There was a bloodcurdling scream from the vicinity of the produce aisle. The employees grabbed their weapons and responded as fast as possible but alas, it was too late. The prone corpse of a diminutive old lady was on the floor, being stripped of the last morsel of its flesh by hundreds of carrion crows and vultures. Our response, rapid as it was, had come too late. Our meat cleavers, air rifles, and baseball bats would help this victim not one iota. Rest in peace--or should that be pieces--Miss Daisy.
Last weekend, my dog almost ruined a picnic. Let me tell you about my dog: Taco is a Chihuahua with an appetite for his own poop .. and other dogs' poop ... and any cats' poop. I have to pick up his poop right after he drops it or he goes after it. Sometimes he poops and I miss it, but I know he ate it because his breath will smell. He has his teeth brushed every night. Luckily for me, he likes toothpaste.
Editor's Note: This was submitted as a garbled, unintelligible mess. I deciphered it as best I could.
When my friend and I were both kids (when we were nine and ten), we went to the beach one summer with our parents. We played in the sand and swam in the water while our parents did their thing. Later, when we built a sand castle, my friend started farting. It smelled bad. He told me he needed to poop but there was no bathrooms close by. I told him to try and hold it.
My childhood home was not a place where people farted at the dinner table: It was the home where the bathroom always smelled like air freshener because someone was always dropping a turd that he or she had been holding in all day in there, and no one had better had gotten even a minor whiff of it.
I placed my microphone down on the desk, and as I stood up from my chair I could feel the weight in my bowels shift with gravity. The time had come. I made my way to the toilet and looked despairingly at the seat. It had been broken by Ben about three weeks ago., and as I squatted down, the icy porcelain bowl of the toilet lower the temperature of my jean-warmed asschops to well below zero.
Most people bring in the new year with aspirations of change, or with well-intended but worthless resolutions. I brought in my new year with a hemorrhoid.
I awoke groggy and a bit hung over on the first because I went out to a club New Year's Eve. I drank too much champagne, plain and simple, that and I ate to much. There were also all sorts of hors d'oeuvre, like cocktail franks, chicken wings, and cheese and crackers. I ate everything, and then I sat down on the toilet the first afternoon of the new year to get rid of it.
Editor's note: It is during the most unassuming at times that someone will divulge a poop story to me. During a visit to our kids' orthodontist this year I let it slip that I help out with the site to another parent during a conversation over grammar, of all things. He immediately begged anonymity, which I agreed to, and then he told me that the most disturbing thing that he had ever seen an adult do involved poop, Cabbage Patch Dolls, and Black Friday.
A couple of my buddies and I were drinking one night. I decided to act all Mr. Macho and claimed I could free myself from any choke hold. My friends agreed to be fair, and said if I did not tap out that they would let go before I passed out. They failed. I lost consciousness during my friend's infamous "rear naked blood choke" before I could tap out. They didn't realize I was already unconscious and let him subdue me for too long.
My face morphed into Marty Feldman’s. My teeth were disintegrating into powder. All illuminations were centered inward, directing multitudes of pupil expansions and retractions. I experienced twenty minutes of hysterical laughter (actually five) when a fellow journey woman threw on my high-heeled, solid brown leather pimp shoes. Her feet were dancing and tapping together as her toothy grin spoke those precious words: "There's no place like home.” Ahhhh, sure. Is that where I am?
The large inflated fecal art piece known as "Complex Pile," designed by artist Paul McCarthy, is at it again. In 2008, Thunderbox told us how the display ran amok in Switzerland, knocking down a power line and breaking a window of a children's home (and most likely causing the worst kinds of toilet anxiety for the little tykes).
I used to smell like the pool itself by the time I was done with swim practice as a child. As a competitive swimmer, I smelled like chlorine all the time, actually. Or did I? Did I smell like chlorine ... or something else?
Last month we shared Al Roker's story of how he sharted himself at the White House. It's a great time for celebrities to share embarrassing stories involving their nether regions, possibly, for Sean "Diddy" Combs seems to have joined in the fun, and we could not be happier.
Talk about method acting. Eight weeks ago, Twilight werewolf pack member actor Bronson Pelletier was caught peeing in the middle of a terminal at Los Angeles International Airport. Tipsy on either wolfsbane or good old-fashioned alcohol, Pelletier decided he wasn't going to bother finding a restroom to pee. Channeling his inner wolf, he opened his fly and peed amidst fellow passengers . . . and was promptly arrested.
A few years ago Al Roker underwent bariatric surgery in order to lose weight, and the jolly fat man we were used to seeing report the weather on NBC's "Today Show" became a jolly thin man. For those of you who do not know, bariatric surgery involves one of a few techniques to shrink the amount of room one has in his or her stomach to retain food. A portion of the stomach can be removed, or a band can be placed near the top of the stomach, thus causing the patient to eat less.
”My momma warned me about people like you.” I think we’ve all heard this before. In my house, my father warned me about different people, however, not my mother. He would see someone and say, “Now stay away from him. I know he wants to date you, but he’s got kids. You don’t know how complicated it can get to date someone with kids. The mother might be batshit crazy, like that ex-girlfriend of the surfer you were dating last year.”
Quite often we are contacted by bathroom-based product entrepreneurs who want us to review their products. In case you haven’t been able to tell, I love to review stuff. This is because I love getting things for free. Love it. Scented butt wipes? Sure! Stuff to spray on my toilet paper? Why not? Lemony goodness to spritz into the toilet bowl before I poop so the bathroom will not smell? That sounds awesome. (As you may suspect, I don’t get out much.)
We like buying things at bargain prices, so we get toilet paper in packages of 12 to 36 rolls at a time, both to get it cheaper by the unit and to lay up a supply that lasts a few months, at least. Last time we got a big package; it was 24 rolls of Charmin or the like, nice, thick-textured, two-ply paper. We hadn't meant to get that type, as we usually get Scott or something similar. The soft sweet paper is pleasant to use, though it can come apart when wiping after a sticky bowel movement. While the single ply doesn't break as easily as the double, it requires more sheets.
We’ve all been there before. The bathroom may be the one in your work office, or it may be one in the apartment of a prospective paramour. It matters not. What matters is that you realize too late that there is no air freshener to be found.
You have just taken a horrendously nasty crap and the bathroom now stinks, eye-wateringly bad. There is no fan, no window, and the courtesy flush was ineffective. No perfume is in the medicine cabinet. No cleaning product is under the sink. Worse, someone knocks on the door, and starts to talk:
I recently was able to review a new personal hygiene product that is not only available on the web, but is now entered on the website Get On The Shelf in the hopes that it will be made available at Wal-Mart. The product, Puro Lotion, was sent to me by Puro’s Director of Business Development, Brent Douglas.
Several weeks ago I was contacted by Robert Edwards from the Squatty Potty website about reviewing his product, the Squatty Potty toilet stool. Free stuff, I thought? You betcha’! “Send one right over!” I immediately replied. I am so glad that I said that.
New hope for stinky and dirty butts is on the horizon.Since I joined Poop Report seven years ago, I have been fortunate enough to review many toilet-related products for the site. Some of the products were great, and I enjoyed writing reviews for them. Many of the products, however, were so poorly designed that I wasn’t able to publish their reviews with a clear conscience because my review on some of these products would have been the equivalent of a product snuff job. This was not the case when I reviewed the product at hand, though.
It was a bright, sunny autumn day. My dad was driving his "new to us" 1977 Pontiac Sunbird along the country road leading to our cottage, accompanied by my older brother in the front seat and me in the back seat. The Sunbird, with its compact size and V6 motor, was considered a "peppy" car and we were "pepping" along at a clip of 65 miles per hour.
In terms of poo-related catastrophes, camping and alcohol together are akin to a jackhammer in a nitroglycerine warehouse. I have never been on a camping/drinking trip where something nightmarish didn't happen involving poop. In fact, one of our favorite camping buddies is nicknamed Pancake because he left a pile of poo that looked interestingly like a stack of pancakes. But this isn't about dear Pancake and his complicated creation you would hope not to find on an IHOP menu. This story is about my sister--and The Hole.
I decided to take my boyfriend on an adventure to another part of our state, where he had never been before, and spend a glorious day together. Everything went decidedly well until after hours of driving home, when I decided to let a fart escape. The moment I let out what I thought was air my bowels evacuated, and I shit myself in my car, literally feet from his apartment. I dropped him at his car and he followed me home. I blamed the smell on a fart, until I had to get out of the car...
My friend and I recently visited Spain. On our first night there we got very drunk. I woke up the next morning absolutely hanging. I stumbled over and knocked on my friend's room's door, and when he opened the door it really stank. I couldn't breathe properly. I thought he must have taken a big poo just before I entered.
It was a work trip in India that brought me to this god-forsaken experience. First time in the subcontinent, and I had been practicing since a young age (only engaging the finest purveyors of hot curries). Nothing was to prepare me for the onslaught my squid's eye was to endure.
I was taken out the first night by a couple of colleagues to a great restaurant when we were in Bangalore. Being the tough, curry-eating strongman I was, I decided to really show off, ordering the hottest dish, and sending it back twice for more heat. Error Number One.
When I was 12 years old I went on a little vacation with a friend of mine and his parents. We were going to Virginia Beach for a few days, to enjoy the beach and all the fun that came with it. Since we drove from Pennsylvania, we stopped along the way to get some lunch. I'm not going to mention what fast food joint we ate at, but I'll say this the food at this particular restaurant tastes really good going in, but it does a number on you on the way out.
After we ate our meal, back on the road we went. Maybe half and hour or more passed when I felt it...
As a someone who spends a decent amount of time using a toilet because, well, everyone does, and also because I suffer from IBS, I was a little concerned about traveling abroad. I know that different kinds of foods can upset my stomach; also I had heard stories about communal bathrooms for both men and women. Now imagine my shock when I did arrive in Germany and the worse thing is the toilet.
A couple of weeks ago we took a weekend trip to Nashville, and after a day of carousing the Tennessee countryside we finally checked into our hotel. The wife was tired and wanted to nap for a bit before we went downtown to explore the honky tonks, and I wanted to unload a turd that had been squirming to get out for the past few hours.
On the last day that my friends and I would be together before we split for winter break, we went to a sushi buffet restaurant called Yamato. This restaurant had decent sushi and its prices were affordable, and boy can you become full after an hour or two there!
When I was seventeen I went to Germany on a school exchange with a bunch of other kids. We all ended up in different cities but got back together again to visit Berlin. We stayed in a youth hostel that had what we'd consider average public toilets. I don't know why, but I've never had the nerve to go Number Two with someone else in the vicinity! I have to have complete privacy. Because I couldn't get that privacy, I held on for five whole days.
Everyone remembers the blizzard that ripped through the Midwest, right? Well, it just so happens that my wife and I were heading home from the Kansas City airport with one of our friends, "T", who was flying back from visiting family, when it was in full swing. Granted, we live outside of St. Louis, where there is another airport, but it had closed down way before the storm. My wife and I volunteered to get T so she and her hubby, "S", could watch their son play in district championship basketball.
PoopReport.com is a community with a unique agenda: we are an intellectual poop site. A salon. A brokerage house that specializes in a specific category of humor: brown humor (vs. gallows humor or black humor). We explore, even meditate upon the human condition from the vantage point of pooping and poop. In a way, this is a site for philosophers, sociologists and amateur theologians.
Sometimes we talk about sex, but there's no erotic agenda. (There are other sites for that.) Because PR is a community and not a porno site, we do not come here to get our rocks off. And that also means we don't come to PR to be used as objects by voyeurs, or use others as objects. Voyeurism destroys mutuality. PoopReport.com is rooted in mutuality because it celebrates the universality of poop.