A Bathroom story

[chuddly]

I have had this for SEVERAL years...it laugh ever time i read it. Enjoy.

All in all, it hadn’t been a good day. Bad traffic, a malfunctioning computer, incompetent coworkers and a sore back all made me a seething cauldron of rage. But more importantly for this story, it had been over forty-eight hours since I’d last taken a dump. I’d tried to jumpstart the process, beginning my day with a bowl of bowel-cleansing fiber cereal, following it with six cups of coffee at work, and adding a bean-laden lunch at Taco Bell.
As I was returning home from work, my insides let me know with subtle rumbles and the emission of the occasional tiny fart that Big Things would be happening soon. Alas, I had to stop at the mall to go Christmas shopping. I completed this task, and as I was walking past the stores on my way back to the car, I noticed a large sale sign proclaiming, “Everything Must Go!” This was prophetic, for my colon informed me with a sudden violent cramp and a wet, squeaky fart that everything was indeed about to go. I hurried to the mall bathrooms. I surveyed the five stalls, which I have numbered 1 through 5 for your convenience:
1. Occupied.
2. Clean, but Bathroom Protocol forbids its use, as it’s next to the occupied one.
3. Poo on seat.
4. Poo and toilet paper in bowl, unidentifiable liquid splattered on seat.
5. No toilet paper, no stall door, unidentifiable sticky object near base of
toilet.
Clearly, it had to be Stall #2. I trudged back, entered, dropped trousers and
sat down. I’m normally a fairly Shameful ****ter. I wasn’t happy about being
next to the occupied stall, but Big Things were afoot.
I was just getting ready to bear down when all of a sudden the sweet sounds of Beethoven came from next door, followed by a fumbling, and then the sound of a voice answering the ringing phone. As usual for a cell phone conversation, the voice was exactly 8 dB louder than it needed to be. Out of Shameful habit, my sphincter slammed shut.
The inane conversation went on and on. Mr. ****ter was blathering to Mrs. ****ter about the ****ty day he had. I sat there, cramping and miserable, waiting for him to finish. As the loud conversation dragged on, I became angrier and angrier, thinking that I, too, had a crappy day, but I was too polite to yak about in public.
My bowels let me know in no uncertain terms that if I didn’t get crapping soon, my day would be getting even crappier.
Finally my anger reached a point that overcame Shamefulness. I no longer cared. I gripped the toilet paper holder with one hand, braced my other hand against the side of the stall, and pushed with all my might. I was rewarded with a fart of colossal magnitude – a cross between the sound of someone ripping a very wet bed sheet in half and of plywood being torn off a wall. The sound gradually transitioned into a heavily modulated low-RPM tone, not unlike someone firing up a Harley. I managed to hit the resonance frequency of the stall, and it shook gently.
Once my ass cheeks stopped flapping in the breeze, three things became apparent:
(1) The next-door conversation had ceased
(2) my colon’s continued seizing indicated that there was more to come
(3) the bathroom was now beset by a horrible, eldritch stench. It was as if a gateway to Hell had been opened. The foul miasma quickly made its way under the stall and began choking my poop-mate. This initial “herald” fart had ended his conversation in mid-sentence.
“Oh my God,” I heard him utter, following it with suppressed sounds of choking, and then, “No, baby, that wasn’t me (cough, gag), you could hear that (gag)??”
Now there was no stopping me. I pushed for all I was worth. I could swear that in the resulting cacophony of rips, squirts, splashes, poots, and blasts, I was actually lifted slightly off the pot. The amount of stuff in me was incredible. It sprayed against the bowl with tremendous force. Later, in surveying the damage, I’d see that liquid poop had actually managed to ricochet out of the bowl and run down the side on to the floor. But for now, all I could do was hang on for the ride.
Next door I could hear him fumbling with the paper dispenser as he desperately tried to finish his task. Little snatches of conversation made themselves heard over my anal symphony: “Gotta go… horrible… throw up…in my mouth… not… make it… tell the kids… love them… oh God…” followed by more sounds of suppressed gagging and retching.
Alas, it is evidently difficult to hold one’s phone and wipe one’s bum at the same time. Just as my high-pressure abuse of the toilet was winding down, I heard a plop and splash from next door, followed by string of swear words and gags. My poop-mate had dropped his phone into the toilet.
There was a lull in my production, and the restroom became deathly quiet. I could envision him standing there, wondering what to do. A final anal announcement came trumpeting from my behind, small chunks plopping noisily into the water. That must have been the last straw. I heard a flush, a fumbling with the lock, and then the stall door was thrown open. I heard him running out of the bathroom, slamming the door behind him.
After a considerable amount of paperwork, I got up and surveyed the damage. I felt bad for the janitor who’d be forced to deal with this, but I knew that flushing was not an option. No toilet in the world could handle that unholy mess. Flushing would only lead to a floor flooded with filth.
As I left, I glanced into the next-door stall. Nothing remained in the bowl. Had he flushed his phone, or had he plucked it out and left the bathroom with nasty unwashed hands? The world will never know.
I exited the bathroom, momentarily proud and Shameless, looking around for a face glaring at me. But I saw no one. I suspect that somehow my supernatural elimination has managed to transfer my Shamefulness to my anonymous poop-mate. I think it’ll be a long time before he can bring himself to poop in public — and I doubt he’ll ever again answer his cell phone in the loo.
And this, my friends, is why you should never talk on your phone in the bathroom.

 

[tv1217]

Bravo, good sir.

 

[It'sAllFun&Games]

I laughed so loudly that my boss stuck her head in my office and asked what was so funny.
OOPS!! BACK TO WORK FOR ME!!

 

[CathyInBlue]

I laughed. I cried. I laughed till I cried.

 

[Mark-DuCo]

I'm glad my office is away from others, I'm wiping tears i laughed so hard.

 

[bloodandgutsmurphy]

This is one of the most hilarious stories I have ever heard

 

[GLOCKMAN23C]

Laughing my a** off!! Is it alright if I share this?

 

[chuddly]

Share away guys....its great to hear people enjoying a good laugh.

 

[slimplmbr]

I laughed. I cried. I laughed till I cried.

Me too!

 

[Manatee]

Wash your hands!

 

[ws6guy]

That one always cracks me up. Here's another poo tale.

A couple of weeks ago we decided to cruise out to
Ryan's Steakhouse for dinner. It was a Wednesday
night, which means that macaroni and beef, was on the
hot bar, indeed the only night of the week that it is
served. Uncle Johnny would love it.

Wednesday night is also kid's night at Ryan's,
complete with Dizzy the Clown wandering from table to
table entertaining the little bastards. It may seem
that the events about to be told have little
connection to those two circumstances, but all will be
clear in a moment.

We went through the line and placed our orders for the
all-you-can-eat hot bar then sat down as far away from
the front of the restaurant as possible in order to
keep the density of kids down a bit. Then I started my
move to the hot bar. Plate after plate of macaroni and
beef was consumed that evening, I tell you - in all,
four heaping plates of the pseudo-Italian ambrosia was
shoved into my belly. I was sated. Perhaps a bit too
much, however I had not really been feeling well all
day, what
with a bit of gas and such. By the time I had eaten
four overwhelmed plates of food, I was in real
trouble. There was so much pressure on my diaphragm
that I was having trouble breathing. At the same time,
the downward pressure was building. At first, I
thought it was only gas which could have been passed
in batches right at the table without too much
concern. Unfortunately, that was not to be.

After a minute or so it was clear that I was dealing
with explosive diarrhea. It's amazing how grease can
make its way through your Intestines far faster than
the food which spawned the grease to begin with, but I
digress...

I got up from the table and made my way to the
bathroom. Upon entering, I saw two sinks immediately
inside the door, two urinals just to the right of the
sinks, and two toilet stalls against the back wall.
One of them was a handicapped bathroom. Now, normally
I would have gone to the handicapped stall since I
like to stretch out a bit when I take a good sh*t, but
in this case, the door lock was broken and the only
thing I hate worse than my date telling me to stop
cutting my toenails with a
pair of diagonal wire cutters is having someone walk
in on me while I am taking a s**t. I went to the
normal stall.

In retrospect, I probably should have gone to the
large, handicapped stall even though the door would
not lock because that bit of time lost in making the
stall switch proved to be a bit too long under the
circumstances. By the time I had walked into the
regular stall, the pressure on my ass was reaching
Biblical proportions.

I began "The Move."

I know you (and definitely Uncle Johnny) understand
this (though women would not), but I'll take a moment
to explain "The Move" anyway. Men know exactly what
their bowels are up to at any given second. And when
the time comes to empty the cache, a sequence of
physiological events occur that can not be stopped
under any circumstances. There is a move men make that
involves simultaneously approaching the toilet,
beginning the body turn to position ones ass toward
said toilet, hooking ones fingers into ones waistline,
and pulling down the pants while beginning the squat
at the same time.

It is a very fluid motion that, when performed
properly, results in the flawless expulsion of sh*t at
the exact same second that ones ass is properly placed
on the toilet seat. Done properly, it even assures
that the dick is properly inserted into the front rim
of the toilet in the event that the **** stream lets
loose at the same time; it is truly a picture of
coordination rivaling that of a skilled ballet dancer.

I was about half-way into "The Move" when I looked
down at the floor and saw a pile of vomit that had
been previously expelled by one of those little
bastards attending kids night; it was mounded up in
the corner so I did not notice it when I had first
walked into the stall. Normally, I would not have been
bothered by such a thing, but I had eaten so much and
the pressure upward was so intense, that I hit a
rarely experienced gag reflex. And once that reflex
started, combined with the intense pressure upward
caused by the bloated stomach, four plates of macaroni
and beef started coming up for a rematch. What
happened next was so quick that the exact sequence of
events are a bit fuzzy, but I will try to reconstruct
them as best I can. In that moment of impending
projectile vomiting, my attention was diverted from
the goings-on at the other end. To put a freeze frame
on the situation, I was half crouched down to the
toilet, pants pulled down to my knees, with a load of
vomit coming up my esophagus. Now, most of you know
that vomiting takes precedence over sh*t no matter
what is about to come slamming out of your ass. It is
apparently an evolutionary thing since sh***ing will
not kill you, but vomiting takes a presence of mind to
accomplish so that you do not aspirate any food into
the bronchial tubes and perhaps choke to death. My
attention was thus diverted. At that very split
second, my ass exploded in what can only be described
as a wake...you know, as in a newspaper headline along
the lines of "30,000 Killed In Wake of Typhoon Fifi"
or something similar. In what seemed to be most
suitably measured in cubic feet, an enormous plug of
sh*t the consistency of thick mud with embedded
pockets of greasy liquid came flying out of my ass.
But remember, I was only half-way down on the toilet
at that moment. The sh*t wave was of such force and of
just such an angle in relation to the back curve of
the toilet seat that it ricocheted off the back of the
seat and slammed into the wall at an angle of
incidence equal to the angle at which it initially hit
the toilet seat. Then I sat down.

Recall that when that event occurred, I was already
half-way to sitting anyway and had actually reached
the point of no return. I have always considered
myself as relatively stable gravitationally, but when
you get beyond a certain point, you're going down no
matter how limber you may be. Needless to say, the
sh*t wave, though of considerable force,was not so
sufficient so as to completely glance off the toilet
seat and deposit itself on the walls, unlike what you
would see when hitting a puddle with a high-pressure
water hose; even though you throw water at the puddle,
the puddle gets moved and no water is left to re-form
a puddle. There was a significant amount of sh*t
remaining on about one-third of the seat rim which I
had now just collapsed upon.

Now, back to the vomit...

While all the sh***ing was going on, the vomit was
still on its way up. By the time I had actually
collapsed on the toilet, my mouth had filled up with a
goodly portion of the macaroni and beef I had just
consumed. OK, so what does the human body
instinctively do when vomiting? One bends over. So I
bent over. I was still sitting on the toilet, though.
Therefore, bending over resulted in me placing my head
above my now slightly-opened legs, positioned in
between my knees and waist. Also directly above my
pants which were now pulled down to a point just
midway between my knees and my ankles. Oh, did mention
that I was wearing not just pants, but sweat pants
with elastic on the ankles.

In one mighty push, some three pounds of macaroni and
beef, two or three Cokes, and a couple of Big, Fat
Yeast Rolls were deposited in my pants...on the
inside...with no ready exit at the bottom down by my
feet. In the next several seconds, there were a
handful of farts, a couple of turds, and the event
ended, yet I was now sitting there with my pants full
of vomit, my back covered in sh*t that had bounced off
the toilet, spattered on three ceramic-tiled walls to
a height of about five feet, and still had enough
force to come back at me, covering the back of my
shirt with droplets liquid sh*t. All while thick sh*t
was spread all over my ass in a ring curiously in the
shape of a toilet seat.

And there was no toilet paper.

What could I do but laugh. I must have sounded like a
complete maniac to the guy who then wandered into the
bathroom. He actually asked if I was OK since I was
laughing so hard I must have sounded like I was crying
hysterically. I calmed down just enough to ask him if
he would get the manager. And told him to have the
manager bring some toilet paper. When the manager
walked in, he brought the toilet paper with him, but
in no way was prepared for what happened next. I
simply told him that there was no way I was going to
explain what was happening in the stall, but that I
needed several wet towels and I needed him to go ask
my date to
come help me. I told him where we were sitting and he
left. At that point, I think he was probably assuming
that I had pissed just a bit in my pants or something
similarly benign.

About two minutes later, my date came into the
bathroom not knowing what was wrong and with a certain
amount of worry in her voice. I explained to her
(still laughing and having trouble getting out words)
that I had a slight accident and needed her help.
Knowing that I had experienced some close calls in the
past, she probably assumed that I had laid down a
small turd or something and just needed to being the
car around so we could bolt immediately. Until I asked
her, I'm sure she had no idea that she was about to go
across the street and purchase me new underwear, new
socks, new pants, a new shirt, and (by that time due
to considerable leakage around the elastic ankles
thingies) new sneakers. And she then started to laugh
herself since I was still laughing. She began to ask
for an explanation as to what had happened when I
promised her that I would tell her later, but that I
just needed to handle damage control for the time
being. She left.

The manager then came back in with a half-dozen wet
towels and a few dry ones. I asked him to also bring a
mop and bucket upon which he assured me that they
would clean up anything that needed to be cleaned.
Without giving him specific details, I explained that
what was going on in that stall that night was far in
excess of what I would expect anyone to deal with,
what with most of the folks working at Ryan's making
minimum wage or just slightly above. At that moment, I
think it dawned on him exactly the gravity of the
situation. Then that manager went so far above the
call of duty that I will be eternally grateful for his
actions.

He hooked up a hose.

Fortunately, commercial bathrooms are constructed with
tile walls and tile floors and have a drain in the
middle of the room in order to make clean up easy.
Fortunately, I was in a commercial bathroom. He hooked
up the hose to the spigot located under the sink as I
began cleaning myself up with the wet towels. Just as
I was finishing, my date got back with the new clothes
and passed them into the stall, whereupon I stuffed
the previously worn clothing into the plastic bag that
came from the store, handing the bag to my date. I
finished cleaning myself off and carefully put on my
new clothes, still stuck in the stall since I figured
that it would be in bad taste to go out of the stall
to get redressed in the event I happened to be
standing there naked and some little bastard kid
walked in. At that point, I had only made a mess; I
had not yet committed a felony and intended to keep it
that way.

When I finished getting dressed, I picked up the hose
and cleaned up the entire stall, washing down the
remains toward the drain in the center of the room. I
put down the hose and walked out of the bathroom. I
had intended to go to the manager and thank him for
all he had done, but when I walked out, three of the
management staff were there to greet me with a
standing ovation. I started laughing so hard that I
thought I was going to throw up again,but managed to
scurry out to the car where my date was now waiting to
pick me up by the front door.

The upshot of all this is that I strongly recommend
eating dinner at Ryan's Steak House. They have, by
far, the nicest management staff of any restaurant in
which I have eaten.

 

[! twitty]

That story has been posted here before.

 

[Bennettjh]

I had to wipe my eyes.

 

[BGDave]

Both you guys are very nasty. But it is a hilarious nasty. Thanks for making my head hurt.

 

[steve666]

How to Poop at Work
We've all been there but don't like to admit it. We've all kicked back in
our cubicles and suddenly felt something brewing down below. As much as we
try to convince ourselves otherwise, the WORK POOP is inevitable. For
those who hate pooping at work, following is the Survival Guide for taking
a dump at work.
*CROP DUSTING* When farting, you walk really fast around the office so the
smell is not in your area and everyone else gets a whiff, but doesn't know
where it came from. Be careful when you do this. Do not stop until the
full fart has been expelled. Walk an extra 30 feet to make sure the smell
has left your pants.
*FLY BY* the act of scouting out a bathroom before pooping. Walk in and
check for other poopers. If there are others in the bathroom, leave and
come back again. Be careful not to become a FREQUENT FLYER. People may
become suspicious if they catch you constantly going into the bathroom.
*ESCAPEE* A fart that slips out while taking a pee or forcing a poop in a
stall. This is usually accompanied by a sudden wave of embarrassment... If
you release an escapee, do not acknowledge it. Pretend it did not happen.
If you are a man and are standing next to the farter in the urinal,
pretend you did not hear it. No one likes an escapee. It is uncomfortable
for all involved. Making a joke or laughing makes both parties feel
uneasy.
*JAILBREAK* When forcing a poop, several farts slip out at a machine gun
pace. This is usually a side effect of diarrhea or a hangover. If this
should happen, do not panic. Remain in the stall until everyone has left
the bathroom to spare everyone the awkwardness of what just occurred.
*COURTESY FLUSH* The act of flushing the toilet the instant the poop hits
the water. This reduces the amount of air time the poop has to stink up
the bathroom. This can help you avoid being caught doing the WALK OF
SHAME.
*WALK OF SHAME* Walking from the stall, to the sink, to the door after you
have just stunk up the bathroom. This can be a very uncomfortable moment
if someone walks in and busts you. As with farts, it is best to pretend
that the smell does not exist. Can be avoided with the use of the COURTESY
FLUSH.
*OUT OF THE CLOSET POOPER* A colleague who poops at work and is doggone
proud of it. You will often see an Out Of The Closet Pooper enter the
bathroom with a newspaper or magazine under their arm. Always look around
the office for the Out Of The Closet Pooper before entering the bathroom.
*THE POOPING FRIENDS NETWORK (P.F.N)* A group of co-workers who band together to ensure emergency pooping goes off without incident. This group
can help you to monitor the whereabouts of Out Of The Closet Poopers, and
identify SAFE HAVENS.
*SAFE HAVENS* A seldom used bathroom somewhere in the building where youcan least expect visitors. Try floors that are predominantly of the
opposite sex. This will reduce the odds of a pooper of your sex entering
the bathroom.
*TURD BURGLAR* Someone who does not realize that you are in the stall and
tries to force the door open. This is one of the most shocking and
vulnerable moments that can occur when taking a poop at work. If this
occurs, remain in the stall until the Turd Burglar leaves. This way you
will avoid all uncomfortable eye contact.
*CAMO-COUGH* A phony cough that alerts all new entrants into the bathroom
that you are in a stall. This can be used to cover-up a WATERMELON, or to
alert potential Turd Burglars.. Very effective when used in conjunction
with a SHIRLEY TEMPLE.
*SHIRLEY TEMPLE* A subtle toe-tapping that is used to alert potential Turd
Burglars that you are occupying a stall. This will remove all doubt that
the stall is occupied. If you hear a SHIRLEY TEMPLE, leave the bathroom
immediately so the pooper can poop in peace. Ex-Senator Larry Craig (R-Idaho) advises against the "Shirley Temple"!
*WATERMELON* A poop that creates a loud splash when hitting the toilet
water. This is also an embarrassing incident. If you feel a Watermelon
coming on, create a diversion. See CAMO-COUGH.
*HAVANA-OMELET* A case of diarrhea that creates a series of loud splashes
in the toilet water. Often accompanied by an Escapee… Try using a
CAMO-COUGH with a SHIRLEY TEMPLE.



*AUNT BETTY* A bathroom user who seems to linger around forever...Could
spend extended lengths of time in front of the mirror or sitting on the
pot.. An AUNT BETTY makes it difficult to relax while on the crapper, as
you should always wait to poop when the bathroom is empty. This benefits
you as well as the other bathroom attendees.
SOME VARIETIES OF POOP YOU SHOULD BE AWARE OF~
The King Poop = This kind is the kind of poop that killed Elvis. It
doesn't come until you're all sweaty, trembling and purple from straining
so hard.
Bali Belly Poop = You poop so much you lose 5 lbs.
Cement Block = You wish you'd gotten a spinal block before you poop.
Cork Poop (Also Known as Floater Poop) = Even after the third flush, it's
still floating in there. How do I get rid of it? This poop usually happens
at someone else's house.
The Bungee Poop = The kind of poop that just hangs off your rear before it
falls into the water.
The Crippler = The kind of poop where you have to sit on the toilet for so
long your legs go numb from the waist down.
The Chitty Chitty Bang Bang = The kind of poop that hits you when you're
trapped in your car in a traffic jam.
The Party Pooper = The giant poop you take at a party And when you flush
the toilet, you watch in horror as the water starts to rise.


NOW EVERYONE TRY TO GO POOP IN PEACE AND QUIT LAUGHING... POOPING IS A NATURAL PROCESS

 

[Stschil]

Typical day at the truck stop men's room......

 

[hoosierdoc]

That story has been around for years. Funny though. Where's the courtesy flush though???

 

[Stschil]

That story has been around for years. Funny though. Where's the courtesy flush though???

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=J-YVt4gfquA&sns=em