Men Gruntin while in the mens room
Discussion
This needs a bump. Possibly one of the funniest things I've ever read on PH, and highly pertinent since I'm shortly off to Le Mans.
As a first-timer.
*shudder*
As a first-timer.
*shudder*
Andy Zarse said:
Le Mans eh? It remains a mystery that by Saturday night some of the toilets at Le Mans resemble a bad day at a Crimean War Dysentery Hospital following an especially nasty outbreak of The Liquorice. For some unknown reason, s
t gets plastered absolutely everywhere, up the toilet walls, underneath the seat, down the outside of the pan, on the door handle, there's even flecks on the light shade. Who makes this terrible mess and why? It baffles and upsets me in equal measure, really it does, but being of a charitable disposition I’m always hopeful there’s a logical explanation. It might be that a similar fate befell the previous toilet occupant of one lavatory just before my brother got to it;
Phil popped into one of the long row of Porta-loos the ACO had set up in the field where they held the Jamiraquoi concert. I think he’d eaten some tartiflette that had strongly disagreed with him and which was racing through his digestive tract faster than an asylum seeker down the Channel Tunnel. Getting his bottom over the porcelain, or vacuum-moulded plastic in this instance, was deemed a necessity. He headed for the first vacant facility, was up the step like a mountain goat and had the door slammed closed in very swift order. The overture began when he went into that well rehearsed simultaneous movement, you know the one, whereby one fluidly undoes one’s belt and buttons, pulls down the strides, bends forward and manoeuvres one’s arse over the seat, whilst the Safety Car turns out the yellow flashing lights and pulls into the pit lane to allow the “cars” clear passage to hurtle down the “pit straight” and into the pan. Well, what could possibly go wrong?
It was at this moment Phil became aware of certain coolness on his right foot. Looking down he was aghast to note that he’d trodden in the worlds longest turd and crap was now oozing between his toes in his reef-sandal. I’m sure I need only mention the phrase “reflex gag” for you to understand the gravity of his predicament. The horror of what had befallen him stopped him dead in his tracks, so to speak. Whilst his backside had frozen pendulously in mid-air before it was even halfway positioned over the seat, the stench of freshly disturbed excreta hit the back of his olfactory canal, the gagging started and he was distressed to find himself vomiting into the back of his own trousers. Meanwhile, the tartiflette, together with the mortal remains of some prawns he’d eaten on the boat on the way over and goodness knows how many pints of beer, took this unfortunate moment to make good their escape from his rectum and jettisoned themselves all up the wall, the seat and even the light fitting…
It was at this point in proceedings he noticed that (drum roll) THERE WAS NO PAPER! Thus he was obliged to clean up using his tee-shirt. Fortunately the organisers were giving out those Audi 24 Hour Jam shirts, so good old VW Group saved the day.”
t gets plastered absolutely everywhere, up the toilet walls, underneath the seat, down the outside of the pan, on the door handle, there's even flecks on the light shade. Who makes this terrible mess and why? It baffles and upsets me in equal measure, really it does, but being of a charitable disposition I’m always hopeful there’s a logical explanation. It might be that a similar fate befell the previous toilet occupant of one lavatory just before my brother got to it;Phil popped into one of the long row of Porta-loos the ACO had set up in the field where they held the Jamiraquoi concert. I think he’d eaten some tartiflette that had strongly disagreed with him and which was racing through his digestive tract faster than an asylum seeker down the Channel Tunnel. Getting his bottom over the porcelain, or vacuum-moulded plastic in this instance, was deemed a necessity. He headed for the first vacant facility, was up the step like a mountain goat and had the door slammed closed in very swift order. The overture began when he went into that well rehearsed simultaneous movement, you know the one, whereby one fluidly undoes one’s belt and buttons, pulls down the strides, bends forward and manoeuvres one’s arse over the seat, whilst the Safety Car turns out the yellow flashing lights and pulls into the pit lane to allow the “cars” clear passage to hurtle down the “pit straight” and into the pan. Well, what could possibly go wrong?
It was at this moment Phil became aware of certain coolness on his right foot. Looking down he was aghast to note that he’d trodden in the worlds longest turd and crap was now oozing between his toes in his reef-sandal. I’m sure I need only mention the phrase “reflex gag” for you to understand the gravity of his predicament. The horror of what had befallen him stopped him dead in his tracks, so to speak. Whilst his backside had frozen pendulously in mid-air before it was even halfway positioned over the seat, the stench of freshly disturbed excreta hit the back of his olfactory canal, the gagging started and he was distressed to find himself vomiting into the back of his own trousers. Meanwhile, the tartiflette, together with the mortal remains of some prawns he’d eaten on the boat on the way over and goodness knows how many pints of beer, took this unfortunate moment to make good their escape from his rectum and jettisoned themselves all up the wall, the seat and even the light fitting…
It was at this point in proceedings he noticed that (drum roll) THERE WAS NO PAPER! Thus he was obliged to clean up using his tee-shirt. Fortunately the organisers were giving out those Audi 24 Hour Jam shirts, so good old VW Group saved the day.”
Z4monster said:
All the time this is happening, I am horror struck by the thought that there is NO BOG ROLL in that cubicle. There was obviously a moment of realisation in there as a small and muttered voice is heard to utter 'fk!' under his breath.
I quickly finished, washed and left the room before I was tempted to laugh out loud.
I still don't know how the unfortunate splatterer extricated himself from the dilemma they faced (Use the underpants, scuttle next door once the coast was clear or just sit and cry) or indeed who they were. I have no desire to find out either.
You could have helped out a fellow human being, and just lobbed a wad of paper over the cubicle door as you left. no need for any interaction.k!' under his breath.I quickly finished, washed and left the room before I was tempted to laugh out loud.
I still don't know how the unfortunate splatterer extricated himself from the dilemma they faced (Use the underpants, scuttle next door once the coast was clear or just sit and cry) or indeed who they were. I have no desire to find out either.
Then again, I'd have probably done the same as you anyway!
ILoveMondeo said:
Z4monster said:
All the time this is happening, I am horror struck by the thought that there is NO BOG ROLL in that cubicle. There was obviously a moment of realisation in there as a small and muttered voice is heard to utter 'fk!' under his breath.
I quickly finished, washed and left the room before I was tempted to laugh out loud.
I still don't know how the unfortunate splatterer extricated himself from the dilemma they faced (Use the underpants, scuttle next door once the coast was clear or just sit and cry) or indeed who they were. I have no desire to find out either.
You could have helped out a fellow human being, and just lobbed a wad of paper over the cubicle door as you left. no need for any interaction.k!' under his breath.I quickly finished, washed and left the room before I was tempted to laugh out loud.
I still don't know how the unfortunate splatterer extricated himself from the dilemma they faced (Use the underpants, scuttle next door once the coast was clear or just sit and cry) or indeed who they were. I have no desire to find out either.
ILoveMondeo said:
Z4monster said:
All the time this is happening, I am horror struck by the thought that there is NO BOG ROLL in that cubicle. There was obviously a moment of realisation in there as a small and muttered voice is heard to utter 'fk!' under his breath.
I quickly finished, washed and left the room before I was tempted to laugh out loud.
I still don't know how the unfortunate splatterer extricated himself from the dilemma they faced (Use the underpants, scuttle next door once the coast was clear or just sit and cry) or indeed who they were. I have no desire to find out either.
You could have helped out a fellow human being, and just lobbed a wad of paper over the cubicle door as you left. no need for any interaction.k!' under his breath.I quickly finished, washed and left the room before I was tempted to laugh out loud.
I still don't know how the unfortunate splatterer extricated himself from the dilemma they faced (Use the underpants, scuttle next door once the coast was clear or just sit and cry) or indeed who they were. I have no desire to find out either.
Then again, I'd have probably done the same as you anyway!
ds!!! Karma will get you in the end my friends... 
Mobile Chicane said:
This needs a bump. Possibly one of the funniest things I've ever read on PH, and highly pertinent since I'm shortly off to Le Mans.
Andy Zarse said:
Le Mans eh? It remains a mystery that by Saturday night some of the toilets at Le Mans resemble a bad day at a Crimean War Dysentery Hospital following an especially nasty outbreak of The Liquorice. For some unknown reason, st gets plastered absolutely everywhere, up the toilet walls, underneath the seat, down the outside of the pan, on the door handle, there's even flecks on the light shade. Who makes this terrible mess and why? It baffles and upsets me in equal measure, really it does, but being of a charitable disposition I’m always hopeful there’s a logical explanation. It might be that a similar fate befell the previous toilet occupant of one lavatory just before my brother got to it;
Phil popped into one of the long row of Porta-loos the ACO had set up in the field where they held the Jamiraquoi concert. I think he’d eaten some tartiflette that had strongly disagreed with him and which was racing through his digestive tract faster than an asylum seeker down the Channel Tunnel. Getting his bottom over the porcelain, or vacuum-moulded plastic in this instance, was deemed a necessity. He headed for the first vacant facility, was up the step like a mountain goat and had the door slammed closed in very swift order. The overture began when he went into that well rehearsed simultaneous movement, you know the one, whereby one fluidly undoes one’s belt and buttons, pulls down the strides, bends forward and manoeuvres one’s arse over the seat, whilst the Safety Car turns out the yellow flashing lights and pulls into the pit lane to allow the “cars” clear passage to hurtle down the “pit straight” and into the pan. Well, what could possibly go wrong?
It was at this moment Phil became aware of certain coolness on his right foot. Looking down he was aghast to note that he’d trodden in the worlds longest turd and crap was now oozing between his toes in his reef-sandal. I’m sure I need only mention the phrase “reflex gag” for you to understand the gravity of his predicament. The horror of what had befallen him stopped him dead in his tracks, so to speak. Whilst his backside had frozen pendulously in mid-air before it was even halfway positioned over the seat, the stench of freshly disturbed excreta hit the back of his olfactory canal, the gagging started and he was distressed to find himself vomiting into the back of his own trousers. Meanwhile, the tartiflette, together with the mortal remains of some prawns he’d eaten on the boat on the way over and goodness knows how many pints of beer, took this unfortunate moment to make good their escape from his rectum and jettisoned themselves all up the wall, the seat and even the light fitting…
It was at this point in proceedings he noticed that (drum roll) THERE WAS NO PAPER! Thus he was obliged to clean up using his tee-shirt. Fortunately the organisers were giving out those Audi 24 Hour Jam shirts, so good old VW Group saved the day.”
t gets plastered absolutely everywhere, up the toilet walls, underneath the seat, down the outside of the pan, on the door handle, there's even flecks on the light shade. Who makes this terrible mess and why? It baffles and upsets me in equal measure, really it does, but being of a charitable disposition I’m always hopeful there’s a logical explanation. It might be that a similar fate befell the previous toilet occupant of one lavatory just before my brother got to it;Phil popped into one of the long row of Porta-loos the ACO had set up in the field where they held the Jamiraquoi concert. I think he’d eaten some tartiflette that had strongly disagreed with him and which was racing through his digestive tract faster than an asylum seeker down the Channel Tunnel. Getting his bottom over the porcelain, or vacuum-moulded plastic in this instance, was deemed a necessity. He headed for the first vacant facility, was up the step like a mountain goat and had the door slammed closed in very swift order. The overture began when he went into that well rehearsed simultaneous movement, you know the one, whereby one fluidly undoes one’s belt and buttons, pulls down the strides, bends forward and manoeuvres one’s arse over the seat, whilst the Safety Car turns out the yellow flashing lights and pulls into the pit lane to allow the “cars” clear passage to hurtle down the “pit straight” and into the pan. Well, what could possibly go wrong?
It was at this moment Phil became aware of certain coolness on his right foot. Looking down he was aghast to note that he’d trodden in the worlds longest turd and crap was now oozing between his toes in his reef-sandal. I’m sure I need only mention the phrase “reflex gag” for you to understand the gravity of his predicament. The horror of what had befallen him stopped him dead in his tracks, so to speak. Whilst his backside had frozen pendulously in mid-air before it was even halfway positioned over the seat, the stench of freshly disturbed excreta hit the back of his olfactory canal, the gagging started and he was distressed to find himself vomiting into the back of his own trousers. Meanwhile, the tartiflette, together with the mortal remains of some prawns he’d eaten on the boat on the way over and goodness knows how many pints of beer, took this unfortunate moment to make good their escape from his rectum and jettisoned themselves all up the wall, the seat and even the light fitting…
It was at this point in proceedings he noticed that (drum roll) THERE WAS NO PAPER! Thus he was obliged to clean up using his tee-shirt. Fortunately the organisers were giving out those Audi 24 Hour Jam shirts, so good old VW Group saved the day.”
ajcj said:
I confess to feeling selfconscious when last night's lamb dhansak, chana massala, keema naan and Cobra is struggling its way out and making a lot of fuss while it does, especially when the traps to either side are occupied by chaps who seem to be able to lay one down with barely a splash, but for true embarrassment, you need a hotel room on your first night away with a new cutie.
So lots of charming conversation and civilised behaviour and attention to personal hygiene and nipping outside to fart have paid off, and several months in it's time for a romantic weekend away. The hotel room is in a dead trendy boutique place, and the wall between bedroom and bathroom is frosted glass. All other bathroom walls are tiled for maximum reverb. The door is also glass, and does not seal in any way - half-inch gaps all round. So you are effectively in the same room as the bed, which is where you leave your amour, curled up and warm ("hurry back", she murmurs) on the morning after a nice moroccan meal with plenty of chickpeas, spiced lamb, felafel and so on, plus a couple of bottles of rough red, and whisky to finish. You pace with measured tread to the echo chamber, then hunker down to answer the insistent call from the lower colon.
To begin with, it sounded like a duck being strangled half-underwater, then as if thirty clowns wearing oversize rubber shoes were having a sprinting race over a massive bowl of jelly, then as I desperately applied restrictive pressure, it faded into an anguished squeak like a deflating balloon, then as my muscle control gave out, a series of small escaping explosions escalated into a titanic rasp that echoed for several seconds.
Having done the paperwork, brushed everywhere in the bowl, including the underside of the seat (how in the name of gravity could that have happened?), washed hands, and assumed as nonchalant an expression as I could muster, I strolled back in to find her sitting up, covers drawn protectively up under her chin, eyes like a lemur, asking whether I was ok, and did I need medical attention?
Kind of killed the mood, rather.
Funniest post i've read so far on PH!So lots of charming conversation and civilised behaviour and attention to personal hygiene and nipping outside to fart have paid off, and several months in it's time for a romantic weekend away. The hotel room is in a dead trendy boutique place, and the wall between bedroom and bathroom is frosted glass. All other bathroom walls are tiled for maximum reverb. The door is also glass, and does not seal in any way - half-inch gaps all round. So you are effectively in the same room as the bed, which is where you leave your amour, curled up and warm ("hurry back", she murmurs) on the morning after a nice moroccan meal with plenty of chickpeas, spiced lamb, felafel and so on, plus a couple of bottles of rough red, and whisky to finish. You pace with measured tread to the echo chamber, then hunker down to answer the insistent call from the lower colon.
To begin with, it sounded like a duck being strangled half-underwater, then as if thirty clowns wearing oversize rubber shoes were having a sprinting race over a massive bowl of jelly, then as I desperately applied restrictive pressure, it faded into an anguished squeak like a deflating balloon, then as my muscle control gave out, a series of small escaping explosions escalated into a titanic rasp that echoed for several seconds.
Having done the paperwork, brushed everywhere in the bowl, including the underside of the seat (how in the name of gravity could that have happened?), washed hands, and assumed as nonchalant an expression as I could muster, I strolled back in to find her sitting up, covers drawn protectively up under her chin, eyes like a lemur, asking whether I was ok, and did I need medical attention?
Kind of killed the mood, rather.
ajcj said:
I confess to feeling selfconscious when last night's lamb dhansak, chana massala, keema naan and Cobra is struggling its way out and making a lot of fuss while it does, especially when the traps to either side are occupied by chaps who seem to be able to lay one down with barely a splash, but for true embarrassment, you need a hotel room on your first night away with a new cutie.
So lots of charming conversation and civilised behaviour and attention to personal hygiene and nipping outside to fart have paid off, and several months in it's time for a romantic weekend away. The hotel room is in a dead trendy boutique place, and the wall between bedroom and bathroom is frosted glass. All other bathroom walls are tiled for maximum reverb. The door is also glass, and does not seal in any way - half-inch gaps all round. So you are effectively in the same room as the bed, which is where you leave your amour, curled up and warm ("hurry back", she murmurs) on the morning after a nice moroccan meal with plenty of chickpeas, spiced lamb, felafel and so on, plus a couple of bottles of rough red, and whisky to finish. You pace with measured tread to the echo chamber, then hunker down to answer the insistent call from the lower colon.
To begin with, it sounded like a duck being strangled half-underwater, then as if thirty clowns wearing oversize rubber shoes were having a sprinting race over a massive bowl of jelly, then as I desperately applied restrictive pressure, it faded into an anguished squeak like a deflating balloon, then as my muscle control gave out, a series of small escaping explosions escalated into a titanic rasp that echoed for several seconds.
Having done the paperwork, brushed everywhere in the bowl, including the underside of the seat (how in the name of gravity could that have happened?), washed hands, and assumed as nonchalant an expression as I could muster, I strolled back in to find her sitting up, covers drawn protectively up under her chin, eyes like a lemur, asking whether I was ok, and did I need medical attention?
Kind of killed the mood, rather.
When was the last time this was bumped? Still the funniest postSo lots of charming conversation and civilised behaviour and attention to personal hygiene and nipping outside to fart have paid off, and several months in it's time for a romantic weekend away. The hotel room is in a dead trendy boutique place, and the wall between bedroom and bathroom is frosted glass. All other bathroom walls are tiled for maximum reverb. The door is also glass, and does not seal in any way - half-inch gaps all round. So you are effectively in the same room as the bed, which is where you leave your amour, curled up and warm ("hurry back", she murmurs) on the morning after a nice moroccan meal with plenty of chickpeas, spiced lamb, felafel and so on, plus a couple of bottles of rough red, and whisky to finish. You pace with measured tread to the echo chamber, then hunker down to answer the insistent call from the lower colon.
To begin with, it sounded like a duck being strangled half-underwater, then as if thirty clowns wearing oversize rubber shoes were having a sprinting race over a massive bowl of jelly, then as I desperately applied restrictive pressure, it faded into an anguished squeak like a deflating balloon, then as my muscle control gave out, a series of small escaping explosions escalated into a titanic rasp that echoed for several seconds.
Having done the paperwork, brushed everywhere in the bowl, including the underside of the seat (how in the name of gravity could that have happened?), washed hands, and assumed as nonchalant an expression as I could muster, I strolled back in to find her sitting up, covers drawn protectively up under her chin, eyes like a lemur, asking whether I was ok, and did I need medical attention?
Kind of killed the mood, rather.
J8 SVG said:
ajcj said:
I confess to feeling selfconscious when last night's lamb dhansak, chana massala, keema naan and Cobra is struggling its way out and making a lot of fuss while it does, especially when the traps to either side are occupied by chaps who seem to be able to lay one down with barely a splash, but for true embarrassment, you need a hotel room on your first night away with a new cutie.
So lots of charming conversation and civilised behaviour and attention to personal hygiene and nipping outside to fart have paid off, and several months in it's time for a romantic weekend away. The hotel room is in a dead trendy boutique place, and the wall between bedroom and bathroom is frosted glass. All other bathroom walls are tiled for maximum reverb. The door is also glass, and does not seal in any way - half-inch gaps all round. So you are effectively in the same room as the bed, which is where you leave your amour, curled up and warm ("hurry back", she murmurs) on the morning after a nice moroccan meal with plenty of chickpeas, spiced lamb, felafel and so on, plus a couple of bottles of rough red, and whisky to finish. You pace with measured tread to the echo chamber, then hunker down to answer the insistent call from the lower colon.
To begin with, it sounded like a duck being strangled half-underwater, then as if thirty clowns wearing oversize rubber shoes were having a sprinting race over a massive bowl of jelly, then as I desperately applied restrictive pressure, it faded into an anguished squeak like a deflating balloon, then as my muscle control gave out, a series of small escaping explosions escalated into a titanic rasp that echoed for several seconds.
Having done the paperwork, brushed everywhere in the bowl, including the underside of the seat (how in the name of gravity could that have happened?), washed hands, and assumed as nonchalant an expression as I could muster, I strolled back in to find her sitting up, covers drawn protectively up under her chin, eyes like a lemur, asking whether I was ok, and did I need medical attention?
Kind of killed the mood, rather.
When was the last time this was bumped? Still the funniest postSo lots of charming conversation and civilised behaviour and attention to personal hygiene and nipping outside to fart have paid off, and several months in it's time for a romantic weekend away. The hotel room is in a dead trendy boutique place, and the wall between bedroom and bathroom is frosted glass. All other bathroom walls are tiled for maximum reverb. The door is also glass, and does not seal in any way - half-inch gaps all round. So you are effectively in the same room as the bed, which is where you leave your amour, curled up and warm ("hurry back", she murmurs) on the morning after a nice moroccan meal with plenty of chickpeas, spiced lamb, felafel and so on, plus a couple of bottles of rough red, and whisky to finish. You pace with measured tread to the echo chamber, then hunker down to answer the insistent call from the lower colon.
To begin with, it sounded like a duck being strangled half-underwater, then as if thirty clowns wearing oversize rubber shoes were having a sprinting race over a massive bowl of jelly, then as I desperately applied restrictive pressure, it faded into an anguished squeak like a deflating balloon, then as my muscle control gave out, a series of small escaping explosions escalated into a titanic rasp that echoed for several seconds.
Having done the paperwork, brushed everywhere in the bowl, including the underside of the seat (how in the name of gravity could that have happened?), washed hands, and assumed as nonchalant an expression as I could muster, I strolled back in to find her sitting up, covers drawn protectively up under her chin, eyes like a lemur, asking whether I was ok, and did I need medical attention?
Kind of killed the mood, rather.
Megaflow said:
dav123a said:
ajcj said:
I confess to feeling selfconscious when last night's lamb dhansak, chana massala, keema naan and Cobra is struggling its way out and making a lot of fuss while it does, especially when the traps to either side are occupied by chaps who seem to be able to lay one down with barely a splash, but for true embarrassment, you need a hotel room on your first night away with a new cutie.
So lots of charming conversation and civilised behaviour and attention to personal hygiene and nipping outside to fart have paid off, and several months in it's time for a romantic weekend away. The hotel room is in a dead trendy boutique place, and the wall between bedroom and bathroom is frosted glass. All other bathroom walls are tiled for maximum reverb. The door is also glass, and does not seal in any way - half-inch gaps all round. So you are effectively in the same room as the bed, which is where you leave your amour, curled up and warm ("hurry back", she murmurs) on the morning after a nice moroccan meal with plenty of chickpeas, spiced lamb, felafel and so on, plus a couple of bottles of rough red, and whisky to finish. You pace with measured tread to the echo chamber, then hunker down to answer the insistent call from the lower colon.
To begin with, it sounded like a duck being strangled half-underwater, then as if thirty clowns wearing oversize rubber shoes were having a sprinting race over a massive bowl of jelly, then as I desperately applied restrictive pressure, it faded into an anguished squeak like a deflating balloon, then as my muscle control gave out, a series of small escaping explosions escalated into a titanic rasp that echoed for several seconds.
Having done the paperwork, brushed everywhere in the bowl, including the underside of the seat (how in the name of gravity could that have happened?), washed hands, and assumed as nonchalant an expression as I could muster, I strolled back in to find her sitting up, covers drawn protectively up under her chin, eyes like a lemur, asking whether I was ok, and did I need medical attention?
Kind of killed the mood, rather.
So lots of charming conversation and civilised behaviour and attention to personal hygiene and nipping outside to fart have paid off, and several months in it's time for a romantic weekend away. The hotel room is in a dead trendy boutique place, and the wall between bedroom and bathroom is frosted glass. All other bathroom walls are tiled for maximum reverb. The door is also glass, and does not seal in any way - half-inch gaps all round. So you are effectively in the same room as the bed, which is where you leave your amour, curled up and warm ("hurry back", she murmurs) on the morning after a nice moroccan meal with plenty of chickpeas, spiced lamb, felafel and so on, plus a couple of bottles of rough red, and whisky to finish. You pace with measured tread to the echo chamber, then hunker down to answer the insistent call from the lower colon.
To begin with, it sounded like a duck being strangled half-underwater, then as if thirty clowns wearing oversize rubber shoes were having a sprinting race over a massive bowl of jelly, then as I desperately applied restrictive pressure, it faded into an anguished squeak like a deflating balloon, then as my muscle control gave out, a series of small escaping explosions escalated into a titanic rasp that echoed for several seconds.
Having done the paperwork, brushed everywhere in the bowl, including the underside of the seat (how in the name of gravity could that have happened?), washed hands, and assumed as nonchalant an expression as I could muster, I strolled back in to find her sitting up, covers drawn protectively up under her chin, eyes like a lemur, asking whether I was ok, and did I need medical attention?
Kind of killed the mood, rather.
This thread has brought back memories of the not-too-distant past. It's spring in 2011, I'm 13 and Easter is on its way. We have been rejoicing in some delightful sunshine, the birds are gay and everyone is frolicking around in general merriment. Come the evening, I'm watching a television programme when this dreadful pain starts to manifest itself in my gut. Thinking nothing of it, a continue with my life in a not-inconsiderable degree of discomfort before vomiting down the lavatory and retiring to bed.
Roll on one o'clock and suddenly I'm awake, shivering and sweating and in pain like I have never been before or since. It feels as though an especially malign porcine foe has somehow entered my gut, taken several large sts and then performed a suicide bombing. I am relieved to see that my body is still in one piece and bits of stomach and intestine are not decorating my bedroom wall, but it feels like there is a war zone in there.
I struggle out of bed, barely able to walk, and am rushed to hospital. On my way from the car park to A&E a take advantage of a few potted plants to use for as receptacles for my vomit. Once inside, I discover that there has indeed been an explosion - a burst appendix, and we all decide that it would be a bloody good idea to have the offending organ removed.
Anyhow, that's just a bit of background. Time rolls on, I am anaesthetised, my appendix is removed and some time later I come to. I am unsure of how I spent the next few hours, but I suspect I sat in my bed watching Dave and feeling bored. All was well until night fell and I drifted off to the land of nod, wearied by my ordeals of the past day or so.
All of I sudden it's some ghastly hour in the middle of the night - four o'clock or something like that, I don't know - and I stare at my crotch in abject horror as I realise that the warm, wet feeling around it was not 'just me'. I had to find a nurse to alert her that I had pissed myself and as I move I become aware that my arse is sticking to my hospital gown. Fearing the worst, I have a look at the bed sheets and observe the most disgusting diarrhoea I have ever encountered, although I suppose it was only worse than others because I happened to have been sitting in it.
I did eventually manage to get a nurse, although I'm buggered if I know how, and she explains that it's just a side-effect of the anaesthetic. Oh, thanks for telling me earlier, stupid bh. Even if I was going to tell her what was on my mind, I never would have been able to because my attention was suddenly diverted to my bowel movements, which I didn't feel I could control. I dashed to toilets, which were revolting even before I got there, lifted the seat and my gown and went to sit but... oh dear, I was too slow. Before I had the chance to perch my derrière on the seat I was exposed to the most horrendous sensation of squelching and trumpeting as all of a sudden a stream of liquid st came spurting out my backside in all directions, with only a small percentage of it actually reaching its intended destination of the bowl. The seat was redecorated, the walls were now pebble-dashed and I'd have to watch my step when I left in order not to get a case of Zarse's brother's foot.
Looking back on it, I only regret not placing a canvas on the toilet seat for it is my belief that I could have passed the st off as a priceless masterpiece from Jackson Pollock's very brief (and very fictitious) brown and smelly period. I couldn't think about that as the time, though, for no sooner had I got rid of all my digested food than all my undigested food decided that the experience of diarrhoea looked so awful it must depart before diarrhoea could happen. It happened, then, that I released a powerful cascade of vomit - green and shockingly malodorous vomit at that - that crashed into the bowl, the floor and my feet with the force of Niagara and would have put Mr. Creosote to shame and made Beelzebub himself admit that his own efforts in The Exorcist were 'a bit pathetic'. If I'd been at sea the whole sorry affair would have been declared a worse environmental disaster than the Torrey Canyon.
With the worst of it over, I thought it would be alright to visit the library the next morning, except it wasn't. I shat in my pants, and I don't think it smelt but I did worry about the librarian thinking something suspect of my suddenly reddening face,
It then emerged that while in the hospital I had contracted worms.
Roll on one o'clock and suddenly I'm awake, shivering and sweating and in pain like I have never been before or since. It feels as though an especially malign porcine foe has somehow entered my gut, taken several large s
ts and then performed a suicide bombing. I am relieved to see that my body is still in one piece and bits of stomach and intestine are not decorating my bedroom wall, but it feels like there is a war zone in there.I struggle out of bed, barely able to walk, and am rushed to hospital. On my way from the car park to A&E a take advantage of a few potted plants to use for as receptacles for my vomit. Once inside, I discover that there has indeed been an explosion - a burst appendix, and we all decide that it would be a bloody good idea to have the offending organ removed.
Anyhow, that's just a bit of background. Time rolls on, I am anaesthetised, my appendix is removed and some time later I come to. I am unsure of how I spent the next few hours, but I suspect I sat in my bed watching Dave and feeling bored. All was well until night fell and I drifted off to the land of nod, wearied by my ordeals of the past day or so.
All of I sudden it's some ghastly hour in the middle of the night - four o'clock or something like that, I don't know - and I stare at my crotch in abject horror as I realise that the warm, wet feeling around it was not 'just me'. I had to find a nurse to alert her that I had pissed myself and as I move I become aware that my arse is sticking to my hospital gown. Fearing the worst, I have a look at the bed sheets and observe the most disgusting diarrhoea I have ever encountered, although I suppose it was only worse than others because I happened to have been sitting in it.
I did eventually manage to get a nurse, although I'm buggered if I know how, and she explains that it's just a side-effect of the anaesthetic. Oh, thanks for telling me earlier, stupid b
h. Even if I was going to tell her what was on my mind, I never would have been able to because my attention was suddenly diverted to my bowel movements, which I didn't feel I could control. I dashed to toilets, which were revolting even before I got there, lifted the seat and my gown and went to sit but... oh dear, I was too slow. Before I had the chance to perch my derrière on the seat I was exposed to the most horrendous sensation of squelching and trumpeting as all of a sudden a stream of liquid st came spurting out my backside in all directions, with only a small percentage of it actually reaching its intended destination of the bowl. The seat was redecorated, the walls were now pebble-dashed and I'd have to watch my step when I left in order not to get a case of Zarse's brother's foot.Looking back on it, I only regret not placing a canvas on the toilet seat for it is my belief that I could have passed the s
t off as a priceless masterpiece from Jackson Pollock's very brief (and very fictitious) brown and smelly period. I couldn't think about that as the time, though, for no sooner had I got rid of all my digested food than all my undigested food decided that the experience of diarrhoea looked so awful it must depart before diarrhoea could happen. It happened, then, that I released a powerful cascade of vomit - green and shockingly malodorous vomit at that - that crashed into the bowl, the floor and my feet with the force of Niagara and would have put Mr. Creosote to shame and made Beelzebub himself admit that his own efforts in The Exorcist were 'a bit pathetic'. If I'd been at sea the whole sorry affair would have been declared a worse environmental disaster than the Torrey Canyon.With the worst of it over, I thought it would be alright to visit the library the next morning, except it wasn't. I shat in my pants, and I don't think it smelt but I did worry about the librarian thinking something suspect of my suddenly reddening face,
It then emerged that while in the hospital I had contracted worms.
I've been reminded of my wife's aunt coming to visit shortly after our daughter was born.
She used the toilet, and came back looking kind of pale. Turned out that she'd mistaken toilet bowl wipes for smoothing moistured bottom wipes, and as she suffered with piles decided that was worth a go.
She said it stung. A lot!
She used the toilet, and came back looking kind of pale. Turned out that she'd mistaken toilet bowl wipes for smoothing moistured bottom wipes, and as she suffered with piles decided that was worth a go.
She said it stung. A lot!
surveyor said:
I've been reminded of my wife's aunt coming to visit shortly after our daughter was born.
She used the toilet, and came back looking kind of pale. Turned out that she'd mistaken toilet bowl wipes for smoothing moistured bottom wipes, and as she suffered with piles decided that was worth a go.
She said it stung. A lot!
We got some toilet seat wipes in a dispenser at work. She used the toilet, and came back looking kind of pale. Turned out that she'd mistaken toilet bowl wipes for smoothing moistured bottom wipes, and as she suffered with piles decided that was worth a go.
She said it stung. A lot!
About a week later a bloke in my office asked what everyone thought of the new loo roll and if it was stinging anyone else's arse. Lol
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