Nothing but Shit
me and my girl were about to do it in her living room were gettin pretty hot i wont go into to much detail but this is while her parents were at work we get goin and i whisper in her ear whos your daddy then i hear a deep voice behind me say i am …
Because both my parents worked from nine to five during the summer when I was eight years old, I spent the days at the house of a neighbor who babysat me. She had two teenage daughters and two toddler sons of her own. Her two year old, Kevin, was in the process of toilet training; he was often put into big boy pants but had frequent accidents, and so was usually kept in diapers.
One afternoon I was watching television in the living room with Kevin beside me on the couch. His mother had put a pair of big boy pants (tightie-whities) on him, and— because the day was so hot – nothing else. She asked him several times if he was sure he would remember to tell her if he had to go to the bathroom, and reminded him repeatedly to do so. Kevin assured her that he would; the assurance of a two year old, however, is not something that one can always consider truly reliable.
Kevin and I were watching The Love Boat while his mother was in the kitchen feeding Kevin’s younger brother, Eric, and I was lost in episode. Kevin sat next to me quietly, sucking his thumb. When I happened to look over at him I saw a stream of pee running down the front of his tightie-whities and onto the couch.
Kevin took his thumb out of his mouth and called, “Peein’, Mom! Peein’! Peein’ now!”
Of course, his mother was none too happy. Exasperated, she snatched him up and hauled him upstairs to clean up. She shouted angrily, “You said you would tell me when you had to go! Why didn’t you tell me you had to go, Kevin?”
Bewildered, Kevin insisted that he had told her.
A few weeks later, Kevin, had been relegated once more to wearing diapers around the clock. He had dropped a really nasty load into his diaper and was taken upstairs to be changed by his sister, Teresa. I could hear her. She exclaimed in disgust the entire time. I don’t know what the kid had eaten for breakfast that day, or for supper the night before, but Kevin had truly dropped a bomb.
From the living room couch, I could see Teresa and Kevin, who were at the top of the stairs. She had put a fresh diaper on him and was carrying him down the stairs, swinging him gently by his arms as they went. When they arrived downstairs, Teresa sat down on the couch next to me with Kevin on her lap. Kevin sucked his thumb while the three of us watched whichever cheesy eighties Aaron Spelling show happened to be on that afternoon. A few minutes went by and then Kevin let out a grunt, followed by a wet-sounding fart. Teresa looked down at her lap and gasped, and she then lifted Kevin and stood up abruptly. There was poo oozing from Kevin’s diaper, and there was a fair amount of it on her jeans.
Poo continued to drip out of Kevin’s diaper and onto the carpet in lumps as Teresa rushed him toward the staircase, all the while yelling, “Oh no!” and, “Kevin!” over and over. By this time Kevin’s legs were really muddy and covered with brown streaks. Chunks of that brown continued to break loose and land on the floor.
Teresa rushed him up the stairs, and from the way it sounded put Kevin into the bathtub, and then she turned on the water. And as is my habit, I howled with laughter. I could hear Teresa freaking out from upstairs, heatedly, and apparently Kevin could hear me as well, because he laughed when he heard my laughter – the way little kids will sometimes do. His laughing made me laugh all the harder and the two of us carried on, howling, hooting, and giggling, for several minutes. Teresa was none too pleased with Kevin, nor with me.
I can’t say that I blame her. It sucks to get pooped on, and then to have to clean up doody from the floor (the poop trail ran through the living room, all the way up the stairs, and into the bathroom), one’s jeans, and one’s small brother. It probably sucks more still when people are laughing about it, especially when one of them is the perpetrator of the mess, and the other is a kid who has absolutely no intention of helping clean it up. I don’t know when Kevin ever learned to control his bodily functions, because the summer ended before he was given another chance to wear big boy pants.
I went out to eat with my boyfriend tonight at a diner-type restaurant, and he had to go to the bathroom after we paid the bill. He was in the bathroom for five minutes when I began to wonder if he was taking a poop. After ten minutes I realized he was and decided to go out and warm up the car. (Yes, by the way, it was ten actual minutes. I watched the clock in the foyer.)
It was another five minutes before he came out to the car.
When he came to the car, he got in the passenger side and started bitching at me. He said that I was rude, and that no matter how long it takes I should wait for him to come out of the restroom. I told him I didn’t see the big deal, especially because I had thought to do something nice like warm up the car.
When we got back to his house, my boyfriend was still complaining and his father asked why he was mad. I told his dad, mom, and older brother, and his older brother made fun of him when he came back into the kitchen. His older brother asked my boyfriend if he wiped well, his mother said it was no big deal, and his father just went into the living room with a beer. My boyfriend went upstairs without saying goodbye, and I left. He broke up with me in a text while I was driving home.
What the hell? Is what I did so bad, or should I be glad this guy is out of my life now?
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!
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?