Men Gruntin while in the mens room
Discussion
theshrew said:
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
ClassicMotorNut said:
...I'd have to watch my step when I left in order not to get a case of Zarse's brother's foot...
...diarrhoea...
...It then emerged that while in the hospital I had contracted worms.
...diarrhoea...
...It then emerged that while in the hospital I had contracted worms.
A quite foul tale, and perfectly revolting! I am delighted to note you are able to spell diarrhoea correctly, since most folk your age are unable to do so.
This worms business, how did it manifest itself? I'm interested as I've not had worms, although I did catch crabs in Stockton-On-Tees in 1981.
Hello, Zarse. Sorry for taking a few months to reply and I suppose you'd probably forgotten, but as you asked I feel it would be polite to answer, even if it is somewhat belated. I'm afraid I didn't see this earlier but (baby) now that I've found it it can let you know that I was in a rather non-specific ward containing children, including babies, with a rather broad range of ailments. The nurses were going about fiddling around with these other children and I'm not certain that they washed their hands or changed their gloves as often as they should have done, so when they came to me they inadvertently (I hope) provided a transport service for other people's nasty things.
Thank you, no problem.
One can only imagine the hospital luncheon was quite beastly, whereby the inmates greedily yet unknowingly gobbled down all manner of foul matters; hair, filth, frogs, worm lavae and many vile excretas. Essentially you became coprophagous, rather like the Old Man of Corfu who's diet we won't go into just now...
One can only imagine the hospital luncheon was quite beastly, whereby the inmates greedily yet unknowingly gobbled down all manner of foul matters; hair, filth, frogs, worm lavae and many vile excretas. Essentially you became coprophagous, rather like the Old Man of Corfu who's diet we won't go into just now...
Chris Harris revealed on Jalopnik today that he didn't quite make it to the men's room on one occasion. Fabulous story that's right up there with the tale by ajcj 16 posts from the beginning of this thread ...
http://jalopnik.com/a-ferrari-a-porsche-and-soiled...
http://jalopnik.com/a-ferrari-a-porsche-and-soiled...
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.
Best "gone for a dump post" ever read!!!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.
Tears of laughter and silly giggles a plenty.
MitchT said:
I've read this before and it's right up there with the other toilet story involving clowns walking on ducks You probably heard about those infamous sugar free Haribo gummy bears, here are a few reviews from Amazon.
said:
I'm pretty sure Andrea (I'll call her) agreed to have dinner at my apartment only because I always spoke to her using nothing but my two-years-of-high-school German. Her English was perfect. Probably better than mine. But the fact that I could only ask her directions to the Autobahn or inquire about the health of her non-existent Tante Amelia, seemed to make me appealing to her in a sweet and non-threatening way.
My intentions, however, were considerably less child-like. Which is why the shopping that night was done at one of those upscale groceries with an international flair. Moules Marinieres is as much of a panty-peeler as anything I can cook, and isn't that hard to pull off. But still, I was busy tracking the recipe in my head when I found myself in the sweets aisle. And that, to my great chagrin, is why I didn't immediately notice the difference between Haribo Normal Gummi Bears (which are designed for human enjoyment) and Haribo Sugarless Gummi Bears (which are designed for use in maximum security prisons as a way to punish uncooperative inmates).
I shan't make that mistake again. (notice you can't spell SHAN'T without SHAT.)
Prior to Andrea's arrival, I sat in my living room, creating a playlist of make-out music and nervously binging on the Gummi Bears I had placed in a decorative bowl because I am fancy.
The doorbell rang, and within minutes we were standing in the kitchen, drinking beers and both of us probably worrying that we were about to exhaust my ability to communicate in her native tongue. But soon that would be the least of my worries. In the middle of trying to ask Andrea if she likes to dance to young people's music, I felt a flutter in my midsection, accompanied by a guttural pronouncement so loud it threatened to drown out my own voice.
Maybe it was because I was mentally refreshing my language lessons, but it suddenly struck me how much pre-diarrheal grumblings sound like German words.
"ENTSCHULDIGUNG!" was the next thing uttered by my rapidly clenching stomach. Appropriately, Andrea looked up in response.
"Sind Sie Kaffee machen?" she asked.
Am I making coffee?
I thought I must have mistranslated her at first, then finally I realized that yes, the loud, ominous gurgling coming from my gut could easily be mistaken for the percolating of some bachelor's crappy coffeemaker.
It's remarkable how quickly one knows that one is about to have a traumatic pottymaking experience. Maybe that's the body's way of buying you the precious seconds you need. I was already calculating the number of steps to the bathroom, speculating on whether I would have time to lift the lid to the toilet, when my own voice cried out loudly in my head.
She's going to hear EVERYTHING!
Thanks to an acoustical idiosyncrasy in my building, the hallway outside the bathroom works as an amplifier pointed straight at my living room-slash-kitchen. So that somehow even the gentlest tinkle sounds like I'm pouring lemonade out of a bucket.
With only half an idea of what I was doing, I grabbed Andrea's hand and pulled her roughly down onto my sofa. I must have looked like a madman as I booted up my iTunes playlist, plugged in the gigantic new headphones I had just bought to keep me looking young and hip, and clamped them down over her ears. (the sweat forming on my brow and upper lip couldn't have helped.) In response to her nervous expression, I kept shouting "You'll love this! You'll love this!"
I spun her around so that she was looking out the window. My "plan" was that she'd be so distracted by the modest 4th floor view, that it would allow me to pull my pants off while I sprinted down the hall, silently singing the praises of the noise-reducing quality of my new headphones. (this story will be reprinted in its entirety as a 5 star review on the Sony Beats Audio Amazon page.)
As I slammed the bathroom door shut, already half naked, it occurred to me that I had not been shouting "You'll love this!" at Andrea. I don't even know how to say that in German. In my desperation I had been saying "Ich Leibe Dich!" Repeatedly professing my love for her in a shaky and frantic voice. But maybe that was a good thing, because as I threw myself at the toilet, I figured the best I could hope for is that she would be so creeped-out that she would sneak out of the apartment, blissfully unaware of the carnage taking place in the next room.
What can I say about the ensuing white-knuckle bowel movement that hasn't been expressed in other reviews on this page? I'm pretty sure I haven't seen the adjective "Kafkaesque" used anywhere else.
By the end of Act One of this private little torture-porn movie, I was confessing to every unsolved crime in history. Praying I would stumble upon the one that would satisfy my invisible captors.
Quickly I realized that I had more than Andrea's sense of sound to worry about. Were she to get even the faintest whiff of the weapons-grade sluice that my anus was angrily shouting into the porcelain, I would have to change my name and move to another city.
And so I flushed. And flushed. And flushed and flushed.
And then I flushed and nothing happened.
I have never looked down into a broken toilet with more horror in my entire life. And I once stopped up George Clooney's crapper! (a true story for another time.)
I reached for the plunger, but my hand froze and my heart seized when I saw it on the floor, broken in two and covered in what looked like teeth marks. Apparently I had used the wooden handle to keep from biting my tongue off and had chewed clean through it. When did that happen? It seems my mind had already started the process of repressing this entire event.
Amid the feverish, fruitless dance I did across my tiny bathroom floor, it dawned on me that it had been more than a minute since my last soul-wrenching anal tantrum. Dear Lord, is it over? I asked, quite possibly aloud.
I may have been light-headed and delusional, but I began to imagine a non-ignominious resolution to this ordeal. I just needed to get her the hell out of here. If Andrea hadn't fled the building, vomiting in terror, then I supposed I could pull up my trousers and make a cavalier exit. As long as I could get her off premises and as far away from this post-apocalyptic commode as humanly possible. Assuming that the Diarrhistas had retreated to the hills temporarily, maybe I could even whisk Andrea away to a candlelight dinner at Bernardo's. How impulsive!
My first few steps back toward the living room were tentative. And not just because my sphincter felt raw and tattered. It was a slow approach to the Moment of Truth, especially when I saw her figure still planted on my sofa. I knew any look on Andrea's face other than her mouth agape would constitute a miraculous victory. And when she smiled at me, the wash of relief that engulfed me was more glorious than any throes of ecstasy I might have wished for at the beginning of the night.
And then I saw it.
The decorative bowl sitting in her lap. Down to just the last few sugarless Gummi bears.
"Du hast Haribo!" she said to me. Accompanied by a satisfied smile. A big, beaming Hansel and Gretel smile, that slightly turned down in one corner at the sound we both suddenly heard. A low rumble from deep within her GI tract that sounded like Gefahrrrrr.
The German word for Danger.
Her eyes shot past mine and refocused on the bathroom door just down the hall behind me.
My intentions, however, were considerably less child-like. Which is why the shopping that night was done at one of those upscale groceries with an international flair. Moules Marinieres is as much of a panty-peeler as anything I can cook, and isn't that hard to pull off. But still, I was busy tracking the recipe in my head when I found myself in the sweets aisle. And that, to my great chagrin, is why I didn't immediately notice the difference between Haribo Normal Gummi Bears (which are designed for human enjoyment) and Haribo Sugarless Gummi Bears (which are designed for use in maximum security prisons as a way to punish uncooperative inmates).
I shan't make that mistake again. (notice you can't spell SHAN'T without SHAT.)
Prior to Andrea's arrival, I sat in my living room, creating a playlist of make-out music and nervously binging on the Gummi Bears I had placed in a decorative bowl because I am fancy.
The doorbell rang, and within minutes we were standing in the kitchen, drinking beers and both of us probably worrying that we were about to exhaust my ability to communicate in her native tongue. But soon that would be the least of my worries. In the middle of trying to ask Andrea if she likes to dance to young people's music, I felt a flutter in my midsection, accompanied by a guttural pronouncement so loud it threatened to drown out my own voice.
Maybe it was because I was mentally refreshing my language lessons, but it suddenly struck me how much pre-diarrheal grumblings sound like German words.
"ENTSCHULDIGUNG!" was the next thing uttered by my rapidly clenching stomach. Appropriately, Andrea looked up in response.
"Sind Sie Kaffee machen?" she asked.
Am I making coffee?
I thought I must have mistranslated her at first, then finally I realized that yes, the loud, ominous gurgling coming from my gut could easily be mistaken for the percolating of some bachelor's crappy coffeemaker.
It's remarkable how quickly one knows that one is about to have a traumatic pottymaking experience. Maybe that's the body's way of buying you the precious seconds you need. I was already calculating the number of steps to the bathroom, speculating on whether I would have time to lift the lid to the toilet, when my own voice cried out loudly in my head.
She's going to hear EVERYTHING!
Thanks to an acoustical idiosyncrasy in my building, the hallway outside the bathroom works as an amplifier pointed straight at my living room-slash-kitchen. So that somehow even the gentlest tinkle sounds like I'm pouring lemonade out of a bucket.
With only half an idea of what I was doing, I grabbed Andrea's hand and pulled her roughly down onto my sofa. I must have looked like a madman as I booted up my iTunes playlist, plugged in the gigantic new headphones I had just bought to keep me looking young and hip, and clamped them down over her ears. (the sweat forming on my brow and upper lip couldn't have helped.) In response to her nervous expression, I kept shouting "You'll love this! You'll love this!"
I spun her around so that she was looking out the window. My "plan" was that she'd be so distracted by the modest 4th floor view, that it would allow me to pull my pants off while I sprinted down the hall, silently singing the praises of the noise-reducing quality of my new headphones. (this story will be reprinted in its entirety as a 5 star review on the Sony Beats Audio Amazon page.)
As I slammed the bathroom door shut, already half naked, it occurred to me that I had not been shouting "You'll love this!" at Andrea. I don't even know how to say that in German. In my desperation I had been saying "Ich Leibe Dich!" Repeatedly professing my love for her in a shaky and frantic voice. But maybe that was a good thing, because as I threw myself at the toilet, I figured the best I could hope for is that she would be so creeped-out that she would sneak out of the apartment, blissfully unaware of the carnage taking place in the next room.
What can I say about the ensuing white-knuckle bowel movement that hasn't been expressed in other reviews on this page? I'm pretty sure I haven't seen the adjective "Kafkaesque" used anywhere else.
By the end of Act One of this private little torture-porn movie, I was confessing to every unsolved crime in history. Praying I would stumble upon the one that would satisfy my invisible captors.
Quickly I realized that I had more than Andrea's sense of sound to worry about. Were she to get even the faintest whiff of the weapons-grade sluice that my anus was angrily shouting into the porcelain, I would have to change my name and move to another city.
And so I flushed. And flushed. And flushed and flushed.
And then I flushed and nothing happened.
I have never looked down into a broken toilet with more horror in my entire life. And I once stopped up George Clooney's crapper! (a true story for another time.)
I reached for the plunger, but my hand froze and my heart seized when I saw it on the floor, broken in two and covered in what looked like teeth marks. Apparently I had used the wooden handle to keep from biting my tongue off and had chewed clean through it. When did that happen? It seems my mind had already started the process of repressing this entire event.
Amid the feverish, fruitless dance I did across my tiny bathroom floor, it dawned on me that it had been more than a minute since my last soul-wrenching anal tantrum. Dear Lord, is it over? I asked, quite possibly aloud.
I may have been light-headed and delusional, but I began to imagine a non-ignominious resolution to this ordeal. I just needed to get her the hell out of here. If Andrea hadn't fled the building, vomiting in terror, then I supposed I could pull up my trousers and make a cavalier exit. As long as I could get her off premises and as far away from this post-apocalyptic commode as humanly possible. Assuming that the Diarrhistas had retreated to the hills temporarily, maybe I could even whisk Andrea away to a candlelight dinner at Bernardo's. How impulsive!
My first few steps back toward the living room were tentative. And not just because my sphincter felt raw and tattered. It was a slow approach to the Moment of Truth, especially when I saw her figure still planted on my sofa. I knew any look on Andrea's face other than her mouth agape would constitute a miraculous victory. And when she smiled at me, the wash of relief that engulfed me was more glorious than any throes of ecstasy I might have wished for at the beginning of the night.
And then I saw it.
The decorative bowl sitting in her lap. Down to just the last few sugarless Gummi bears.
"Du hast Haribo!" she said to me. Accompanied by a satisfied smile. A big, beaming Hansel and Gretel smile, that slightly turned down in one corner at the sound we both suddenly heard. A low rumble from deep within her GI tract that sounded like Gefahrrrrr.
The German word for Danger.
Her eyes shot past mine and refocused on the bathroom door just down the hall behind me.
said:
The place: BMO Harris Bradley Center
The event: Bucks VS Spurs
The snack: Satan's Diarrhea Hate Bears made by Haribo
I recently took my 4 year old son to his first NBA game. He was very excited to go to the game, and I was excited because we had fantastic seats. Row C center court to be exact. I've never sat that close before. I've never had to go DOWN stairs to get to my seats. 24 stairs to get to my seats to be exact.
His favorite candy is Skittles. Mine are anything gummy. I snuck in a bag of skittles for my son, and grabbed a handful of gummy bears for myself, to be later known as Satan's Diarrhea Hate Bears, that I received for Christmas in bulk from my parents, and put them in a zip lock bag.
After the excitement of the 1st quarter has ended I take my son out to get him a bottled water and myself a beer. We return to our seats to enjoy our candy and drinks.
..............fast forward until 1 minute before half time...........
I have begun to sweat a sweat that is only meant for a man on mile 19 of a marathon. I have kicked out my legs out so straight that I am violently pushing the gentleman wearing a suit seat in front of me forward. He is not happy, I do not care. My hands are on the side of my seat not unlike that of a gymnast on a pommel horse, lifting me off my chair. My son is oblivious to what is happening next to him, after all, there is a mascot running around somewhere and he is eating candy.
I realize that at some point in the very near to immediate future I am going to have to allow this lava from Satan to forcefully expel itself from my innards. I also realize that I have to walk up 24 stairs just to get to level ground in hopes to make it to the bathroom. I’ll just have to sit here stiff as a board for a few moments waiting for the pain to subside. About 30 seconds later there is a slight calm in the storm of the violent hurricane that is going on in my lower intestine. I muster the courage to gently relax every muscle in my lower half and stand up. My son stands up next to me and we start to ascend up the stairs. I take a very careful and calculated step up the first stair. Then a very loud horn sounds. Halftime. Great. It’s going to be crowded. The horn also seems to have awaken the Satan's Diarrhea Hate Bears that are having a mosh pit in my stomach. It literally felt like an avalanche went down my stomach and I again have to tighten every muscle and stand straight up and focus all my energy on my poor sphincter to tighten up and perform like it has never performed before. Taking another step would be the worst idea possible, the flood gates would open. Don’t worry, Daddy has a plan. I some how mumble the question, “want to play a game?” to my son, he of course says “yes”. My idea is to hop on both feet allllll the way up the stairs, using the center railing to propel me up each stair. My son is always up for a good hopping game, so he complies and joins in on the “fun”. Some old lady 4 steps up thinks its cute that we are doing this, obviously she wasn’t looking at the panic on my face. 3 rows behind her a man about the same age as me, who must have had similar situations, notices the fear/panic/desperation on my face understands the danger that I along with my pants and anyone within a 5 yard radius spray zone are in. He just mouths the words “good luck man” to me and I press on. Half way up and there is no leakage, but my legs are getting tired and my sphincter has never endured this amount of pressure for this long of time. 16 steps/hops later…….4 steps to go…….My son trips and falls on the stairs, I have two options: keep going knowing he will catch up or bend down to pick him up relieving my sphincter of all the pressure and commotion while ruining the day of roughly the 50 people that are now watching a grown man hop up stairs while sweating profusely next to a 4 year old boy.
Luckily he gets right back up and we make it to the top of the stairs. Good, the hard part was over. Or so I thought. I managed to waddle like a penguin, or someone who is about to poop their pants in 2.5 seconds, to the men's room only to find that every stall is being used. EVERY STALL. It's halftime, of course everyone has to poop at that moment. I don't know if I can wait any longer, do I go ahead and fulfil the dream of every high school boy and poop in the urinal? What kind of an example would that set for my son? On the other hand, what kind of an example would it be for his father to fill his pants with a substance that probably will be unrecognizable to man. Suddenly a stall door opens, and I think I manage to actually levitate over to the stall. I my son follows me in, luckily it was the handicap stall so there was room for him to be out of the way. I get my pants off and start to sit. I know what taking a giant poo feels like. I also know what vomiting feels like. I can now successfully say that I know what it is like to vomit out my butt. I wasn't pooping, those Satan's Diarrhea Hate Bears did something to my insides that made my sphincter vomit our the madness.
I am now conscious of my surroundings. Other than the war that the bottom half of my body is currently having with this porcelain chair, it is quiet as a pin drop in the bathroom. The other men in there can sense that something isn't right, no one has heard anyone ever poop vomit before.
I can sense that the worst part is over. But its not stopping, nor can I physically stop it at this point, I am leaking..it's horrible. I call out "does anyone have a diaper?" hoping that some gentleman was changing a baby. Nothing. No one said a word. I know people are in there, I can see the toes of shoes pointed in my direction under the stall.. "DOES ANYONE HAVE A DIAPER!?!" I am screaming, my son is now crying, he thinks he is witnessing the death of his father. I can't even assure him that I will make it.
Not a word was said, but a diaper was thrown over the stall. I catch it, line my underwear with it, put my pants back on, and walk out of that bathroom like a champ. We go straight to our seats, grab out coats and go home. As we are walking out, the gentleman that wished me good luck earlier simply put his fist out, and I happily bumped it.
My son asks me, "Daddy, why are we leaving early?"
"Well son, I need to change my diaper"
The event: Bucks VS Spurs
The snack: Satan's Diarrhea Hate Bears made by Haribo
I recently took my 4 year old son to his first NBA game. He was very excited to go to the game, and I was excited because we had fantastic seats. Row C center court to be exact. I've never sat that close before. I've never had to go DOWN stairs to get to my seats. 24 stairs to get to my seats to be exact.
His favorite candy is Skittles. Mine are anything gummy. I snuck in a bag of skittles for my son, and grabbed a handful of gummy bears for myself, to be later known as Satan's Diarrhea Hate Bears, that I received for Christmas in bulk from my parents, and put them in a zip lock bag.
After the excitement of the 1st quarter has ended I take my son out to get him a bottled water and myself a beer. We return to our seats to enjoy our candy and drinks.
..............fast forward until 1 minute before half time...........
I have begun to sweat a sweat that is only meant for a man on mile 19 of a marathon. I have kicked out my legs out so straight that I am violently pushing the gentleman wearing a suit seat in front of me forward. He is not happy, I do not care. My hands are on the side of my seat not unlike that of a gymnast on a pommel horse, lifting me off my chair. My son is oblivious to what is happening next to him, after all, there is a mascot running around somewhere and he is eating candy.
I realize that at some point in the very near to immediate future I am going to have to allow this lava from Satan to forcefully expel itself from my innards. I also realize that I have to walk up 24 stairs just to get to level ground in hopes to make it to the bathroom. I’ll just have to sit here stiff as a board for a few moments waiting for the pain to subside. About 30 seconds later there is a slight calm in the storm of the violent hurricane that is going on in my lower intestine. I muster the courage to gently relax every muscle in my lower half and stand up. My son stands up next to me and we start to ascend up the stairs. I take a very careful and calculated step up the first stair. Then a very loud horn sounds. Halftime. Great. It’s going to be crowded. The horn also seems to have awaken the Satan's Diarrhea Hate Bears that are having a mosh pit in my stomach. It literally felt like an avalanche went down my stomach and I again have to tighten every muscle and stand straight up and focus all my energy on my poor sphincter to tighten up and perform like it has never performed before. Taking another step would be the worst idea possible, the flood gates would open. Don’t worry, Daddy has a plan. I some how mumble the question, “want to play a game?” to my son, he of course says “yes”. My idea is to hop on both feet allllll the way up the stairs, using the center railing to propel me up each stair. My son is always up for a good hopping game, so he complies and joins in on the “fun”. Some old lady 4 steps up thinks its cute that we are doing this, obviously she wasn’t looking at the panic on my face. 3 rows behind her a man about the same age as me, who must have had similar situations, notices the fear/panic/desperation on my face understands the danger that I along with my pants and anyone within a 5 yard radius spray zone are in. He just mouths the words “good luck man” to me and I press on. Half way up and there is no leakage, but my legs are getting tired and my sphincter has never endured this amount of pressure for this long of time. 16 steps/hops later…….4 steps to go…….My son trips and falls on the stairs, I have two options: keep going knowing he will catch up or bend down to pick him up relieving my sphincter of all the pressure and commotion while ruining the day of roughly the 50 people that are now watching a grown man hop up stairs while sweating profusely next to a 4 year old boy.
Luckily he gets right back up and we make it to the top of the stairs. Good, the hard part was over. Or so I thought. I managed to waddle like a penguin, or someone who is about to poop their pants in 2.5 seconds, to the men's room only to find that every stall is being used. EVERY STALL. It's halftime, of course everyone has to poop at that moment. I don't know if I can wait any longer, do I go ahead and fulfil the dream of every high school boy and poop in the urinal? What kind of an example would that set for my son? On the other hand, what kind of an example would it be for his father to fill his pants with a substance that probably will be unrecognizable to man. Suddenly a stall door opens, and I think I manage to actually levitate over to the stall. I my son follows me in, luckily it was the handicap stall so there was room for him to be out of the way. I get my pants off and start to sit. I know what taking a giant poo feels like. I also know what vomiting feels like. I can now successfully say that I know what it is like to vomit out my butt. I wasn't pooping, those Satan's Diarrhea Hate Bears did something to my insides that made my sphincter vomit our the madness.
I am now conscious of my surroundings. Other than the war that the bottom half of my body is currently having with this porcelain chair, it is quiet as a pin drop in the bathroom. The other men in there can sense that something isn't right, no one has heard anyone ever poop vomit before.
I can sense that the worst part is over. But its not stopping, nor can I physically stop it at this point, I am leaking..it's horrible. I call out "does anyone have a diaper?" hoping that some gentleman was changing a baby. Nothing. No one said a word. I know people are in there, I can see the toes of shoes pointed in my direction under the stall.. "DOES ANYONE HAVE A DIAPER!?!" I am screaming, my son is now crying, he thinks he is witnessing the death of his father. I can't even assure him that I will make it.
Not a word was said, but a diaper was thrown over the stall. I catch it, line my underwear with it, put my pants back on, and walk out of that bathroom like a champ. We go straight to our seats, grab out coats and go home. As we are walking out, the gentleman that wished me good luck earlier simply put his fist out, and I happily bumped it.
My son asks me, "Daddy, why are we leaving early?"
"Well son, I need to change my diaper"
said:
I apologize in advance for the sloppiness I'll update when I get to my hotel.
I'll cut to the chase by saying that once I got boarded on my flight to Florida I started to get a little hungry. No big deal I thought since I have some sugar less gummy bears to eat. (I know it sounds gross, but I'm hungry/trying to eat healthier). Well once I oppened the 1 pound bag of them immediately the teenager next to me asked if he could have some. I didn't care because I talked to him once we were borded and he seemed pretty chill plus that bag was one pound and there was no way I was going to do it by myself.
We're going to town on this bag because they aren't that bad actually. I'm sitting in the window seat and this kid is sitting next to me in the isle seat and across the isle is his little brother ( less than 2 years old if I had to guess) and his mother next to him in the window seat across the plane. The toddler is getting all curious so the the teen next to me begins to tear the bears in little pieces to let him have some. Again I didn't really care because the whole family was pretty chill.
By now all three of us are eating some and the bag is running low. The teen showed no signs of stopping so I just asked if he wanted the rest. He agrees and takes it while I try to get some shut eye. The teen follow suit and asks his mom if she wants to keep tearing the little bears up to feed to the garbage disposal of a toddler. The mom starts snacking on them while simultaneously feeding the toddler some. I didn't think much of it because I started to actually fall asleep.
I woke up with the worst feeling in my stomach not 30 minutes later. I take the small blanket I had off over my face and all three of the family memebers are nowhere to be seen. At this point they could have fallen out of the f
kin plane and I wouldn't have cared becaue my stomach was feeling like it was hitting the abort button like I was having the mcgurrgles. I get up and make my way to the bathroom at the front of the plane and I spot the teen that was sitting next to me banging on the door actually fking crying. I start to put two and two together that it might be the gummy bears since we all are some. Well after banging on the door the mom and toddler finally come out in a rush with the mother looking like she just served in Vietnam. She's sweating like crazy and starts asking me what the fk I put in those gummies. I told her straight from up that I had no idea what is going on because I had just bought the bag and didn't do anything to it.
The absolute second I finish my sentence the baby shoots liquid diarrhea out of it's ass like it was being paid to do it. I can't handle st and some of it even got on my forearm so start to puke. Mid projectile vomit the teen comes out sweating bullets and I rush in their. I sit on the toilet and enter orbit when my ass opened. I swear I lifted off the fking seat while simultaneously blowing chunks in the piss station to the right of the toilet.
Once I'm done throwing up I can hear the complete chaos unfolding outside the door. The toddler is hysterical the mom I'd shouting and the stewardess is trying to calm everyone down. I clean up as much as I could and step out of the bathroom and as soon as I did the most putrid smell hit my nose. I assess the damage done by the hershy squirting baby and it was a lot worse than I thought. Not only did the baby manage to st out of it's onesie and onto my forearm, but also all over the seats in the first row. (Thank god no one was sitting there) as I make my way back to my seat not wanting to look the st covered mother in the face I notice the baby also left a trail of turds all along the isle leading to her seat.
I got back to my seat and everyone is looking at me like I opened fire on a bag of newborn puppies. I apologized more than I have ever in my life. And explained that I didn't know that gummy bears could do that.
The plane made an emergency landing and everyone got off the plane because the smell was too much. I went to the airport bathroom to freshen up and once I got back I look at the plane I had just gotten off and they literally had guys in hazmat suits going in with cleaning supplies. I have never been more ashamed in my entire life and I'm literally shaking right now.
TLDR: I shared sugar less gummy bears on my plane. Little did I know they are laxatives and me and three others st like out lives depend on it and create a huge mess.
I'll cut to the chase by saying that once I got boarded on my flight to Florida I started to get a little hungry. No big deal I thought since I have some sugar less gummy bears to eat. (I know it sounds gross, but I'm hungry/trying to eat healthier). Well once I oppened the 1 pound bag of them immediately the teenager next to me asked if he could have some. I didn't care because I talked to him once we were borded and he seemed pretty chill plus that bag was one pound and there was no way I was going to do it by myself.
We're going to town on this bag because they aren't that bad actually. I'm sitting in the window seat and this kid is sitting next to me in the isle seat and across the isle is his little brother ( less than 2 years old if I had to guess) and his mother next to him in the window seat across the plane. The toddler is getting all curious so the the teen next to me begins to tear the bears in little pieces to let him have some. Again I didn't really care because the whole family was pretty chill.
By now all three of us are eating some and the bag is running low. The teen showed no signs of stopping so I just asked if he wanted the rest. He agrees and takes it while I try to get some shut eye. The teen follow suit and asks his mom if she wants to keep tearing the little bears up to feed to the garbage disposal of a toddler. The mom starts snacking on them while simultaneously feeding the toddler some. I didn't think much of it because I started to actually fall asleep.
I woke up with the worst feeling in my stomach not 30 minutes later. I take the small blanket I had off over my face and all three of the family memebers are nowhere to be seen. At this point they could have fallen out of the f
kin plane and I wouldn't have cared becaue my stomach was feeling like it was hitting the abort button like I was having the mcgurrgles. I get up and make my way to the bathroom at the front of the plane and I spot the teen that was sitting next to me banging on the door actually fking crying. I start to put two and two together that it might be the gummy bears since we all are some. Well after banging on the door the mom and toddler finally come out in a rush with the mother looking like she just served in Vietnam. She's sweating like crazy and starts asking me what the fk I put in those gummies. I told her straight from up that I had no idea what is going on because I had just bought the bag and didn't do anything to it.The absolute second I finish my sentence the baby shoots liquid diarrhea out of it's ass like it was being paid to do it. I can't handle s
t and some of it even got on my forearm so start to puke. Mid projectile vomit the teen comes out sweating bullets and I rush in their. I sit on the toilet and enter orbit when my ass opened. I swear I lifted off the fking seat while simultaneously blowing chunks in the piss station to the right of the toilet.Once I'm done throwing up I can hear the complete chaos unfolding outside the door. The toddler is hysterical the mom I'd shouting and the stewardess is trying to calm everyone down. I clean up as much as I could and step out of the bathroom and as soon as I did the most putrid smell hit my nose. I assess the damage done by the hershy squirting baby and it was a lot worse than I thought. Not only did the baby manage to s
t out of it's onesie and onto my forearm, but also all over the seats in the first row. (Thank god no one was sitting there) as I make my way back to my seat not wanting to look the st covered mother in the face I notice the baby also left a trail of turds all along the isle leading to her seat.I got back to my seat and everyone is looking at me like I opened fire on a bag of newborn puppies. I apologized more than I have ever in my life. And explained that I didn't know that gummy bears could do that.
The plane made an emergency landing and everyone got off the plane because the smell was too much. I went to the airport bathroom to freshen up and once I got back I look at the plane I had just gotten off and they literally had guys in hazmat suits going in with cleaning supplies. I have never been more ashamed in my entire life and I'm literally shaking right now.
TLDR: I shared sugar less gummy bears on my plane. Little did I know they are laxatives and me and three others s
t like out lives depend on it and create a huge mess.Edited by Vyse on Saturday 22 October 14:05
More than thirty years ago i worked as a bus driver.
One Saturday night I was driving the bus from the city centre on a route which was scheduled to take one hour.
I pulled into the city at 10.50pm for a 10.55pm departure. This bus route went past the city university complex on the outskirts. As the students began to pile on the bus I felt a warm crafty fart slide out ! The desire soon changed to wanting a dump, getting a bit stronger by the minute. Nearby was a public toilet, but no, I will wait till I get to the bus station at the other end of the route i thought.
Pulling away from the bus stop I soon realised I should have gone to the public loo, too late tho, now we were on our way. That bus literally flew at speed never attained before, five minutes later the students usally quite boistrous & noisey being pissed couldn't get off the bus quick enough, I think they were frightened to death nearly.
Racing along I was willing traffic lights to either change to green or stay on green, I must have broke many RTA laws that night. Missing intending passengers was easy, foot down keep going, Fook em I thought.
Half way around the route the last passenger got off the bus, so I then decided to miss part of the route out all together to make the journey much quicker.
My rear end was absolutely crying out to explode, but flat out I drove to the bus station at the end of the route.
On reaching the bus station toilets I ran in & quickly, in record time took position, by god what an explosion followed, only comparable to the smell, awful !
Driving gently back to the depot I arrived 30 minutes early but no one ever noticed !
One Saturday night I was driving the bus from the city centre on a route which was scheduled to take one hour.
I pulled into the city at 10.50pm for a 10.55pm departure. This bus route went past the city university complex on the outskirts. As the students began to pile on the bus I felt a warm crafty fart slide out ! The desire soon changed to wanting a dump, getting a bit stronger by the minute. Nearby was a public toilet, but no, I will wait till I get to the bus station at the other end of the route i thought.
Pulling away from the bus stop I soon realised I should have gone to the public loo, too late tho, now we were on our way. That bus literally flew at speed never attained before, five minutes later the students usally quite boistrous & noisey being pissed couldn't get off the bus quick enough, I think they were frightened to death nearly.
Racing along I was willing traffic lights to either change to green or stay on green, I must have broke many RTA laws that night. Missing intending passengers was easy, foot down keep going, Fook em I thought.
Half way around the route the last passenger got off the bus, so I then decided to miss part of the route out all together to make the journey much quicker.
My rear end was absolutely crying out to explode, but flat out I drove to the bus station at the end of the route.
On reaching the bus station toilets I ran in & quickly, in record time took position, by god what an explosion followed, only comparable to the smell, awful !
Driving gently back to the depot I arrived 30 minutes early but no one ever noticed !
Edited by gus607 on Saturday 22 October 15:41
MitchT said:
It's crossed my mind on the odd occasion to wonder what happens when bus drivers, train drivers, etc. have an unexpected and urgent need when they're busy at work.
When a man (or woman) has to go, then you have to go. Anywhere you can find a "stter" !One of our drivers regually parked up mid route at a public loo got off the bus with his newspaper under his arm, he always did the crossword.
Edited by gus607 on Saturday 22 October 15:48
MitchT said:
It's crossed my mind on the odd occasion to wonder what happens when bus drivers, train drivers, etc. have an unexpected and urgent need when they're busy at work.
I'm a delivery driver for Tesco. I've heard of another driver (honest it wasn't me!) take a dump at a customers! I wouldn't (be scared of blocking it!). Another customer has said if we are ever passing we can pop in and use her toilet. Never taken it up, but always nice to know.Last week I ate something a little dodgy for lunch, finished work at 2200, home and showered in bed by 2300. Laying in bed watching TV feel a fart coming along, let it out expecting it to be a really loud one. Soon realise it isn't safe.
Rush off to the toilet, bunker down and its a few minutes of just stomach noises before all hell is let lose. It stank, it was more watery than water and made a complete mess of the toilet bowl!
Flushed and wiped (considering the mess it was one wipe, was bloody pleased). 20 minutes later I'm back, same as before. This goes on for a couple of hours.
Decide work isn't a good idea, don't fancy needing a s
t whilst carrying someones shopping into their house! Phone up and saying a stomach upset is good enough for them.Get to sleep, scared I'm going to s
t myself in my sleep (slept in old joggers in the hope it would contain any poo and not ruin my bed!). Wake up around 10am. We normally have a cleaner around then so didn't want to walk from my room to the bathroom and risk ruining their work. Couple of small farts.
Wonder over and get ready for hell. Back to normal. Phew!
Doesn't help I have a phobia of using other toilets for a s
t other than mine. Ki3r said:
I'm a delivery driver for Tesco. I've heard of another driver (honest it wasn't me!) take a dump at a customers! I wouldn't (be scared of blocking it!). Another customer has said if we are ever passing we can pop in and use her toilet. Never taken it up, but always nice to know.
Jesus. As a fellow (ex) Tesco driver that would NOT go down well in my branch. We had a lad who got the sack for accepting a cup of tea & a chat from a long time customer (lovely old woman, lives alone & was always inviting drivers in for a chat/tea etc) he was ahead on his time slot too, the customer accidentally ratted him in to the store manager when she decided to offer some positive feedback about the lovely experience she had had with some of our drivers. Store manager fed back to our SM who thought the appropriate reaction to positive feedback was to offer the guy his 14 days notice for gross misconduct (he had one prior warning for some blackbox cockup and had been working there just over 6 month).Its amazing how much s
t management can make an otherwise enjoyable job awful. Personally I have once popped into a pub to take a piss well I was doing my rounds, there was also a public toilet (coincidentally the one all the bus drivers use as its next to a bus stop) on one of my frequent routes, I have used that on the odd occasion. I have pretty much iron guts, loved indian food as a kid, from that not much bothers me.
My worst recent experience was on a motorbike trip to Norway.
For the uninitiated, motorbike gear (even the comfortable touring stuff I was wearing) takes a little while to get out of. The jacket is connected to the trousers, there are multiple layers and fastenings to get through and the knee armour hits the boots so you con't fully drop trou.
Motorcycles have a disadvantage to cars in that they're really no use at all for blocking the view of passers by if you really need to free awfulness of your bowels in an emergency layby situation.
So there I was, on a solo tour of Norway. I'd ridden from Oslo to the Nordkapp and was heading back down the coast to get back to Oslo and ship the bike back home.
I'd been riding for about 10 days by this point and had done almost 3000 miles with no major issues (bar almost hitting a reindeer in Finland and dropping the bike in the Lofoten islands) so was pretty confident in my ability to deal with anything that might come up.
I had been eating quite randomly as I was traveling without a real plan or any bookings to stick to, but it hadn't caused any issues.
I'd also had my gallbladder removed 5 months previously due to various stomach problems so should have been avoiding anything spicy/greasy or fun as I can no longer tolerate it.
Turned out a petrol station hot dog wrapped in bacon was not an ideal lunch.
I was at Geiranger fjord, a hot tourist spot so busy that there wasn't enough room to park the motorbike. I had to abandon it on the road (along with the others) and walk to the viewpoint past approximately a million Japanese tourists complete with selfie sticks, umbrellas (it was sunny) and dust masks.
As I was taking my photos I felt a subtle change in my guts. That slight fluttery feeling as things settle and other things make a break for freedom.
At that point I noticed that there were no toilets at the hot tourist spot, and decided to ride further on.
As I lifted my leg to high kick my way onto the large adventure bike there was another slightly less subtle grumble, followed by a feeling that I should be much closer to a public convenience than a few miles of twisty roads with beautiful views of one of the most photographed fjords in Norway.
I fired up the bike and blasted off down the mountain with urgency only slightly hampered by the need to survive the turns. Over the next couple of miles I scythed through the tourist traffic like a courier with a time bomb in his backpack (my bomb was somewhat lower). The increase in speed, vibration and cornering forces didn't help the insistent rumbling in the slightest.
After a very fraught few miles I finally spotted a toilet in another public carpark laden with tourists. I entered at high enough speed that it would have looked reasonable for a pit team to be waiting for me, and slid to a stop with the rear brake locked.
Then came the scary part. Sitting on the bike my legs were mostly closed, and the pressure from the seat was preventing any escape. I really needed to get off the bike but that involved a high kick with my right leg and a lot of trust in the pressure retention capabilities of things I no longer trusted fully.
I finally settled for a kind of closed leg slither and hobbled to the toilets wile unzipping, unclipping and opening velcro to find a single trap that was occupied.
After an intense and stomach cramping wait I managed to get in an unleash hell. The toilet was a modern looking thing with frosted glass walls and gaps under the door to provide the whole area with an amplified version of the carnage I was experiencing.
Then I went outside (ignoring the horrified looks of people close by) and waited in a nonchalant kind of fashion for round two, three and four while gobbling immodium and sipping water to replace the gallons I'd sweated out.
For the uninitiated, motorbike gear (even the comfortable touring stuff I was wearing) takes a little while to get out of. The jacket is connected to the trousers, there are multiple layers and fastenings to get through and the knee armour hits the boots so you con't fully drop trou.
Motorcycles have a disadvantage to cars in that they're really no use at all for blocking the view of passers by if you really need to free awfulness of your bowels in an emergency layby situation.
So there I was, on a solo tour of Norway. I'd ridden from Oslo to the Nordkapp and was heading back down the coast to get back to Oslo and ship the bike back home.
I'd been riding for about 10 days by this point and had done almost 3000 miles with no major issues (bar almost hitting a reindeer in Finland and dropping the bike in the Lofoten islands) so was pretty confident in my ability to deal with anything that might come up.
I had been eating quite randomly as I was traveling without a real plan or any bookings to stick to, but it hadn't caused any issues.
I'd also had my gallbladder removed 5 months previously due to various stomach problems so should have been avoiding anything spicy/greasy or fun as I can no longer tolerate it.
Turned out a petrol station hot dog wrapped in bacon was not an ideal lunch.
I was at Geiranger fjord, a hot tourist spot so busy that there wasn't enough room to park the motorbike. I had to abandon it on the road (along with the others) and walk to the viewpoint past approximately a million Japanese tourists complete with selfie sticks, umbrellas (it was sunny) and dust masks.
As I was taking my photos I felt a subtle change in my guts. That slight fluttery feeling as things settle and other things make a break for freedom.
At that point I noticed that there were no toilets at the hot tourist spot, and decided to ride further on.
As I lifted my leg to high kick my way onto the large adventure bike there was another slightly less subtle grumble, followed by a feeling that I should be much closer to a public convenience than a few miles of twisty roads with beautiful views of one of the most photographed fjords in Norway.
I fired up the bike and blasted off down the mountain with urgency only slightly hampered by the need to survive the turns. Over the next couple of miles I scythed through the tourist traffic like a courier with a time bomb in his backpack (my bomb was somewhat lower). The increase in speed, vibration and cornering forces didn't help the insistent rumbling in the slightest.
After a very fraught few miles I finally spotted a toilet in another public carpark laden with tourists. I entered at high enough speed that it would have looked reasonable for a pit team to be waiting for me, and slid to a stop with the rear brake locked.
Then came the scary part. Sitting on the bike my legs were mostly closed, and the pressure from the seat was preventing any escape. I really needed to get off the bike but that involved a high kick with my right leg and a lot of trust in the pressure retention capabilities of things I no longer trusted fully.
I finally settled for a kind of closed leg slither and hobbled to the toilets wile unzipping, unclipping and opening velcro to find a single trap that was occupied.
After an intense and stomach cramping wait I managed to get in an unleash hell. The toilet was a modern looking thing with frosted glass walls and gaps under the door to provide the whole area with an amplified version of the carnage I was experiencing.
Then I went outside (ignoring the horrified looks of people close by) and waited in a nonchalant kind of fashion for round two, three and four while gobbling immodium and sipping water to replace the gallons I'd sweated out.
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