Men Gruntin while in the mens room
Discussion
Girl I was dating a lifetime ago....
She was moving out from home and bought her first place. A new build.
She was really keen to show me it ( understandable.... it is a landmark in your life )
Although the flat didn't have carpets down, the sales rep was more than to give her the keys so she could show her beau the new place she had bought.
To be honest - the flat was lovely - especially as fans of new build places know... magnolia rules.
After congratulating her on a how well she had done - and had a cheeky snog... she suddenly felt unwell.
Instinct took over - and she ran ( actually waddled... she had some extra padding ) to the ladies room.
As she positioned herself for the orchestra that was to follow - a sense of dignity and serenity washed over her - and she extended her right arm to gently ( cue slam ) the door.
However, the builders had not yet installed said door, so a gaping hole remained.
A certain look that said.. "Be somewhere else" along with an eloquent string of profanity followed.
After the building settled, as it could only possibly be the foundations coming to rest, a petite voice was heard to echo that - "would I mind so much to go to the supermarket, as being a new build - there is no paper."
Cue the White Knight on a mission to save his damsel in distress.
After a trip to the local Asda to pickup some Puppy attracting paper, a packet of beef jerky and some Opal Fruits - the quest was complete and I returned back to my loved one.
As I approached her, wielding the a dual pack of the finest perforated parchment money could buy, she would not look me in the eye.
She was inconsolable.
After a couple of minutes reassuring her - that this could happen to anyone, she finally explained.
While the allegory of bassoons was mortifying, the lack of door meant she could never see me again.
I explained that it didn't matter - and I loved her so.
She insisted I leave, numerous times she demanded I just go.
Being a caring sort - I refused. My resolve was firm.
Finally - she looked me in the eye and said "It is bad enough there is no door or loo paper. I wanted you to go - as while the toilet is connected - the water is not."
I nodded I understood. I left the loo paper. Said I would see her in the car in 5 minutes.
20 minutes later, she surfaced - with an Asda poly bag filled with.... stuff reeking of... Opium ... with a stern face of "Drive."
I started the car, electric windows down and said nothing.
I was dumped before the house warming.
She was moving out from home and bought her first place. A new build.
She was really keen to show me it ( understandable.... it is a landmark in your life )
Although the flat didn't have carpets down, the sales rep was more than to give her the keys so she could show her beau the new place she had bought.
To be honest - the flat was lovely - especially as fans of new build places know... magnolia rules.
After congratulating her on a how well she had done - and had a cheeky snog... she suddenly felt unwell.
Instinct took over - and she ran ( actually waddled... she had some extra padding ) to the ladies room.
As she positioned herself for the orchestra that was to follow - a sense of dignity and serenity washed over her - and she extended her right arm to gently ( cue slam ) the door.
However, the builders had not yet installed said door, so a gaping hole remained.
A certain look that said.. "Be somewhere else" along with an eloquent string of profanity followed.
After the building settled, as it could only possibly be the foundations coming to rest, a petite voice was heard to echo that - "would I mind so much to go to the supermarket, as being a new build - there is no paper."
Cue the White Knight on a mission to save his damsel in distress.
After a trip to the local Asda to pickup some Puppy attracting paper, a packet of beef jerky and some Opal Fruits - the quest was complete and I returned back to my loved one.
As I approached her, wielding the a dual pack of the finest perforated parchment money could buy, she would not look me in the eye.
She was inconsolable.
After a couple of minutes reassuring her - that this could happen to anyone, she finally explained.
While the allegory of bassoons was mortifying, the lack of door meant she could never see me again.
I explained that it didn't matter - and I loved her so.
She insisted I leave, numerous times she demanded I just go.
Being a caring sort - I refused. My resolve was firm.
Finally - she looked me in the eye and said "It is bad enough there is no door or loo paper. I wanted you to go - as while the toilet is connected - the water is not."
I nodded I understood. I left the loo paper. Said I would see her in the car in 5 minutes.
20 minutes later, she surfaced - with an Asda poly bag filled with.... stuff reeking of... Opium ... with a stern face of "Drive."
I started the car, electric windows down and said nothing.
I was dumped before the house warming.
Not a man "gruntin" but a woman this time. Epic story to rival the "eyes like a Lemur" one. You couldn't make this up ...
http://www.bbc.co.uk/news/uk-england-bristol-41167...
http://www.bbc.co.uk/news/uk-england-bristol-41167...
MitchT said:
Not a man "gruntin" but a woman this time. Epic story to rival the "eyes like a Lemur" one. You couldn't make this up ...
http://www.bbc.co.uk/news/uk-england-bristol-41167...
Go fund me page http://www.bbc.co.uk/news/uk-england-bristol-41167...
The legend said:
Louis Theroux and chill
https://www.gofundme.com/9wvxt9-replacement-window
This epic thread keeps on giving. I re-read that comedy gold at the start of the thread, tries to read it to my Mrs but nearly passed out laughing (whilst she gave me the "f
king idiot" look), then to read that story and see that girl wedged in between the 2 windows was priceless.
A bloody go fund page to fix the window had me in stitches too.
More, it's good medicine for a long stty day at work, no pun intended
king idiot" look), then to read that story and see that girl wedged in between the 2 windows was priceless.A bloody go fund page to fix the window had me in stitches too.
More, it's good medicine for a long s
tty day at work, no pun intendedTroubleatmill said:
Girl I was dating a lifetime ago....
She was moving out from home and bought her first place. A new build.
She was really keen to show me it ( understandable.... it is a landmark in your life )
Although the flat didn't have carpets down, the sales rep was more than to give her the keys so she could show her beau the new place she had bought.
To be honest - the flat was lovely - especially as fans of new build places know... magnolia rules.
After congratulating her on a how well she had done - and had a cheeky snog... she suddenly felt unwell.
Instinct took over - and she ran ( actually waddled... she had some extra padding ) to the ladies room.
As she positioned herself for the orchestra that was to follow - a sense of dignity and serenity washed over her - and she extended her right arm to gently ( cue slam ) the door.
However, the builders had not yet installed said door, so a gaping hole remained.
A certain look that said.. "Be somewhere else" along with an eloquent string of profanity followed.
After the building settled, as it could only possibly be the foundations coming to rest, a petite voice was heard to echo that - "would I mind so much to go to the supermarket, as being a new build - there is no paper."
Cue the White Knight on a mission to save his damsel in distress.
After a trip to the local Asda to pickup some Puppy attracting paper, a packet of beef jerky and some Opal Fruits - the quest was complete and I returned back to my loved one.
As I approached her, wielding the a dual pack of the finest perforated parchment money could buy, she would not look me in the eye.
She was inconsolable.
After a couple of minutes reassuring her - that this could happen to anyone, she finally explained.
While the allegory of bassoons was mortifying, the lack of door meant she could never see me again.
I explained that it didn't matter - and I loved her so.
She insisted I leave, numerous times she demanded I just go.
Being a caring sort - I refused. My resolve was firm.
Finally - she looked me in the eye and said "It is bad enough there is no door or loo paper. I wanted you to go - as while the toilet is connected - the water is not."
I nodded I understood. I left the loo paper. Said I would see her in the car in 5 minutes.
20 minutes later, she surfaced - with an Asda poly bag filled with.... stuff reeking of... Opium ... with a stern face of "Drive."
I started the car, electric windows down and said nothing.
I was dumped before the house warming.
How the hell did this get ignored for 6 months! She was moving out from home and bought her first place. A new build.
She was really keen to show me it ( understandable.... it is a landmark in your life )
Although the flat didn't have carpets down, the sales rep was more than to give her the keys so she could show her beau the new place she had bought.
To be honest - the flat was lovely - especially as fans of new build places know... magnolia rules.
After congratulating her on a how well she had done - and had a cheeky snog... she suddenly felt unwell.
Instinct took over - and she ran ( actually waddled... she had some extra padding ) to the ladies room.
As she positioned herself for the orchestra that was to follow - a sense of dignity and serenity washed over her - and she extended her right arm to gently ( cue slam ) the door.
However, the builders had not yet installed said door, so a gaping hole remained.
A certain look that said.. "Be somewhere else" along with an eloquent string of profanity followed.
After the building settled, as it could only possibly be the foundations coming to rest, a petite voice was heard to echo that - "would I mind so much to go to the supermarket, as being a new build - there is no paper."
Cue the White Knight on a mission to save his damsel in distress.
After a trip to the local Asda to pickup some Puppy attracting paper, a packet of beef jerky and some Opal Fruits - the quest was complete and I returned back to my loved one.
As I approached her, wielding the a dual pack of the finest perforated parchment money could buy, she would not look me in the eye.
She was inconsolable.
After a couple of minutes reassuring her - that this could happen to anyone, she finally explained.
While the allegory of bassoons was mortifying, the lack of door meant she could never see me again.
I explained that it didn't matter - and I loved her so.
She insisted I leave, numerous times she demanded I just go.
Being a caring sort - I refused. My resolve was firm.
Finally - she looked me in the eye and said "It is bad enough there is no door or loo paper. I wanted you to go - as while the toilet is connected - the water is not."
I nodded I understood. I left the loo paper. Said I would see her in the car in 5 minutes.
20 minutes later, she surfaced - with an Asda poly bag filled with.... stuff reeking of... Opium ... with a stern face of "Drive."
I started the car, electric windows down and said nothing.
I was dumped before the house warming.
MitchT said:
Not a man "gruntin" but a woman this time. Epic story to rival the "eyes like a Lemur" one. You couldn't make this up ...
http://www.bbc.co.uk/news/uk-england-bristol-41167...
Poo, Poo, Barney McGrew, Cuthbert, Dibble, Grubb.http://www.bbc.co.uk/news/uk-england-bristol-41167...
The Thread that just keeps on giving. I love how it surfaces every so often with more Tales of Daring DooDoo! What is it about toilet humour that blokes find hilarious and women rarely do?
I've copied and pasted all the best ones into word docs, especially the Self Conscious first date....
"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"
I send them on whenever I meet another Toilet Humour Aficionado, and they always result in some guy shaking with supressed laughter at his desk getting strange looks from his colleagues! Timing Matters!
I've copied and pasted all the best ones into word docs, especially the Self Conscious first date....
"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"
I send them on whenever I meet another Toilet Humour Aficionado, and they always result in some guy shaking with supressed laughter at his desk getting strange looks from his colleagues! Timing Matters!
MitchT said:
Not a man "gruntin" but a woman this time. Epic story to rival the "eyes like a Lemur" one. You couldn't make this up ...
http://www.bbc.co.uk/news/uk-england-bristol-41167...
Surely to Christ everybody knows you just reach in and crumble the reluctant guest with your fingers ?? http://www.bbc.co.uk/news/uk-england-bristol-41167...
Don't they?
Absolutely brilliant
One of the best things I have read anywhere, although 'Agent Picolax' also runs it a close second. Sat through the whole thing, crying and shaking with laughter, really has brightened my day up.
I am for one very glad that the posters who chose to impart their tales have such a way with words, a decent grasp of grammar........and a very wide vocabulary
I won't got into the details of the 'grunt' but I wish the cleaning personnel in Asda would not slip their 'female cleaner in attendance' in behind the Men's Toilet sign, so it looks like 'male cleaner in attendance'.... 
There is a chance women might not/do not appreciate men's gruntwork.
There is a chance women might not/do not appreciate men's gruntwork.
I've searched high and low but I can't find the funny story of an offshore workers colleague who got on the helicopter feeling a bit rough.
I seem to remember the guy next to him not speaking at all for the entire flight, covered head to toe in the other guys st, as well as the pilots flying with their heads out the window and it costing tens of thousands to clean it. Can anyone remember the story?
I seem to remember the guy next to him not speaking at all for the entire flight, covered head to toe in the other guys s
t, as well as the pilots flying with their heads out the window and it costing tens of thousands to clean it. Can anyone remember the story? Taita said:
I've searched high and low but I can't find the funny story of an offshore workers colleague who got on the helicopter feeling a bit rough.
I seem to remember the guy next to him not speaking at all for the entire flight, covered head to toe in the other guys st, as well as the pilots flying with their heads out the window and it costing tens of thousands to clean it. Can anyone remember the story?
Not the same story but I was on a chopper transiting to a rig off the coast of Angola when one of the local hires disrobed and let loose over the seats and floor of the back of the chopper.I seem to remember the guy next to him not speaking at all for the entire flight, covered head to toe in the other guys s
t, as well as the pilots flying with their heads out the window and it costing tens of thousands to clean it. Can anyone remember the story? The rest of the flight was not pleasant.
J4CKO said:
I have noticed, when in a cubicle, whoever is in the next one sounding like they are buffing something, not the obvious I dont think but vigorous nonetheless, where my actions are *largely* silent.
Either they love a particularly buffed and shiny sphincter or they're perhaps using private browsing mode on their phone...Well this is a bit of a thread revival - I remember it when it started all those years ago!!
Anyway, for the benefit of anyone who missed it first time round, I've quoted what is still probably the funniest post I've ever read on PH
Anyway, for the benefit of anyone who missed it first time round, I've quoted what is still probably the funniest post I've ever read on PH
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.
I cant believe I've just discovered this thread... thank you all! It's priceless :-)
My own story is not as funny, but I feel the need to share now.
A few years ago I was training for the London Marathon. I was working in London and staying in local hotels, whilst taking the opportunity to sample the course. It was all going well, until one evening in early March. It was a lovely night, and I had planned to run about 10-12 miles around East London, south of the river, near to the start of the course. I usually ran close to midnight as the traffic had died down and the pavements were empty. A colleague had also explained to me the benefits of Lucozade Sport over my normal water bottle, so I thought I would give it a try.
About 5 miles in I decided to drink it, it was lovely - very Orangey - and I looked forward to the carbs "kicking in". What I hadn't banked on was a complete and utter intolerance to Lucozade "kicking in" instead. It started with an uncomfortable and slightly worrying sensation in Woolwich, which turned into cramps in Greenwich, and then an overwhelming desire to s**t myself in Deptford (but not for the usual reasons when there that late). The problem was, running so late at night meant that there were no toilets... everywhere was closed.... plus I was dressed from top to toe in luminous green lycra, so I couldn't just "sneak in" anywhere.
There was only one answer to this - I would pick up the pace and run back to the hotel. My normal pace was around a 9 minute mile, but according to my watch I managed to get it down to 8 minutes... great! Then as it became more urgent, down to 7 minutes... but I had about two miles to go so I put down the hammer... 6 minute miles... then 5 something... At this point I don't know what surprised me the most, that I could still run a mile in under six minutes and wasn't dying, or that I had somehow not yet s**t myself. I was making really good time, farting for England, and was literally flying along with a surprised smile on my face and a strangely abnormal gait as I was trying to hold everything in for as long as I could. Given my intense motivation to move very quickly at this point, I'd have given Mo Farah a run for his money.
Unfortunately, as powerful as I was, the Lucozade was just that bit more powerful... and about a mile from the hotel, whilst sprinting for my life, my arse literally exploded and I felt the lot run down the inside of my lycra running tights. Again, I had a choice. But Bermondsey is not a great place to sit around stinking of s**t, so I decided to keep running as fast as I could, hoping that nobody would notice that my once luminous green lycra was now khaki, and once back at my hotel I could sneak into my room, take a shower and wash my kit.
I eventually arrived in the hotel in central London (registering a new PB in the process - yay!), to be greeted by a huge black-tie dinner that had spilled out into the foyer, blocking my path to the lifts. It was packed. I had to do the walk of shame through the middle, but with my combined perfume of sweat and s**t the sea of people parted as if I was Moses. I pressed the button for the lift, head down, hoping that nobody would be in it. The doors opened and i jumped into the empty box... to be followed by a loud, pissed-up champagne charlie, barely upright, complete with glass in hand. I smiled. The doors then closed, and we spend the next 10 seconds (it felt longer) not looking at each other, or talking, until the door opened at my floor and I jumped out. As I waddled along I realised he must have been holding his breath the whole time, as he gasped out for air and started to retch. I felt guilty for smiling just a little more at this.
That was the last time I ever drank Lucozade. Which was a shame as they gave it away for free along the course, but every time I passed the drinks station I smiled, remembered that night, and picked up the pace a bit.
My own story is not as funny, but I feel the need to share now.
A few years ago I was training for the London Marathon. I was working in London and staying in local hotels, whilst taking the opportunity to sample the course. It was all going well, until one evening in early March. It was a lovely night, and I had planned to run about 10-12 miles around East London, south of the river, near to the start of the course. I usually ran close to midnight as the traffic had died down and the pavements were empty. A colleague had also explained to me the benefits of Lucozade Sport over my normal water bottle, so I thought I would give it a try.
About 5 miles in I decided to drink it, it was lovely - very Orangey - and I looked forward to the carbs "kicking in". What I hadn't banked on was a complete and utter intolerance to Lucozade "kicking in" instead. It started with an uncomfortable and slightly worrying sensation in Woolwich, which turned into cramps in Greenwich, and then an overwhelming desire to s**t myself in Deptford (but not for the usual reasons when there that late). The problem was, running so late at night meant that there were no toilets... everywhere was closed.... plus I was dressed from top to toe in luminous green lycra, so I couldn't just "sneak in" anywhere.
There was only one answer to this - I would pick up the pace and run back to the hotel. My normal pace was around a 9 minute mile, but according to my watch I managed to get it down to 8 minutes... great! Then as it became more urgent, down to 7 minutes... but I had about two miles to go so I put down the hammer... 6 minute miles... then 5 something... At this point I don't know what surprised me the most, that I could still run a mile in under six minutes and wasn't dying, or that I had somehow not yet s**t myself. I was making really good time, farting for England, and was literally flying along with a surprised smile on my face and a strangely abnormal gait as I was trying to hold everything in for as long as I could. Given my intense motivation to move very quickly at this point, I'd have given Mo Farah a run for his money.
Unfortunately, as powerful as I was, the Lucozade was just that bit more powerful... and about a mile from the hotel, whilst sprinting for my life, my arse literally exploded and I felt the lot run down the inside of my lycra running tights. Again, I had a choice. But Bermondsey is not a great place to sit around stinking of s**t, so I decided to keep running as fast as I could, hoping that nobody would notice that my once luminous green lycra was now khaki, and once back at my hotel I could sneak into my room, take a shower and wash my kit.
I eventually arrived in the hotel in central London (registering a new PB in the process - yay!), to be greeted by a huge black-tie dinner that had spilled out into the foyer, blocking my path to the lifts. It was packed. I had to do the walk of shame through the middle, but with my combined perfume of sweat and s**t the sea of people parted as if I was Moses. I pressed the button for the lift, head down, hoping that nobody would be in it. The doors opened and i jumped into the empty box... to be followed by a loud, pissed-up champagne charlie, barely upright, complete with glass in hand. I smiled. The doors then closed, and we spend the next 10 seconds (it felt longer) not looking at each other, or talking, until the door opened at my floor and I jumped out. As I waddled along I realised he must have been holding his breath the whole time, as he gasped out for air and started to retch. I felt guilty for smiling just a little more at this.
That was the last time I ever drank Lucozade. Which was a shame as they gave it away for free along the course, but every time I passed the drinks station I smiled, remembered that night, and picked up the pace a bit.
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