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 in the military some years ago, a fellow soldier named Dave related the following story to me. I don’t remember how the conversation veered into the direction that it did, but I have always remembered this story because it is simultaneously hilarious and sickening.

Dave said that he once had a roommate who was quite the ladies’ man. This roommate brought different girls home all the time and got freaky with them in the common rooms of the house (living room, kitchen, bathroom) in addition to his bedroom. Apparently the roommate, who we’ll call Barry (as in dingle), was either a bit of an exhibitionist or just didn’t care who saw him have sex. One night, Barry had picked up yet another drunken bar bimbo and brought her home. Dave said that he was in his own room but could hear Barry and the bimbo getting it on in the living room: moaning, grunting, shouts of “oh, yeah, baby” and that tell-tale rhythmic noise that means humping is going on.

After a half hour or so, Dave said that he heard a blood-curdling shriek from the bimbo and then she cried, “Oh my God, OH MY GOD! What the hell is WRONG with you?”

Concerned, Dave left his room and went into the living room to see what the crisis was. The scene he encountered was that of the bimbo lying on the floor, flat on her back. Barry was crouching over her; apparently they had been engaged in oral sex, and Barry had been the recipient. Apparently, in his enjoyment, Barry had relaxed so much that his bowels had disengaged, and the poor bimbo was now sporting a rather large and cohesive turd on her stomach.

Dave said that she was screaming at Barry. “Get it off! Get it offa’ me!” she yelled. Barry, however, was still crouching over the bimbo with his johnson in hand, with an expectant look on his face like he expected the oral ministrations to continue. Dave said that he seemed a bit put out that the bimbo had stopped what she had been doing to him.

The bimbo continued to shriek while Dave stood dumbfounded across the room from her. After the bimbo insisted several times that Barry get the turd off of her stomach, he looked around on the floor, grabbed the bimbo’s underwear, and attempted to wipe the turd off, but instead succeeded only in smearing it around on her stomach.

Dave underwent a shaky, hysterical laughing fit once the initial shock wore off and then went to get the bimbo a wet towel and a plastic bag. He told her that she could take a shower if she wanted, but she cleaned up quickly and got the hell out of there in a hurry, despite Barry’s insistence that they finish what they had started. I don’t think this could be properly described as a Cleveland Steamer (who knows where Barry was from, though) because Barry didn’t slide his butt cheeks or any other part of his anatomy around in the poo. Perhaps a Blumpkin? Or Hot Karl?

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