My Shitty

A couple of years ago, my current girlfriend and I started dating. We were getting comfortable with each other; I had no problem ripping big ones around her. I liked to believe I was training her to appreciate my farts, since she did not share a love toilet humor with me — yet.

We started dating at a time when I was drinking a good amount of beer on a regular basis, beer that was providing me with ample enough butt pressure to rip the big ones. Despite my girlfriends objections, I seemed to be winning the fart war, having gained the right to rip almost anytime and anywhere in her presence.

On this one particular evening we were watching TV while laying down on the bed. I had imbibed a couple of beers and was feeling warm and content when a familiar feeling of a fart started creeping down the barrel of my howitzer. This was nothing unusual, so I slightly spread my legs and braced for the recoil.

The fart seemed to hesitate, however. I pushed a little to ease it out of the firing chamber, and it relented. But it did not exit alone. Along with the fart shot out a jet of smelly hot brown substance! I bolted from the bed and ran for the bathroom, startling my girlfriend.

I heard her from the bathroom. “Oh My God!”

When I opened the door my girlfriend was changing the bed sheets, because the fart had pushed the stream of brown liquid right through my boxers and jeans and onto her bed. I just stared in disbelief.

I’m really happy she did not dump me after that “dump” I took on her bed.

Poop Report

This is one of the worst months I have ever had. To begin, I had two cavities filled, and then those two fillings turned into two abscessed teeth that kept me up for two days. I had to go back into the dentist and have two root canals performed, and the pain medication that I was given? I ate like candy. A week later I woke up and my jaw was swollen. I went to the doctor’s and found out the infection from my tooth had spread to the bone in my jaw (my mandible). I was prescribed more pain pills and antibiotics. Well, this is where the poop comes in. I couldn’t go, so I had to leave work because the pain in my lower back was unbearable.

At home I tried everything to induce poop but with no results. I called my doctor and told her about the extreme pain, and asked if I should just head to the hospital. She said no, and I headed to my doctor’s office. After a finger up the butt and an X-ray, my doctor was about to send me home to perform an enema, but that quickly changed when I explained that now I also could not pee. When she heard that, she told me to go to
the hospital right away, because my blockage was now pressing on my bladder and blocking my ability to pee. I should have listened to my gut and went there in the first place.

After awhile I was assigned a room, and a nurse hooked me up to an I.V. By this time the pain of my bladder filling out matched the pain in my back. I had to scream for a nurse and she came in and cathed me, which
wasn’t pleasant; on top of all this mess I was in the heavy part of my period. Once I’d been cathed the pain in my back returned.

Three hours went by, and then a very crabby and most unpleasant nurse came to give me an enema. I walked down the hall to a bathroom. She had me bend over as she stuck a tube up my butt, and then she told me to hold the soapy water in as long as I could . I sat on the toilet and she left, but she told me she had to leave the door slightly opened ( you have to be kidding me) because the bathroom was in a very public area. I held that soapy water in as long as I could and then came the flood, the best feeling I
could have hoped for at that moment. Not only did I go, but my system ended up as clean as a whistle. Then my doctor came in (young and cute to add to my embarrassment) and checked the toilet, and then said I was good to go.

Now to this day anytime I have a problem going I have flashbacks of that eventful day — a day that I don’t want to relive. The lesson I learned from this experience is to take a stool softener when I am on pain pills and antibiotics. Doctor’s orders, you know.

Poop Report

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Poop Report

I used to work at an office that was in front of a warehouse. I was on my way to work recently during the rush hour when I realized that my morning poop had sneaked up on me. There was nowhere to pull over, so I said fuck it and kept driving. While driving, I began to plan how I was going to release this morning poop once I got to work, but thinking about it made my situation worse. It was making it hard to not go in my pants. Compounding the situation was what awaited me once I actually got to work: I had two doors to unlock, an alarm to disarm, and I had to do this all while still not pooping the pants.

I managed to unlock the doors and disarm the alarm without incident only to get into the washroom and to forget where the light was, as this was the office washroom. This predicament left me with three choices:

1. I could attempt to find the light (and risk filling my pants).
2. I could fill my pants.
3. I could whip the butt out and poop on the floor.

I chose option three.

Once I finished doing the morning deed on the floor, I then found the light switch and turned it on. I had to jump back. Holy Poopers, I sure pooped a lot! To make matters worse, it was not a solid poop. This left me in even more trouble, because I had to figure out how to clean this mess up in fifteen minutes. It was then that I discovered that there weren’t any paper towel to work with.

All the while that I cleaned, I had to repeat a mantra in my mind. I kept telling myself, “Don’t throw up, don’t throw up, just another poopy mess to clean…” Until today that messy morning poop has been my secret.

Poop Report

I was sixteen and trying to get my best friend into weightlifting. I was really into it, but he never had really tried it, even though there was a set of weights and bench at his house for some reason – a really cheap and crappy set. It was one of those sets where there is a barbell and a couple of dumbbells that you load as you see fit with crappy weights that are plastic discs filled with concrete.

I had some leftover weights from a set of the same manufacturer, so I brought them over to his house one day and started showing him a routine for chest and arms. I was considerably stronger than he was; we had to add much more weight when it was time for me to do a set and take that much off when it was his turn. Just as we had finished adding weight for my set, he said something to the effect of, “Wow, I gotta take a dump right now. You lift. I’ll poop.”

I decided to do just that – lift while he pooped. We were using the bench press, a lift where you lie back on a bench and put your hands straight up in the air to grab a long bar with weights on either side of it. You then lower the bar to your chest and raise it again. We had every weight in both of our combined sets on the bar, which was only about 180 pounds, including those cheap set meant for non-serious lifter. I did a couple easy reps, and then I heard my friend’s furious pooping noises from the bathroom across the hall.

The noise he made that day could have been the funniest noise ever to be emitted by any human orifice in the entire history of mankind. The violence of it suggested that he was being propelled upward off the toilet with every blast and then landing on the seat when the blast ended. They were also louder than any butt blast that I had ever heard, or have since. And the timing was freakish. He let one short one go just as I was lowering the bar to my chest, and I immediately started laughing so hard that I couldn’t push the weight up. I had to balance it on my chest for a few seconds until I could compose myself. As I started lifting it up, he let fly with a longer, louder one that again broke my concentration, and had me laughing and balancing the weight on my chest again. Every time I got ready to lift the weight off my chest he’d respond with a new blast that dwarfed all of his previous ones. They sounded like Harley-Davidsons plowing through a foot of mud, the exhaust pipes submerged below the surface but the engine running at full power. After a few blasts, I was in disbelief that he had anything left in him at all, let alone enough to blow out an even bigger blast.

I don’t know how long this went on. Having 180 pounds on your chest, even if you are laughing uncontrollably, makes time seem longer than it is. After one blast – which was so loud it sounded like he was sitting next to me – a mental image sprang to mind of my best friend in a sitting position, clutching the underside of a toilet seat that seemed to have been partially blackened with explosives. He was just hovering in that position, because he had utterly destroyed the toilet that was at one time supporting him. His face was contorted into a look that was a mixture of rage and triumph, like when the Incredible Hulk would finally smash his enemy after a long battle.

It was then that I looked up and saw his mom standing still outside the bathroom door. She looked at me, laughing and trapped under a barbell, and then she looked at the bathroom door where she heard her son mercilessly assaulting the toilet. A serious, slightly concerned expression appeared on her face. She then turned toward the bathroom door again and said, in a very soothing motherly voice, “Hush, delicate one.”

For some reason, her remark was funnier than if my friend had just blown the bathroom door off its hinges with one final ass blast. I knew then that any hopes of getting the weight off my chest were gone. I tilted the bar to one side to dump the weights off of it. The clamp on the end gave way, being cheap and crappy, and not capable of holding the weights. With that side free, the other end of the bar dropped, releasing weights off the other side, and so I was free. Needless to say, no more lifting was done that day.

Poop Report