What made you laugh hardest...?

What made you laugh hardest...?

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Discussion

Yachtworker

1,248 posts

154 months

Monday 8th October 2012
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That's the 1st time I have ever read that and honestly it made me cry. I know toilet humour shouldn't, however this was bloody well written and it matters not a jot wether true or fabricated, very very funny for 0645 on a Monday morning!

PostColonial

13,553 posts

204 months

Monday 8th October 2012
quotequote all
goldblum said:
smile The central theme of the joke is a fair maiden's delicate sensibilities being challenged by a bloke trying to woo her but having his chances dashed when his bowels decide they've clung onto the earlier curry for far too long.

That's it.

It's a man being forced to have a dump and a woman being forced to experience it. It's a literal 'fart in a lift' joke.
It's like BSR and Victor Meldrum had a depressive child.

The Moose

22,821 posts

208 months

Monday 8th October 2012
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Made me laugh. Again. rofl

PinkRinse

365 posts

168 months

Monday 8th October 2012
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I'm crying with laughter and honestly thinking that if I dont stop laughing and actually breathe, I might just pass out.

goldblum

10,272 posts

166 months

Monday 8th October 2012
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PostColonial said:
It's like BSR and Victor Meldrum had a depressive child.
LOL I'll assume 'Meldrum' is deliberate.

StottyZr

6,860 posts

162 months

Monday 8th October 2012
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Yachtworker said:
That's the 1st time I have ever read that and honestly it made me cry. I know toilet humour shouldn't, however this was bloody well written and it matters not a jot wether true or fabricated, very very funny for 0645 on a Monday morning!
I'd read an extract of the story on the toilet etiquette thread, now I read the full story it is even funnier.

I've just had to thrash around like an idiot to stop me laughing out loud in the office, I don't think anybody noticed

Legend83

9,947 posts

221 months

Monday 8th October 2012
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Fun Bus said:
Do we share who it was?!
Twas Soovy, I believe.

yes

Smitters

3,995 posts

156 months

Monday 8th October 2012
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Some PHers may be aware of the Beermountain site, which was where I picked up the link of this truly excellent tale. Linky: http://www.lemans2006.co.uk/socks.htm

A Beermountaineer said:
1998


Well, it all started with the choice of campsite I suppose. Expo. Opposite the pub, and just down the road from the main entrance and grandstand. It was my first time at le Mans, the atmosphere was great during qualifying, and I was really looking forward to watching the start from Tetre Rouge, one of the best places to watch it from according to Skipper.

We arrived on Wednesday afternoon, pitched the tents, got some food down our necks and proceeded to drink beer. After 8 or 9 of those crappy little French bottles, it was time to drop some off at the urinals, so I wandered off to the nearby toilet block. There was some strange French woman sitting outside with a plastic tin full of change, and a retard grin on her face. Must be a janitor type person I guessed, whilst noting the size of her arse, and figuring a massive dose of gene therapy would be the only way to breed it out of her family. I bet the midwife slapped her mother instead of the baby when she was born. Anyway, in I went. No urinals to be seen. Must have to piss in the bogs then, I guessed as I swung the door open on the first trap.

“Some has nicked the bog” was my first thought. Closer inspection however revealed a shower tray type thing with a 5 or 6 inch hole towards the back, and some mouldings towards the front on each side.

Slowly it dawned on me. These were the infamous “long drop” toilets that I had heard old people in pubs talking about when discussing their trips to “the continent” when they were young. Apparently you have to squat like a homesick muslim whilst trying to aim your turd down the hole, simultaneously doing your very best to not to piss on the shorts you didn’t have the foresight to remove.

'Well, I’m fked if I’m pissing in that' I thought to myself, even though the previous tenant had done a fine job of pissing all over the entire apparatus, (probably in a effort to wash some of the st off of it, in my considered opinion) so I moved on to the next door in search of a proper bog. No such luck, and a cursory inspection of all the other cubicles revealed that they were all long drops. Never being one to duck a challenge, I decided to have a piss in the last cubicle, being careful to adopt the Gallic custom of pissing all over it. No point in going abroad and not absorbing the local culture in my view.

Once relieved, I sauntered out of the toilet block, and even said “Bonjour Monsieur” in my most fluent French to the woman sitting outside, doing my bit for Anglo-French relations. She gave me a funny look, but I think it may have just been her face, as she looked like she had fallen out of the ugly tree and hit every branch on the way down. I made a mental note not to st in that particular toilet block under any circumstances.

Thursday and Friday passed rather quickly, I think we went go-karting on Thursday, Friday night we had quite a few beers, and a really good barbeque, plenty of food. Skipper didn’t eat any of the spicy red sausages, so I had his share. There were even quite a few of the red sausages left over when everyone had finished eating, so I polished them off as I get hungry after a few pints. Not a lot of the people who had been to le Mans before ate the red sausages. Odd that, they were really tasty.

Saturday morning I woke up with butterflies in my stomach. Must be the excitement of being race day. We did breakfast, and went for a drive up the Mulsanne straight, which was quite good. We got back to the campsite at around 1pm, and settled down for a couple of pints before the planned 2:30 walk up to Tetre Rouge. The butterflies in my stomach had developed, and I was beginning to wonder if I might need a turd, as I hadn’t had one since Tuesday.

2:30 pm arrived, and I came to the conclusion that I actually did need a dump, but was forced to bake it for a while as everybody was getting ready to go to the track, and there was no way I was going to crap in the campsite toilets. No problem I thought, I’ll drop the kids off at the pool after watching the start, there was bound to be plenty of toilets at a place as famous as le Mans, and with any luck, they wouldn’t be long drops.

We set off at around 3:15. My arse was starting to get a bit twitchy, and was informing me that a long greasy turd would be forthcoming in approximately one hour, come what may. No problem, I thought : race starts at 4pm, we will watch ten laps or so, then we would wander off to a trackside bar, I would have a pint or two, then go to the toilets and unleash the beast, so to speak.

This turned out to be wishful thinking.

We made it to Tetre Rouge, and by five to four, I was developing an urgent knocking at the back door. Mr Brown and his children, wanted out, and he was letting me know in no uncertain terms. As this was my first le Mans, I was determined not to miss the start, and sent a message to the back door, informing it as to who was in charge. The contractions miraculously stopped, and thankfully nobody was aware of my predicament, the blazing sun giving me a perfect excuse for sweating like a and not moving a lot.

A helicopter flew overhead, in line with the cars on the parade lap. Absolutely amazing, couldn’t wait for the cars to come round on the first hot lap. Unfortunately this surge of enthusiasm seemed to motivate the manitou trapped within my bowels, causing it to surge towards the exit gate at top speed. Mission Control sent an urgent message to the sphincter, which slammed itself shut with only milliseconds to spare. A gust of fetid air managed to escape just before the doors slammed shut. Luckily a Panoz was going past at the time, hiding the noise of the fart, while the smell blended in nicely with rural France. Urban France too for that matter, but that is beside the point. At this point my brain went into survival mode, and I revised my original estimate down from ten laps and a couple of pints down to five laps and no pints. I was in serious and terminal danger of stting myself, and thirty degree heat at le Mans while wearing shorts was neither the time nor the place to do it in public for the first time since the age of six.

Thankfully 4 o’clock came, the race started, and all the cars came blasting past us. I managed to get seven or eight really good photos of the wire fence by the time they all went past for the first time. Unfortunately this lack of concentration on the major issue of the day had encouraged the beast within me, and it had now produced its “get out of jail free card” and was heading for the gate with renewed vigour.

“er, just going for a st, see you at the bar !” I shouted to the rest of our group. Nobody heard, as the leaders were just coming round for lap two.

I strode off purposefully towards the Dunlop bridge, confident of coming across a toilet block within five minutes. Ten yards later the demon turd made its presence felt again, and again I slammed my ahole shut, hoping that I hadn’t beheaded the fker in the process. Drastic times mean drastic measures, and I was forced to walk like Charlie Chaplin to keep the beast at bay. By this time I was sweating like Michael Jackson at a Primary School swimming gala, and was receiving some strange looks. fk ‘em, I was on a mission, and they were probably all French anyway.

Somehow I made it to the Dunlop Bridge without stting myself, and spotted what looked like a small toilet block in the not too far distance. I grabbed my shorts, pushed my arse cheeks together with some authority, and headed for the turd oasis.

As I got closer, there appeared to be a rather long queue outside it. A quick mental calculation of a maximum of two toilets inside, a thirty person queue outside it at 5 minutes average per dump would give me 45 minute wait. There was no choice, I had to head for the stters behind the main grandstand, from memory they were about 100 yards long, and would have a quick turnaround time. Charlie Chaplin took charge again, and off I went.

I arrived about fifteen minutes later, sweat pouring off me, and not sure if I had done a certain percentage of poo in my pants already. The queue wasn’t too bad, and it was moving forward at about one person every two minutes. After a while I got to the entrance, and saw another French woman with a bowl of change, and little mounds of two or three sheets of pink toilet paper on her desk. I figured she was selling posh toilet paper so the women could pat their delicate little beavers dry after a dainty girly pee, and that there would be some industrial waxy type paper in the men’s for some serious arse wiping. I smiled condescendingly on my way past. She smiled back, obviously noticing the six inch steps I was taking, the grey face, and the rapist-like sweating going on. bh.

The mental release of being in close proximity to a porcelain palace was having a detrimental affect on my ability to control the leviathan and potentially prize winning poo. I had a tortoise head that was more like an ostrich head, and it felt like it had Arnold Schwarzenegger's neck muscles. There were seven people in front of me, and by my calculations of previous st/piss ratios and timings, I had 8.4 minutes to go. Time stood still for what seemed like half an hour, but I suddenly found myself at the front of the queue. Ominously, I was starting to develop cramp in my left arse cheek, and my right leg was starting to tremble uncontrollably. A door opened about halfway down, and a skinny French tt staggered out. The gene pool was obviously somewhat silted up when he was conceived.

Released from the starting blocks, I headed towards the cubicle like Ian Dury on speed. A five millisecond scan of the facilities revealed a proper toilet, no toilet seat though, and porcelain covered in the statutory French piss. Instantaneously I formed a plan of action : turn round, bolt the door, shorts down, and hover six inches above the bog.

I tentatively relaxed my arse muscles for the first time in approximately two hours, and felt a vacuum forming in my chest as the mother and father of all turds headed south and out quicker than Nelson Mandela on release day, and almost as smelly. After a couple of feet of steaming coil had fallen out, my arse closed with a loud fart of satisfaction, and all the stress and tension drained from my body. I smiled and awarded myself three pints of beer over and above what I felt capable of potentially drinking at any point during the next day, just like any proud father would. Mission accomplished, I looked around for the industrial toilet paper.

There were no toilet roll holders on the wall. There were no toilet rolls stacked nicely on the cistern. There was no toilet paper on the floor behind the bowl. There was a waste paper basket in the corner. Closer inspection revealed that it contained used pink toilet paper.

fk.

I was faced with three options. 1: Not wipe my arse and wander around in the blazing sun back to the tent to get toilet paper, 2: Not wipe my arse, go to the back of the queue, queue up again and buy some pink toilet paper on the way past from the smirking inbred Frenchwoman, or 3: Improvise.

It was quite tricky getting my trainers off, then my socks, without standing on the piss on the floor in my socks and then bare feet with my shorts around my knees, but somehow I made it.

I pulled the first sock onto my hand, then pulled it tight up to my elbow, and held it there with my spare hand. The sweat in the sock from the two hour route march was particularly unpleasant so I ignored it. I then gave a gentle wipe to the overworked and stressed chocolate starfish with sock number one. When the first pass was complete, I rotated the sock through 180 degrees, then repeated the process more vigorously, and then did the same with sock number two. Pity I wasn’t born with four feet.

  • ********************************
I met up with everybody at a bar on the other side of the fairground. Generally they were rolling around like schoolgirls when they found out where my socks were. I wish it was the end of the story.

The rushed arse wiping with the socks had not entirely polished my ring to its normal standards, and I was beginning to think that maybe in the same way Scrapie jumped species from sheep and manifested itself as BSE in cows, I feared that I had developed “Athletes Arse” as there was a certain degree of itchiness going on. When we got back to camp at around six, I got my roll of as yet unused Andrex out of the bag and headed for the toilet block.

The swamp monster had been replaced by a younger version with an excellent pair of tits, but the leggings made her arse look like God had once stuffed a duvet into a pillow case, then replicated it in a human being just for a laugh. Must have been the other one’s daughter. “Bon Nuit” I said cheerily as I went in for a minor bum wiping session. She gave me a funny look, so I made a mental note to check for st on the back of my legs.

Minor bum wiping session my arse. Now I know why Andrex put toilet paper on rolls rather than socks. Whilst socks feel nice and soft on your feet, wiping them across your ahole four times in anger removes approximately thirty layers of skin from it. My fking ahole was in tatters. The Andrex wasn’t sure if it was mopping up a st or a period, and I was beginning to wonder myself. Beats me how poofters go on with all those funny condoms they stick up their arses. Anyway, half a roll of Andrex later, the old ringpeice was polished to an acceptable standard, so I lobbed the rest of the roll down the hole in the long drop, as statistically I wasn’t due for another dump until Thursday. Whilst doing so, I noted that the cubicle and toilet were remarkably clean. The janitor totty must have cleaned it just before I arrived. "Must remember to compliment her on the way out" I thoughtidly to myself. I flushed the toilet, and just made it out before the overflow got to the door. Janitor totty fluttered her eyelids at me, “la merdes sont tres bon” I remarked to her in perfect French. She looked at me oddly. Bugger, I had forgotten to check for st on the back of my legs.

Turdwise, the rest of the trip went without a hitch, although the Athletes Arse didn’t dissipate. Luckily the girlfriend at the time insisted on giving me thrush twice or so a week, so when I got home I went hunting for her canasten cream (found it right next to her anti-blowjob pills), applied it to the affected area and it cleared up in a couple of days.

  • ********************************
So, advice to people who go to le Mans for the first time :

1.If you eat the spicy red sausages, make sure you eat one immodium per red sausage without fail

2. If you need a dump, go for one immediately. There will never be a better time.

3. Never wipe your arse with your socks. Try your tee shirt instead, or :

4. Carry some toilet paper with you whenever you go to the track. At worst you wont use it, at best you will go home with the same number of clothes you came with and your ahole in one piece.

5.Use the cripple toilets wherever possible. They are pretty spacious and you don’t face butt the door when attempting to remove or replace your shorts.

Your second best option is to use the women’s toilets, as they tend not to piss all over the seats.

Third best is the pub opposite the expo campsite (BYO toilet paper) or Carre Four/ Macdonalds (BYO noseclip).

Fourth best is the toilets anywhere except Expo.

Ultraviolet

623 posts

215 months

Monday 8th October 2012
quotequote all
Yachtworker said:
That's the 1st time I have ever read that and honestly it made me cry. I know toilet humour shouldn't, however this was bloody well written and it matters not a jot wether true or fabricated, very very funny for 0645 on a Monday morning!
If you enjoyed that, I can recommend reading the reviews of Veet for men hair removal here (yes, I know its been linked before)...

http://www.amazon.co.uk/product-reviews/B000KKNQBK...

There is some fantastic stuff on their.. a particularly good example:


I accidentally applied this product to my womb raider, coin purse and coal hole after mistaking it for almond flavoured cake icing (it was my wife's birthday). Within eight minutes I was positioning myself on a railway line in a desperate attempt to remove the lower half of my body and thus relieving me of the phenomenal pain inflicted upon me by this work of unspeakable evil. Alas, my attempts were futile as all trains were cancelled due to another Veet related incident further up the line.

I drifted in and out of consciousness for the next two weeks, after which I awoke at the bottom of a railway embankment surrounded by the lifeless bodies of several species of local wildlife which had succumbed to their curiosity and strayed too close to my horrendously super-heated pubic region. The unimaginably wicked stench of the singed fur of a short-tailed weasel will haunt me for the rest of my now severely diminished days.

Following my eventual rescue by Eastern European copper thieves, I was informed by the doctors in the burns unit that, such was the biblical scale of the damage inflicted upon my gentleman's truffles, I can expect my children, my children's children and my children's children's children to be born with permanent alopecia and thus meaning my genetic legacy to the human race will be a sub-species closely resembling 80's animated TV star, Morph.

Does anybody know if they sell this in a bigger tube?


Hard-Drive

4,076 posts

228 months

Monday 8th October 2012
quotequote all


One...I was at a sailing racing event, and my mate (and crew) was stood there just before we launched, shifting slightly from side to side, face screwed up in a look somewhere between deep thought and utter focus on the job in hand. I asked what he was doing, and he replied "manoeuvring a fart past a st".

Second, was many years ago when I worked in a car dealership. One of the sales guys had left a week previously, to jump ship to Peugeot, but realised it was a "grass ain't necessarily greener" moment. He came back to ask for his job back one lunchtime, in his company Peugeot, to a mass of pisstaking and being told if he did come back, he was the junior guy and would be on tea duty for ever. As he went for a brief "interview" in the sales managers office, he pleaded with us not to ring anyone at Peugeot, or say anything about him wanting to come back to Rover. His interview over-ran, and as he dashed out to his car he said "so glad to say, I'll see you soon again guys! Thanks for being professional about all this!"

As he pulled out the forecourt at 80 leptons, waving and smiling out the passenger side of his Peugeot, and the full effect of every square inch of the near side of the car being covered in "Rover Approved" stickers became visible to us, there was very nearly a river of piss in the showroom that day!

Fun Bus

17,911 posts

217 months

Wednesday 10th October 2012
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Hard-Drive, which area of the country was this Rover dealer in?

Hard-Drive

4,076 posts

228 months

Wednesday 10th October 2012
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Leicestershire...

Fun Bus

17,911 posts

217 months

Thursday 11th October 2012
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Ah, ok. I sold Rover in Nottinghamshire for a few years so didn't know If it was a dealer/salesman I knew of.

mattnunn

14,041 posts

160 months

Thursday 11th October 2012
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Last saturday, You've been framed, there was a bulldog sitting up on a couch watching telly with his arm on the arm rest and the remote next to it, it was funny, I laughed, my five year old laughed, my 2 year old laughed, my wife laughed and even the dog looked up and stopped licking his dick.

We all laughed very hard.

Amused2death

2,491 posts

195 months

Thursday 11th October 2012
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Agent Picolax biggrin

http://singletrackworld.com/2009/02/the-picolax-th...

ETA, also the link below, but be warned it contains crude line drawings, so possibly NSFW biggrin

http://forum.bodybuilding.com/showthread.php?t=120...


Why is it toilet humour reduces us to giggles??

Edited by Amused2death on Thursday 11th October 11:56

rev-erend

21,404 posts

283 months

Thursday 11th October 2012
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This is the thread of the week rofl

omgus

7,305 posts

174 months

Thursday 11th October 2012
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Amused2death said:
Agent Picolax biggrin

http://singletrackworld.com/2009/02/the-picolax-th...

ETA, also the link below, but be warned it contains crude line drawings, so possibly NSFW biggrin

http://forum.bodybuilding.com/showthread.php?t=120...

Why is it toilet humour reduces us to giggles??
Two amazing threads and both very funny.

It is worth checking out the legendary threads from other sites topic if you want a few more like that.

anonymous-user

53 months

Thursday 11th October 2012
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school ski trip, the accommodation is bunk bed dorm type things, friend falls out of top bunk on first night and breaks his arm, no ski-ing for him.

next year, school pay for him to go on the ski trip due to aforementioned bunk bed incident, he steps off coach on arrival at resort, slips on ice, falls over, breaks arm......

DavePieman

1,192 posts

144 months

Thursday 11th October 2012
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mattnunn said:
Last saturday, You've been framed, there was a bulldog sitting up on a couch watching telly with his arm on the arm rest and the remote next to it, it was funny, I laughed, my five year old laughed, my 2 year old laughed, my wife laughed and even the dog looked up and stopped licking his dick.

We all laughed very hard.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=m8rxXamfh5c