Shit Stories: Part Number Two
As a regular service to our readers, we've been re-opening old questions.
Once again, we want to hear your stories of shit, poo and number twos. Go on - be filthier than last time.
( , Thu 27 Mar 2008, 14:57)
As a regular service to our readers, we've been re-opening old questions.
Once again, we want to hear your stories of shit, poo and number twos. Go on - be filthier than last time.
( , Thu 27 Mar 2008, 14:57)
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I never knew whether to laugh or cry
I guarantee on pain of death that this is 100% true.
At the end of a meeting of my girlfriend's university friends in Huddersfield, which was at Frankie & Benny's (My most hated of all restaurants), I had the overwhelming urge to visit the toilet.
While everyone was waiting for the bill to arrive, I cautiously hobbled towards the bathroom, as the slow realisation came to me that something of substantial pressure was pushing against my sphincter.
Leaning into the cubicle, and taking a seat, I was unsurprised that within seconds,
PTHCHECKHCKECHCEKECTHTHTHTHTPPPPTHRP!
a tidal wave of epic liquid scheisse spewed forth from my anal cavity cascading toward the transparent depths below.
This continued for a further five minutes, until I felt that enough of the gravy was gone that I could relax.
Now, as some of you may know, in the toilets of Frankie & Benny's they play a 'teach yourself Italian' CD or something equally inobtrusive to the faecal experience; a man saying something in Italian, and a woman calmly saying what he just said, but in English.
Then I heard the immortal phrase:
'non ci รจ carta igienica'
and with exquisite timing, i reached to my right hand side to hear the woman calmly translate what I was experiencing at the time:
"There is no toilet paper".
PANIC.
I tell you, I almost shat.
In this situation, I felt exactly what the title of this post says. I laughed, I cried, I wondered how the hell I could get out of this without just assuming the embarrassment would kill me, and ending my own life.
My quandary was now how to deal with my gravy-coated posterior. There was only one way (I now realise that there were two ways, but that is beside the point).
I jumped up and looked into the other cubicle to see if there was anyone looming, and as quick as a shit-stained ninja I opened the door and dashed as fast a man with his pants around his ankles could into the next womb of thinking tranquility.
I'm so glad that noone walked in at that point where I was waddling between cubicles, else they would have seen on top of clenched legs what presumably looked like a fleshy balloon that had been cleaved with what appeared to be a melting chocolate axe.
Less about length, more about fluid ounces.
( , Mon 31 Mar 2008, 16:30, 5 replies)
I guarantee on pain of death that this is 100% true.
At the end of a meeting of my girlfriend's university friends in Huddersfield, which was at Frankie & Benny's (My most hated of all restaurants), I had the overwhelming urge to visit the toilet.
While everyone was waiting for the bill to arrive, I cautiously hobbled towards the bathroom, as the slow realisation came to me that something of substantial pressure was pushing against my sphincter.
Leaning into the cubicle, and taking a seat, I was unsurprised that within seconds,
PTHCHECKHCKECHCEKECTHTHTHTHTPPPPTHRP!
a tidal wave of epic liquid scheisse spewed forth from my anal cavity cascading toward the transparent depths below.
This continued for a further five minutes, until I felt that enough of the gravy was gone that I could relax.
Now, as some of you may know, in the toilets of Frankie & Benny's they play a 'teach yourself Italian' CD or something equally inobtrusive to the faecal experience; a man saying something in Italian, and a woman calmly saying what he just said, but in English.
Then I heard the immortal phrase:
'non ci รจ carta igienica'
and with exquisite timing, i reached to my right hand side to hear the woman calmly translate what I was experiencing at the time:
"There is no toilet paper".
PANIC.
I tell you, I almost shat.
In this situation, I felt exactly what the title of this post says. I laughed, I cried, I wondered how the hell I could get out of this without just assuming the embarrassment would kill me, and ending my own life.
My quandary was now how to deal with my gravy-coated posterior. There was only one way (I now realise that there were two ways, but that is beside the point).
I jumped up and looked into the other cubicle to see if there was anyone looming, and as quick as a shit-stained ninja I opened the door and dashed as fast a man with his pants around his ankles could into the next womb of thinking tranquility.
I'm so glad that noone walked in at that point where I was waddling between cubicles, else they would have seen on top of clenched legs what presumably looked like a fleshy balloon that had been cleaved with what appeared to be a melting chocolate axe.
Less about length, more about fluid ounces.
( , Mon 31 Mar 2008, 16:30, 5 replies)
Ha! I remember having to do the ninja bog dash in school once! *clickety*
( , Mon 31 Mar 2008, 16:35, closed)
Nice turn of phrase
"fleshy balloon that had been cleaved with what appeared to be a melting chocolate axe"
genius
( , Mon 31 Mar 2008, 17:20, closed)
"fleshy balloon that had been cleaved with what appeared to be a melting chocolate axe"
genius
( , Mon 31 Mar 2008, 17:20, closed)
Melting Chocolate Axe of the Monkey.
+3 Agility, +3strength, -1 trousers. *click*
( , Mon 31 Mar 2008, 21:01, closed)
+3 Agility, +3strength, -1 trousers. *click*
( , Mon 31 Mar 2008, 21:01, closed)
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