

were they planning to extract shit from me?

 

I woke up the next day refreshed, but with a weird feeling in my ass. I

reached down and pulled out an ice cream scooper. I thought, this is

strange, I don't even like ice cream! Oh well. I ended up boxing it up and

wrapped it with my "special" Christmas paper. I was going to send it to Burt

Reynolds. At least that's one person off my Christmas list to buy for! But

what was I gonna get for Chaka Khan?

 

I ate about 3 and 1/2 boxes of Booberry cereal for breakfast and went back

to bed. What happened later is so unbelievable that I'm not even gonna

mention it!