| T O P I C R E V I E W |
| Silky The Pimp |
Posted - 01/21/2005 : 6:59:22 PM
It's been a while since I've passed on any stories like this to you all... enjoy.
-J
Forty Days And Forty Nights
Now, forty days is an obscene amount of time to go without food; but after reading my Bible, I determined that if Jesus could do it, then so could I. I read some books on the subject, made my plans, set a date, and stopped eating. All that I had was diluted juices and water.
Days 1-4
Nothing interesting happened during this time, except maybe that the consistency of my poo became as I described above ... a milkshake, with bananas.
Day 5
I have to take a moment and define the word 'shart.' A shart is when you attempt a fart and -- how shall I say it -- you get more than you bargained for. Instead of only a fart, you 'draw mud,' or shit yourself. Farting is especially dangerous when fasting. Which I learned -- the hard way.
I began day five of my forty day fast with an early morning prayer meeting, accompanied by a friend who was also fasting. My stomach was gurgling and making strange noises to be sure, but all was well; I was in control. We were praying right along when I guess I got excited. With all the passion inside me, I poured out my heart to God in supplication. I was sitting on the ground with my legs crossed when I leaned forward to get up. I completely miscalculated the bowel control that I possessed because when I leaned, a high-pitched squeaky fart sounded, and the entire contents of my colon came spewing out into my shorts. I sharted. Dark, almost black chocolate shit sauce fired out of my semi-puckered colon. Instantly I went from spiritual bliss to a shitty mess.
My buddy saw and heard the whole thing. I quickly stood up to survey the damage; and when I did, all he could do was laugh his ass off. I have never seen someone come unglued so quickly. Our pious exercise quickly degenerated into a locker room scene. Here I was, standing in his study, shit running down my leg, and he was literally falling off the couch where he was sitting onto the floor, laughing hysterically. The smell was awful -- like a freshly carved pumpkin and gym socks. Nauseating, really; I believe that remnants of shit that had hibernated for years made their entrance that day.
I had to waddle to the bathroom with a hand on my shorts to keep the chocolate sauce from running onto the beige carpet. I asked for a couple of towels and his wife had to bring them because he was rolling on the floor laughing at me. My underwear was beyond repair, so I threw them in the trash. It took about thirty minutes, but I finally cleaned up and went home commando -- shaken, but resolute in my quest for spiritual power.
Days 6-7
Nothing to report. I mean literally nothing. No movement, no farts. Nada.
Day 8
It was mid-morning. I was sitting in my room, reading my Bible and meditating on eternal things. I had just taken all of the sheets off of my bed to have them washed (something I try to do every week). I was just sitting there, engrossed in what I was reading, when I subconsciously lifted a cheek and let out a fart.
I swear I wasn't thinking. I'm a guy; this is just what we do. Many years of farting have conditioned me to not think about a fart. When I feel one coming, I push and lift a cheek to get the proper relief and maximum amplification. If I'm lucky (which I rarely am), I get to savor the aroma.
Not this time. Nothing good and holy came out of my ass on this fateful day. No, like a freight train running over Helen Keller, I was caught completely off guard. My anus spewed death on my mattress. Pure death. I literally got shit INTO the mattress.
Into the inner workings of the mattress did shit enter.
I was shocked, confused, and bewildered. It was the smell that got me. I don't know how to describe the odor... It was base, earthy, with a hint of musk. Almost hormonal.
The inner workings of my large and small intestine lay there on the bed. On the place where I slept every night. The mattress acted like a coffee filter -- only the liquid passed into the mattress; what was lying on top resembled chocolate shavings like on a piece of cake you would get at a fine restaurant.
The mattress surface wasn't that wet, either, which I thought was odd. Only a brown stain about the size of a half-dollar. I surmised that because I passed the liquishit with such force that it didn't have time to adhere to the mattress cover. I'm no physicist, but I bet this could be explained on the molecular level.
Anyway, I surveyed the damage and began the messy cleanup. This required another pair of underwear, taking a shower, wiping the mattress, and then scrubbing it and leaving it to dry in front of a fan.
I retired for the afternoon.
... more story after ...
[end]
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| 6 L A T E S T R E P L I E S (Newest First) |
| Silky The Pimp |
Posted - 01/24/2005 : 7:15:08 PM
I had to stop reading the first one several times because I was laughing too hard to see it... partly because that type of humour still makes me laugh... but also because it relates to a friend of mine, a story involving said friend, and a bet, and-- well it's a pretty funny situation and we can leave it at that. |
| Jiyra |
Posted - 01/23/2005 : 8:54:35 PM
you guys have to give a warning next time! I was in the middle of eating my cereal and read "The sound gradually transitioned into a heavily modulated low-RPM tone" I choked! I'm not much of a child, but I do enjoy a well described fart every now and then, but seriously, I coughed up half-eaten frosted flakes in the midst of my laughter! |
| guitarted |
Posted - 01/23/2005 : 1:05:22 PM
If you liked this story you'll probably enjoy this one
http://www.eldtrain.com.au/members/humour/humour23.htm
not quite as long a read, and it gets pretty ridiculous |
| GuitarGuy305 |
Posted - 01/21/2005 : 11:42:00 PM
quote:
Originally posted by Silky The Pimp
I began day five of my forty day fast with an early morning prayer meeting, accompanied by a friend who was also fasting. My stomach was gurgling and making strange noises to be sure, but all was well; I was in control. We were praying right along when I guess I got excited. With all the passion inside me, I poured out my heart to God in supplication. I was sitting on the ground with my legs crossed when I leaned forward to get up. I completely miscalculated the bowel control that I possessed because when I leaned, a high-pitched squeaky fart sounded, and the entire contents of my colon came spewing out into my shorts. I sharted. Dark, almost black chocolate shit sauce fired out of my semi-puckered colon. Instantly I went from spiritual bliss to a shitty mess.
God has a plan...
Adam |
| Muskrat |
Posted - 01/21/2005 : 11:35:07 PM
That first one was hilarious... funniest thing I've heard this week.
And that makes post #100 for me! *gets up and does the dance of joy around the computer chair* |
| Silky The Pimp |
Posted - 01/21/2005 : 7:01:11 PM
Here's another... with stunning detail... stunning.
-J
The Dropped Call
Posted 10.12.02004 by H.R. Poopnsquirt
All in all, it hadn't been a good day. Bad traffic, a malfunctioning computer, incompetent coworkers and a sore back all made me a seething cauldron of rage. But more importantly for this story, it had been over forty-eight hours since I'd last taken a dump. I'd tried to jumpstart the process, beginning my day with a bowl of bowel-cleansing fiber cereal, following it with six cups of coffee at work, and adding a bean-laden lunch at Taco Bell. As I was returning home from work, my insides let me know with subtle rumbles and the emission of the occasional tiny fart that Big Things would be happening soon. Alas, I had to stop at the mall to pick up an order for my wife.
I completed this task, and as I was walking past the stores on my way back to the car, I noticed a large sale sign proclaiming, "Everything Must Go!" This was prophetic, for my colon informed me with a sudden violent cramp and a wet, squeaky fart that everything was indeed about to go.
I hurried to the mall bathrooms. I surveyed the five stalls, which I have numbered 0 through 4 (I write a lot of software) for your convenience:
Occupied.
Clean, but Bathroom Protocol forbids its use, as it's next to the occupied one.
Poo on seat.
Poo and toilet paper in bowl, unidentifiable liquid splattered on seat.
No toilet paper, no stall door, unidentifiable sticky object near base of toilet.
Clearly, it had to be Stall #1. I trudged back, entered, dropped trou and sat down. I'm normally a fairly Shameful Shitter. I wasn't happy about being next to the occupied stall, but Big Things were afoot.
I was just getting ready to bear down when all of a sudden the sweet sounds of Beethoven came from next door, followed by a fumbling, and then the sound of a voice answering the ringing phone. As usual for a cell phone conversation, the voice was exactly 8 dB louder than it needed to be. Out of Shameful habit, my sphincter slammed shut.
The inane conversation went on and on. Mr. Shitter was blathering to Mrs. Shitter about the shitty day he had. I sat there, cramping and miserable, waiting for him to finish. As the loud conversation dragged on, I became angrier and angrier, thinking that I, too, had a crappy day, but I was too polite to yak about in public. My bowels let me know in no uncertain terms that if I didn't get crapping soon, my day would be getting even crappier.
Finally my anger reached a point that overcame Shamefulness. I no longer cared. I gripped the toilet paper holder with one hand, braced my other hand against the side of the stall, and pushed with all my might. I was rewarded with a fart of colossal magnitude -- a cross between the sound of someone ripping a very wet bed sheet in half and of plywood being torn off a wall. The sound gradually transitioned into a heavily modulated low-RPM tone, not unlike someone firing up a Harley. I managed to hit the resonance frequency of the stall, and it shook gently.
Once my ass cheeks stopped flapping in the breeze, three things became apparent: (1) The next-door conversation had ceased; (2) my colon's continued seizing indicated that there was more to come; and (3) the bathroom was now beset by a horrible, eldritch stench. It was as if a gateway to Hell had been opened. The foul miasma quickly made its way under the stall and began choking my poop-mate. This initial "herald" fart had ended his conversation in mid-sentence.
"Oh my God," I heard him utter, following it with suppressed sounds of choking, and then, "No, baby, that wasn't me (cough, gag), you could hear that (gag)??"
Now there was no stopping me. I pushed for all I was worth. I could swear that in the resulting cacophony of rips, squirts, splashes, poots, and blasts, I was actually lifted slightly off the pot. The amount of stuff in me was incredible. It sprayed against the bowl with tremendous force. Later, in surveying the damage, I'd see that liquid poop had actually managed to ricochet out of the bowl and run down the side on to the floor. But for now, all I could do was hang on for the ride.
Next door I could hear him fumbling with the paper dispenser as he desperately tried to finish his task. Little snatches of conversation made themselves heard over my anal symphony: "Gotta go... horrible... throw up... in my mouth... not... make it... tell the kids... love them... oh God..." followed by more sounds of suppressed gagging and retching.
Alas, it is evidently difficult to hold one's phone and wipe one's bum at the same time. Just as my high-pressure abuse of the toilet was winding down, I heard a plop and splash from next door, followed by string of swear words and gags. My poop-mate had dropped his phone into the toilet.
There was a lull in my production, and the restroom became deathly quiet. I could envision him standing there, wondering what to do. A final anal announcement came trumpeting from my behind, small chunks plopping noisily into the water. That must have been the last straw. I heard a flush, a fumbling with the lock, and then the stall door was thrown open. I heard him running out of the bathroom, slamming the door behind him.
After a considerable amount of paperwork, I got up and surveyed the damage. I felt bad for the janitor who'd be forced to deal with this, but I knew that flushing was not an option. No toilet in the world could handle that unholy mess. Flushing would only lead to a floor flooded with filth.
As I left, I glanced into the next-door stall. Nothing remained in the bowl. Had he flushed his phone, or had he plucked it out and left the bathroom with nasty unwashed hands? The world will never know.
I exited the bathroom, momentarily proud and Shameless, looking around for a face glaring at me. But I saw no one. I suspect that somehow my supernatural elimination has managed to transfer my Shamefulness to my anonymous poop-mate. I think it'll be a long time before he can bring himself to poop in public -- and I doubt he'll ever again answer his cell phone in the loo. And this, my friends, is why you should never talk on your phone in the bathroom. Do your business and get out.
-- H.R. Poopnsquirt
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