My Shitty

My three year-old has had bowel movement problems ever since he started to eat solids. We have tried just about everything to help him, short of taking him to a specialist (and freaking him out). So, he gets very constipated, and out of fear, he refuses to poop.

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

When I was fourteen years old, I managed to clog the same toilet at the same restaurant twice in six weeks.

The first incident took place in April of 2004. My dad and I had stopped at the restaurant for pizza on the way to go a nearby store. I had not even finished eating the two huge slices of pizza I had ordered when I felt the urge to poop. I quickly finished eating and headed into the bathroom. I thought that the poop would come out easily because the urge was so strong, but I couldn’t have been more wrong. I pushed and strained for at least five minutes before a handful of turds that resembled chocolate-covered raisins emerged from my anal canal. I knew I was not finished pooping, so I remained on the bowl. As I continued to push, I listened to the rock music that was blasting on the restaurant’s stereo system. I can remember to this day that at the zenith of my pushing that “Always Something There to Remind Me” was playing. After another few minutes, a baseball-sized turd emerged. I quickly got up off the bowl and tried to flush, but to no avail… the turd simply would not budge. I quickly washed my hands and fled the bathroom.

I figured that I would never clog the toilet there again, but a mere six weeks later in May of 2004 I found myself at that same restaurant. Once again, I could feel the pressure building up as I finished my pizza. Just as I had done six weeks earlier, I headed into the bathroom. This time I did not need to push nearly as much as I had had to the first time. After one quick push, the turd emerged. It was long and thick… probably at least eight inches long and an inch-and-a-half thick, if I remember correctly. I also needed to use quite a bit of toilet paper, as the turd had been a bit mushy on the top. I tried flushing the toilet twice, but the water and the turd just rose closer to the top both times.

After quickly emerging from the bathroom, I ran over to where my dad was waiting and whispered, “Dad, we need to get out of here right away! I clogged the toilet again!” We quickly bolted out the door and hoped that we would be allowed back there again without finding a Wanted for Turd Terrorism sign and my picture hanging up on the door.

For the record, we were allowed back in.

Poop Report

After a big home-cooked meal at my mothers, my daughter and I started our 15-mile drive home. A few minutes into the drive I could feel that home-cooked making its way down. I was gonna’ need more room and the thats when the grumbling started.

For a minute I considered turning around, but I didn’t want to inconvenience my parents, and it was getting late. Five miles into the drive the urge was getting pretty strong, and I found myself I started talking to my daughter. “Oh Boy, Honey, Mum’s gotta poo-poo… Oh Honey, I hope I can make it.”

She became my cheerleader, saying, “You can do it, Mum!” I, however, was’nt so sure.

I started to seriously consider stopping on the side of the road, but it was a dark and in the country, and ever so often a car would drive by. By now the situation was pretty intense, and I knew this wasn’t gonna be any ordinary poo. My dialogue with my daughter became more and more urgent. “Oh-oh Honey,” I had began, “I dont think Mum is gonna make it!”

At last our town was in sight. I knew of a gas station on the outskirts and celebrated with my daughter. I flew in the parking lot with my cheeks clenched and ran to the door.

No lights. No one around. Bad sign.

“Closed?” I yelled, “What the Hell am I gonna do?! I should’ve pooped in the woods! Who cares about bears and boogeymen… I am literally gonna poop my pants!” I ended up back in the car, looking around around. Should I poop on a towel? On a t-Shirt? A plastic bag?

I couldn’t bring myself to do any of these things for the risk of scarring my daughter, or even possibly undo years of potty-training. Instead, I started driving toward home, and with no stores or stations open or nearby I turned on to a random street. Houses lined the street, but there on a corner was a row of storage buildings. I grabbed some napkins out of the glove box and said, “You stay put. Mum will be right back.”

By now I didnt even care. I dropped my pants, looked around, and relieved my self; if a car drove by the people in it would have quite a show. I pooped a deuce for the record books, and I felt a twinge of guilt for leaving it like that.

I got back in the car, and right away my daughter said, “I gotta poop too, Mum!” Ha. Sorry hon, I thought, you can wait till we get home.

The next day I told my mum of the adventure. She was shocked and appalled. “Oh, that is disgusting!” she said. “You know if you’re caught doing that you’ll be charged with destruction of property or something like that, and some poor person’s dog is gonna roll in it! Shame on you!”

Wow, Mom, thanks for your support. Haven’t you ever had the have-to-go-now feeling when it wasn’t convenient? I guess if there’s a next time the plastic bag it will be…

Poop Report

I had split up with my girlfriend a couple of weeks ago, and I was feeling down when a good friend called and invited me out to the local pub. “Great!” I thought, “I could use some relief and friendship.” It was not long before we chatted up two alluring young women at the bar. One thing the led to another, and before long we were dancing and drinking way too much.

It didn’t take much persuasion for “Sarah” to invite me to her apartment. When we got there, we flopped on the couch and exchanged niceties until she leaned over and whispered a proposition in my ear.

“Yes!” I cried. I stood up and she divested me of my pants and underwear and began to give me, um, er, oral ministrations. My legs were shaking so much that I had to sit on the couch. Her expertise had me on the edge for a long time. Finally, the ministrations reached a crescendo, and we disengaged.

After a while, I dressed. It was then, with rising horror, that I saw a shit stain on “Sarah’s” beige couch, exactly where I had been squirming a few minutes before. The stain was about half an inch wide and maybe four inches long. I immediately grabbed a pillow and positioned it over the stain, hoping this would give me time to think what to do. Should I tell her, or try to escape unnoticed? Should I beg for forgiveness and clean it up?

She came back into the living room and remarked, “That pillow doesn’t go there.” I recognized in her a neat and clean freak, and felt a rising wave of nausea as she grabbed the pillow.

She shrieked and the pillow fell from her hands. “Was it you who made this stain?” she implored. I knew right then I had to confess.

“No, it was your dog that did it.”

“I don’t even have a fucking dog!”

“Yes, it is mine,” I allowed.

“Well, then clean it up, for fuck’s sake!” she shouted.

“Alright,” I croaked, “Give me a toothbrush and some Lysol.”

Well, I scrubbed the stain and some of it was coming off; but shit on beige? Good luck. “This is the best I can do,” I moaned. Soon, I was banished from the apartment and onto the street.

Several weeks later, I saw her dancing and drinking with a new guy. “Heh,” I thought, “he`ll probably soil the other side of the couch. Great revenge!”

Poop Report

Once upon a time, I was living in Anchorage, Alaska, and working in a bistro that shall remain nameless. The employees’ restroom of this particular bistro was located in the cellar below the main dining room. Although employees were permitted to use the restrooms designated for customers upstairs, most people would use the downstairs potty for number two.

One day I came in for work and headed downstairs to hang my coat. The door to the employee bathroom was standing open, and the owner of the restaurant was alternately gagging and exclaiming in disgust as he viciously jammed a plunger into the toilet. I didn’t want to get too close because my boss seemed pretty upset, and because I assumed that there would be an eye-watering stench, hovering in the air in and around the restroom.

The owner came out after a few minutes cursing T., one of my coworkers. I asked what had happened, and he told me that there had been a huge turd lying in the bowl that had refused to be flushed away after several attempts. I couldn’t help but laugh, and I asked whether I had heard him say T’s name. The owner was angry:

“T claimed to have found it there! FOUND it THERE? Some kind of mystery turd? Of course it was his! And then he left it for me to get rid of! What an ass! It stuck to the bowl and wouldn’t go down. I had to smash it into little pieces with the plunger to get it to go away.”

Of course I related the story to the other employees. T. wasn’t the most popular person who worked there, and everyone got a kick out of the story. The “Mystery turd” became somewhat of an inside joke around the restaurant, and we kept a close eye on T. We hoped to catch him in the act if he left another big one behind.

A week or two later, T. was fired from the restaurant. Although he wasn’t the best worker, or was well-liked by the other employees, I still wonder whether the “mystery turd” was the real cause of his termination.

Poop Report