It has now been found that instead of global warming, the fire was caused by someone who burned her toilet paper after taking a dump. Not only was the fire due to negligence, but the negligence occurred at a Rainbow Camp in the area, a camp that many bloggers have claimed is connected to Greenpeace. While I cannot verify this fact, I did find through some research that the Rainbow Family Camps are held worldwide and attempt to project messages of peace, love, and unity. The meetings occur all over the world and often concentrate on environmental issues. (Apparently, some of them also go bad, as this link takes you to an article about one Rainbow Camp participant from a 2009 Arizona gathering who was beaten with a frying pan.)

The Greenpeace organization still has yet to retract its claim that the fire began due to global warming instead of toilet paper sparks.

If there are any Poopreporters reading this who camp on a regular basis we’d love your input on whether it is safer — and just as ecologically sound — to bury the toilet paper as it is to burn it. What method do you use?

Poop Report

The California Shakeout Drill of 2010 happened on October 21st at 10:30 A.M. All schools throughout the state participated. My student population, however, all sit in wheelchairs, so you can imagine the challenge to secure student safety and evacuation if a real quake hits.

Knowing the designated simulation time gave us a nice excuse to conveniently enjoy the outdoors close to our respective emergency spot on the playground area. The drill bell rang. We were evacuated. My class and staff accounting list was filled out and I checked in at the emergency station. We were safe, but the San Andreas in my bowels sounded an abrupt tremor. I started to sweat. Toilets were close, but how would I justify sneaking back into an evacuated building during an important yet fake emergency drill? The decision was quickly dictated by the prediction of an 8.5 ass explosion on the sphincter scale. As memorable as it would be, I was not about to shit my pants in front of the whole school. My co-workers saw my plight as my face turned pale.

“I’ll be right back!”

I ran into the building and secured a stall. As my vertical fault line went to work, the first designated point person opened the men’s restroom door. I recognized his voice; it was the Plant Maintenance Manager.

”Anybody in here?”

”Yes!”

The fault line continued to rupture.

A second point person opened the door a minute later. I didn’t recognize her voice.

”Anybody in here?”

”Yes!”

By the time the third point person opened the door, I was almost finished wiping the slimy sludge from my crevasse. This time it was our new principle:

”Anybody in here?”

”Yes! Sorry. I’m almost done.”

The door closed. I finished, quickly washed my hands, and exited the place of salvation. I scooted back outside but not before passing my boss.

As we walked out of the building together, I told him I was already accounted for. He must have known I wouldn’t jeopardize an important drill unless my situation was dire. And from the stench, I’m sure he knew.

Poop Report

The privacy curtains were pulled around my bed, and I resigned myself to the fact that this could take some time. It doesn’t take a scientist to know that food that’s been baking in your ass oven for several days ain’t gonna’ smell good when the oven door is opened, and this doozie was no exception. After releasing noisy quantities of gas that would put half a dozen rotten eggs to shame, I finally managed to squeeze out a relatively decent-sized log. I took a bit of a break to get my energy back, and called back the lucky nurse to collect my delivery.

By this time the whole room stunk, and I wished that the windows in the hospital room would open wider than the pitiful few inches designed to keep people from jumping out of them (the other occupants of my room probably wished that as well…so that they could jump out..). Needless to say, I was slightly embarrassed by the situation. No one wants to have to stink out a room, but hey – it’s a hospital, right? These things happen. When the nurse finally came and pulled back the curtains, to my horror I saw my entire class waiting with presents and Get Well balloons. They’d all been privy to my hospital privy.

Poop Report

15% of all energy in future in Europe, according to the European Union powers that be (cretins of the first order), must come from renewable sources. Biomethane, produced from anaerobic digesters (controlled bacteria) which convert turds into biogas is a perfectly good form of gas to heat houses and to use for cooking and should work well.

Several other utility companies have said that they hope to create enough energy from the product of the innards of the good folk of Britain to fire up many homes.

In Manchester, United Utilities have said that they intend to have up to 500 new homes by the summer of 2011 running from the quantity of shite produced by them and their close neighbors; I have no doubt that this is true.

John Morea of Scotia Gas Networks was quoted as claiming that this is “recycling at its very best”, and that the gas would be cleaned to the highest standards… as if that was possible! I fear that the good old British turd, one fueled by curry, beer and kebabs from these inner city types might retaliate and blow up these new gas conversion plants and cause major backfires before they are are fully processed. I hope that I`m proved wrong!

Poop Report

I have to give him laxatives to help him poop; however, not too long ago the laxatives were not producing results. His stomach was distended and I knew he really had to go. This being the case, I went to the store and bought an enema. Not a fun process to pull off.

Poor little guy.

I hated to give it to him, but he had to get rid of some of that poop. A few minutes after administering the enema, I knew by the noises he was making that there were going to be some results. I grabbed an old towel in case of an extra big mess was on its way. Then, I laid him on the couch to clean him up and get a new diaper.

It smelled horrible. Worse than normal.

I lifted his legs to wipe his bottom and to my extreme surprise a huge, twelve-inch poop torpedo shot out directly into my lap. My clothes were covered with poop, as well as the towel. The poop even got between the cushions of the couch. After the shock of the experience was over I laughed my ass off and told him he just did an awesome big poop. He was very proud of himself! Having been in the living room, my other two children were also laughing hysterically. Talk about one hot mess!

Poop Report

I kicked open the stall door and slammed my pants south faster than a virgin stomping down the pedal of a weather-beaten go-kart, desperate to beat his grandma to the finish line. Though my dilation was maxed out, a slight problem crossed my rusty frigate’s escape to freedom; the surface of the porcelain poop processor was covered with a gallimaufry of colored liquid. So there I stood, faced with the hardest decision of my life – brave the mystery fluids of my fellow foul man, or chance to clean it away and hope my mystery lava surprise didn’t burst through my rusty brown cork and melt a hole in the bathroom wall. I performed the latter with the grace and swiftness of an amateur female tennis player, and I was closer than ever to unclenching my way to the halls of victory.

As I pivoted my buttocks toward the large white bowl, my invisible safety pin broke loose and I misfired a shard. This shard in turn ricocheted off the tiled wall and landed on my bare big toe, for I was wearing sandals; but that was a problem for a later time. I continued to drive my bum down for a harsh meet and greet with the abused seat.

As I started my fierce push towards relief, I felt an intense stinging sensation in my rectal area. It felt like one of my Aunt Stacey’s famous giant meatballs – covered in pieces of broken glass and barbwire – was slowly being pushed out of my impending Anus of Doom. To reiterate, it felt as if Chuck Norris had somehow climbed inside of me and then proceeded to make his way out of my rust hole as slowly as possible, boot first, with recycled syringes, needles out, duct taped to every square inch of his body. I was 99.84% sure my ass was bleeding, but in a futile attempt to give myself one last reprieve during this shit from hell I refused to look.

I then remembered this girl in my fourth grade math class telling me that we use our abdominal muscles to push out poop. Boxers have strong abs, I thought, so I flexed my abs and punched myself in the stomach as retarded hard as possible, and the demon porcupine turd from heck came rocketing out. It was followed by a flood of what seemed to be a never-ending hot tsunami of diarrhea.

After about thirteen seconds of high velocity mudslides, and a following fifteen seconds of baby nuggets and misfires, the barrage ended. I felt as though I had received an ever so gentle handy behind a tool shed from the mother in the Beethoven movie. As I dashed the sweat from my beading brow with my tenderly shaking wrists the bathroom door opened, and a gentleman wearing shorts and a pair of white and yellow tennis shoes took a position at the urinal next to the occupied stall. A brief moment after the gentleman started pouring out his yellow stream of relief, I heard the screeching of feet lightly slipping and then a bang. The man had apparently caught a whiff of my demon shit and briefly collapsed against the wall that separated us. He tried to speak, but he appeared to be befuddled, and released a garbled string of something undecipherable and without translation:

“Shim—er—ing sasperite…”

He seemed to recover long enough to finish his business, and exited the bathroom without washing his hands. I balled up almost a literal quarter roll of toilet tissue and began the daunting task of damage control; a call to FEMA would have been in order, if I had the time to spare. By some ridiculous miracle, I managed to escape the wiping with unsoiled hands. I refastened my pants, exited the stall, washed my hands six times for good luck, and emerged from the restroom with minimum damage to my well being.

As I was leaving the store, a young lady stopped me and said, “Excuse me, you have a clump of dirt on your toe.” I smiled, thanked her, and walked into the sunshine.

Poop Report