POOPREPORT OF THE WEEK -- 4.7.2008

It was a field trip we'd been waiting for for months: The Mutter Museum in Philadelphia. The classes going were the Medical Assistants and some of the particularly well-behaved CNAs.

Going through the museum was amazing. There were some skin and bone conditions we'd only read about, some shocking cases, and some truly bizarre skeletons, preserved carcasses, body parts, and wax and plaster casts. And arranged between the skeletons of a dwarf, a giant, and a normal-sized person and a wall of miscellaneous preserved fetal skeletons and corpses in jars was the beast: the giant colon!

Examining it, I couldn't help but notice the colon itself looked like a giant, broken, desiccated log. I had the sudden impulse to look for a handle to flush the thing.

This colon, according to the tour guide, had grown to about eight feet long, packed with compacted fecal matter to the point where the man it came from looked pregnant with some unholy spawn. The man was apparently so constipated that rather than coming out, the feces in his colon just added up and added up to the point that there was eventual leakage. A sign told us that the man ended up dying from the pressure on the rest of his organs and from blood poisoning.

The monster colon remains in the museum, dried and stuffed with straw, positioned above a wax replica of normal intestines for comparison.

Hmmm. Fiber, anyone?

-- posted 4.7.2008 by OhDeToilet

POOPREPORT OF THE WEEK -- 3.17.2008

I have a dog. She is massive. Massive dog = massive piles of crap. The boyfriend and I fight over who's gonna pick it up. I simply refuse to do it cause it's gross. Usually has lumps in it. Yech.

So he's going to mow the lawn yesterday and he breaks out the weed eater. He's weed eating along and comes across petrified puppy poo. Poof -- he now has turd dust all over him. He shrugs it off and continues working... 'cuz he's a man!

Then, a few minutes later, he finds the more recent wet poo. Splat!!! He now has a face full of very warm liquid feces dripping precariously close to his mouth.

I have a feeling that the dog's doo doo will be picked up a little more regularly now.

-- posted 3.17.2008 by stop-n-drop

POOPREPORT OF THE WEEK -- 3.3.2008

I work as a dance teacher, mainly teaching kids. One day I was teaching ballet. In the class were three girls, a boy, and a girl I’ll call Shitter. We were getting ready for our annual dance show, and I was pulling out costumes for them to try on. (Think skin-tight pale blue lycra.)

I'd just got a costume onto Shitter when I got a whiff of something that smelled like it had died and had just started decomposing. I sent the kids off to do a quick dress rehearsal when I noticed a green train on the floor.

And then I saw Shitter in her $150 show costume, with a green stream between her legs and something that looked like it was halfway between a swamp and nuclear waste dripping down onto the floor.

I called my boss and left her to deal with it.

-- posted 3.3.2008 by AnalBallet

POOPREPORT OF THE WEEK -- 2.18.2008

The Decision:

When I had my wisdom teeth pulled, I was given some pretty strong muscle relaxers. I was driving home from school, messed up on drugs, and I felt a rumble in a dangerous area. Long story short: I made the decision to crap my pants rather than pull over. I then took my pants off, threw them out the window, and drove home naked and poop-free. Thinking back, it was a good decision, but a very wet one.

-- posted 2.18.2008 by Turd Master McClendon

POOPREPORT OF THE WEEK -- 2.4.2008

I've got two early poop memories which might explain why this thirty-seven-year-old man still gets so much enjoyment out of reading and writing poop stories.

The first involves taking a bath with my younger sister. I'm assuming that maybe I was six and she was two or thereabouts. With absolute premeditation, I saved up a big one for the tub and launched my own brown submarine -- waiting for and then relishing her screams!

The second memory revolves around a movie -- a classic surely beloved by many of you. I was on the summer camp school bus in the summer of 1980 when I heard some kids excitedly talking about a scene from a movie they had just seen. "There is a Baby Ruth bar floating in the pool and everyone is shouting 'Doody, Doody!' and getting out of the pool as fast as they can. Then the pool cleaner picks it up and EATS IT!" I got home and told my dad that he needed to take me to see this movie as soon as possible. It turned out to be my first R-rated movie. What luck. What a masterpiece.

If I have to tell any of you which fine film this is, shame on you.

-- posted 2.4.2008 by brappybrapstein

POOPREPORT OF THE WEEK -- 1.21.2008

I went out for a jog in NYC. On my way back, I found myself clenching to keep a poop in. I was walking like a penguin for the last block.

Finally, in the lobby of my building, a nugget escaped -- and as I was wearing shorts, it quickly found its way to the floor. In order to avoid embarrassment, I quickly pointed it out to the doorman and told him that one of the many dogs must have done it. He was outraged and said, "I know just which dog!" And then he went and got the dustpan. Poor guy.

-- posted 1.21.2008 by brappybrapstein

POOPREPORT OF THE WEEK -- 1.14.2008

I walked into the bathroom at work today, planning to take care of business in stall number two, my stall of choice. I opened the door to the stall and froze -- because there on the floor, right in front of the toilet, was, amazingly, a huge pile of chocolate brown diarrhea.

I stared at it long and hard. Without a doubt, it was not a gag -- it was an authentic puddle of liquid poo. Not in the toilet, but on the floor, in front of the toilet. Someone got to the toilet, dropped their pants, and needed to crap so bad, so desperately, that they actually crapped themselves in front of the toilet before they could position above it. They diarrhea-ed... on the floor... directly in front of the toilet.

Incredible.

-- posted 1.14.2008 by Quaker Oats

POOPREPORT OF THE WEEK -- 1.7.2008

About two years ago, me and my wife and kids headed out for dinner and shopping. We all agree to eat at Ray's Pizza, a quaint little place: a couple pepperoni, sausage, and mushroom pizzas plus some wings. We had started to clean up our table when I felt a slight twinge in my gut.

I have a spinal cord injury, which means I must wheel around in a chair due to nerve damage. Oh, and I've lost some control of certain functions.

So I felt this slight twinge in my gut at the pizzeria, but the place had one of them kind of bathrooms that have the freaking toilet in plain sight of the entire bathroom (no stall), and if somebody was to walk in while I was on the crapper I would have been seen by half the restaurant. So I told myself that I could hold it until we got to Wal-Mart.

Well, sadly, traffic was a little backed-up, and our trek to Wal-Mart was slightly delayed, but my stomach didn't care. Just as we pulled into a parking spot, it decided to evacuate what had been annoying it so much. With a panicky scream, I yelled "OHHHHNOOOO!" as my sphincter gave way to the mushy molten bio-glop that had been irritating my stomach and bowels.

Now, needless to say, I believe that had I not been crippled I would not have failed at keeping the hell-fudge at bay; but, sadly, my pooper is that of a senile hundred-year-old man.

My wife looked at me and asked what's wrong. "I shit my pants," I told her. "We need to get home ASAP."

She looked at me in a sad disgust, put the car in reverse, and headed home -- about five miles down the road. During that time the loose lump in my shorts had started to break through the elastic part of my underwear around the leg and began permeating the air.

My lovely children, being children, yell out, "EWWWW!! WHO SHIT?!!"

"Well, sadly," I say, "It was me."

The drive home felt like it took forever. I felt every stop and start as my ass rocked back and forth in its horrible byproduct. When we finally got home, I opened the car door and discovered, to my amazement, that somehow most of the butt juice had pooled onto the floorboard instead of the seat itself. All my wife had to do was take a hose to the floorboard and just scrub the seat a little to get it cleaned up. And so I am grateful to the manufacturers of our truck for choosing rubber floorboards.

-- posted 1.7.2008 by Dookeymaster

POOPREPORT OF THE WEEK -- 12.10.2007

I am proud to be a new member of PoopReport. However, I do want to follow the proper poo-tocol. If I forget to log out, will I become constipated?

-- posted 12.10.2007 by Fecalonious Dump

POOPREPORT OF THE WEEK -- 12.3.2007

A mother brought her daughter to me (I'm a pediatrician) to investigate her fascination with poop. I assured her that although disgusting, a toddler's fascination with his or her own poop is nothing to be concerned about. The mother then told me a really funny story.

She had come into her master bedroom and smelled a strong odor of poop. She searched all over for it, to no avail. She then realized the smell was coming from the bed. She pulled back the covers and there was a nice, firm toddler poop on her pillow.

She pulled her daughter into the room and said, "Why, honey -- why did you put poop on my pillow?"

The little girl, feeling very timid, looked up at her mother and said, "Poo poo go night night."

-- posted 12.3.2007 by Poop Pediatrician

POOPREPORT OF THE WEEK -- 11.19.2007

My mother-in-law should be employed by all toilet bowl manufacturers.

Whilst visiting my home last Sunday, she used the toilet for a poop. The house was quiet. I was reading the Sunday papers when, from the bathroom, I heard a strange, heavy thudding noise, followed by a sickeningly slack wet fart. She flushed, washed her hands, and went out with my wife.

About ten minutes later, I went for a pee. I raised the toilet lid and noticed the water was at a higher level than normal. I flushed. The water came up to the top, and then suddenly went down.

I went outside to the inspection manhole, removed the lid, and was greeted by the fattest turd I have ever seen. The monster took three buckets of water AND a hose pipe to shift it! MAN, that must of hurt coming out!!

-- posted 11.19.2007 by Dambuster

POOPREPORT OF THE WEEK -- 11.5.2007

Twice during work, as I was sitting down in the stall minding my own business, I noticed something strange. A coworker in the next stall was in the process of wiping his ass. That's not strange. However, what is strange is that instead of dropping it in the toilet, he left his peanut-buttered toilet-stained paper on the floor. It literally piled up! I was mortified and shocked -- and, yet, oddly curious.

Unfortunately I finished my business before he did, so I had no clue as to what he did with his pile of chunky peanut butter. But I quickly noted his shoes, and afterwards I walked around the entire office to look for the idiot with the same pair of shoes. Alas, I found him... and I always have a grin each time I see him.

-- posted 11.5.2007 by Neil

POOPREPORT OF THE WEEK -- 10.22.2007

As a child, I had a fascination with food coloring. My brother and I would put it in water, in cereal, in anything. Our best experiment, however, was when I put an entire bottle of blue food coloring on a bowl of vanilla ice cream. Later that day, I pooped full blue turds. It was by far the funniest thing I had ever seen. I continued to experiment: green, yellow, and red... but red was scary.

It's been a while -- but who knows what the future holds for my colored poop fascination.

-- posted 10.22.2007 by jdix1018

POOPREPORT OF THE WEEK -- 10.8.2007

My bathrooms at work are nicer than most people have at home.

I work in a small office that has two sections. One side has four women and the other section has four women and about six guys. We are lucky to have both men's and women's lavatories with custom tile and granite countertops.

I have always been a Shameless Shitter, but I also respect that there are Shameful ones that need their privacy. Here at work, we have managed to work things out and everyone is happy. And we have a cleaning lady that comes on Tuesdays and Thursdays to ensure we never see messes.

Because I figured I am staying at this job for a while, I brought in my wet wipe supply. The ladies thought this was a great idea, although the cleaning lady gave me a couple of raised eyebrows when I laid claim to them. We also have Fabreeze spray in there and those sticks in oil to make the place smell nice.

I feel sorry for my fellow PoopReporters who have to deal with messes and grief at work while pooing in conditions that are less than standard. My office bathroom is so nice that I wait until I'm at work to poo.

-- posted 10.8.2007 by Miss Simone Scat

POOPREPORT OF THE WEEK -- 10.1.2007

The Shit House effect?

Current political rhetoric has focused on the contribution of burning fossil fuels towards climate change. I feel that this fails to address the massive amount of semi-digested high-protein shite produced by the members of the developed world.

After all, the shite engendered by eating four kilograms of Big Macs releases a CO2 plume equivalent to that from a medium power plant (approximately two megawatts) operating for thirty-six hours.

Something to think about.

-- posted 10.1.2007 by Dr. A Shep

POOPREPORT OF THE WEEK -- 9.24.2007

To introduce myself, I must brag about several gifts with which I have been blessed.

I can stink up just about any old place, no matter how big or small. It's pretty bad when an eight-year old child won't use a comfy office chair to play games on a computer because it smells like his dad's ass. It must be ass juice dripping down into the cushion. Fabio or Febreze or whatever that obnoxious spray is called is having trouble overruling my bouquet.

My car has the same problem. The wife and son tell me about "the odor". The industrial-strength deodorizers from Home Depot wither when they meet the smell from hell.

And then there's my former cubicle at work. I have a bad habit of farting right before the ladies come around the corner. They see me and then take a deep breath, but by that time it's way too late. I watch their necks snap as they try to keep it from burning their nostrils and lungs. Then they fall in love. (They think I am French.) One of the guys apparently calls me "Stanky" behind my back, and one of the girls told me. Guess I won't be getting any action with her (unless she likes my odeur).

My second talent is for shitting heartily in the morning. If I blow my bowels three times before I go to work, I know it's gonna be a great day.

And last but not least: when I get a cold, I stop farting. What the fuck is that about? How horrible! To think that something can stop me from farting. As my wife says, I can make farts just by breathing and drinking water. So to think some tiny germs can stop the fart muse dead in her tracks is heresy.

-- posted 9.24.2007 by Stanky

POOPREPORT OF THE WEEK -- 9.17.2007

It there anybody else out there who discovered that the Lamaze breathing method for childbirth, recommended and taught pretty universally by contemporary midwives, is THE answer to many cases of constipation? It's a mind-over-matter affair. I recommend it highly.

I usually have a pretty good morning dump schedule. But when it's not so easily forthcoming, I employ the Lamaze breathing method; and with a little patience and concentration on the technique, it always works like a charm.

-- posted 9.17.2007 by Let It Go

POOPREPORT OF THE WEEK -- 9.4.2007

Fort Lauderdale, Florida, circa 1963. Entered phone booth, put reciever to ear. Felt mushy-squishy in ear as receiver hit my skull. One of those days you remember like the day Kennedy was shot. I looked, surely it was brown pudding? Nope. It was the old dogshit-in-the-ear trick. Damn! I thought we only did that in Tennessee!!!

-- posted 9.4.2007 by Colen_Pyle

POOPREPORT OF THE WEEK -- 8.20.2007

A few years ago, I made arrangements to meet my sister and her family at our parents' home in Germany. Although we would have been perfectly happy to stay local and explore the village that our parents lived in, my mother decided to book a train out to Salzburg, Austria, so the girls could learn the real story of the Von Trapp family singers.

The first evening we were in Salzburg, my parents treated all of us to dinner at a wonderful restaurant just off the town square. The wait staff doted on the kids, promising them gelato if they finished their vegetables. Unfortunately, my sister and I found it difficult to enjoy the meal, as traveling is normally hard on our innards. I personally managed to complicate brown matters by working right up until the moment I had to leave for the airport. I then suffered a two-hour delay on the tarmac and nearly missed my connecting flight in Atlanta. Trips to the head were quick and furtive. I barely had enough time to expel my gin and tonic before hearing the rattling and scratching of another passenger trying to push the door open. By the time I got to Frankfurt, bleary-eyed and hung over, my bowels were completely shut down.

Where was I?

After dessert, my niece leaned back in her chair with a satisfied sigh and stated, "I'm sooo full! If my tummy was a hotel, I wouldn't have any vacancies!"

I replied, "If my tummy was a hotel, I must have squatters, 'cause nobody's checking out." My sister giggled her agreement.

The next morning, we went to the market across the street to buy some high-fiber snacks in the hopes of evicting the squatters. Before we could put anything in our basket, my sister whispered to me, "I think I have a tour group checking out. I'm going back to the hotel."

Realizing that I was behind the brown eight-ball, I spent the day drinking copious amounts of fluid accompanied by handfuls of apricots and granola. After taking the Von Crapp Family Bus Tour the next morning, I was finally able to produce a three-flusher.

Ironically, our tour guide told us that Maria Von Crapp died of chronic constipation, since her diet consisted exclusively of bread and cheese.

So long, farewell, auf wiedersehen, I poo.

-- posted 8.20.2007 by A Mighty Wind

POOPREPORT OF THE WEEK -- 8.13.2007

Just a short note: A buddy of mine once told me he was driving and had to poop so bad that he dumped in an adult bookstore bathroon. How bad would you have to go before you dropped a duece in a whack shack?

-- posted 8.13.2007 by Starship Pooper

POOPREPORT OF THE WEEK -- 7.30.2007

Editor's note: in a recent Poop News email exclusive story, Poop Benedict XVI remembered his grandfather's story about a long trough toilet on a troop transport boat during WWII. The GIs would squat over a canal of running water, creating a perfect target for a flaming ball of toilet paper sent sailing down the canal, singeing more than a few butt hairs. The below was sent in response to that story:

The old burning-paper-under-the-tush trick continued to be popular as long as troops were transported by sea. Many a pubic and ass hair was singed off by this practice. I had many friends in the military who were veterans of the Korean war who remembered this prank with different types of enthusiasm, depending on whether they were the perpetrator or victim. I suppose that the speed at which the water was flowing would greatly influence the amount of pain to which the nether regions would be exposed.

Another embarrassment subjected on the bashful shatter was total lack of privacy. When I was in basic training, almost fifty years ago, there were no partitions between commodes. When you sat, your legs touched your buddies' legs on both sides. We were so close together that I may actually have wiped someone else's ass a few times. Such camaraderie!!

-- posted 7.30.2007 by ChiefThunderbutt

POOPREPORT OF THE WEEK -- 7.23.2007

It was my normal morning routine, minus the cup of coffee. Just a few nights before I'd made my unbelievably good Irish potato and cheese soup: corned beef and cabbage stock seasoned with green onion and flat-leaf parsley, Yukon gold potatoes, and then grated extra sharp Vermont cheddar to melt and sweet Dublin-style cheddar sliced into little cubes so you have these great little chunks of cheddar floating in the corned beef and cabbage cheese broth. It makes for a really great soup; unfortunately, all that cheese can overpower the laxative effect of the cabbage and bind you up a bit.

Sitting on the throne the morning after soup-o-rama, I was straining to make the brown biscuits; but they were stuck in my colon like a recalcitrant turtlehead, so I just performed a cursory wipe and jumped into the shower.

Partway through the shower I felt a great buildup of pressure and let rip with a real barn-burner. The stench of the cabbage-cheese fart, combined with the steam from the hot water, was unbearable. I finished soaping up, rinsed down, and jumped out of the shower.

To my chagrin, I then noticed something terrible. There on the shower floor sat something that looked like a deer turd. Actually, though, it was a Hieronymous turd: an obviously tightly-compacted little bugger that must have shot out when I birthed that shower-evacuating nose-hair-curler.

My first thought was, "Damn, glad I caught that before anyone else came in here." I grabbed a wad of toilet paper, grabbed the thing up, and tossed it in the terlet. The turd was so compacted that it didn't even leave a smear. Quick spray with some 409 that was under the sink, a little more toilet paper, and I was out of there.

Unfortunately, the rest of the morning didn't offer much relief. Come lunchtime I decided to flush myself out with several cups of coffee... but that's a story for another day.

-- posted 7.23.2007 by Hieronymous Bowels

POOPREPORT OF THE WEEK -- 7.16.2007

This is a bit of an embarrassing story.

I was in Nepal a few months ago in a hotel room with a shared bathroom that was outside. I needed to poo but I didn't want to leave my room -- it was late, and I wasn't dressed. So I did it in a bag, which I put into my trashcan.

The next day I checked out and went for a bus. The bus was cancelled due to the actions of rebels, so I returned to the hotel.

As I checked back into my room I realized that they were disposing of my rubbish by burning it. In the garden of the hotel there was a pile of rubbish on fire, complete with a bag of poo.

They knew. I knew they knew. And they knew that I knew they knew.

I checked out the next day and then I was gone forever.

-- posted 7.16.2007 by Danielle

POOPREPORT OF THE WEEK -- 7.9.2007

Today is a day of painful irony.

I left work early to go see the doctor. I do not have a regular physician, so from the privacy of my own home I began the call down to find a facility. There is nothing like trying to make a doctor's appointment for the first excruciating time you have hemorrhoids. From the pregnant pause, to a withheld snicker, to the understanding mmmm hmmmmm, I felt like it was a roller coaster adventure of both tears and laughter...

A day of painful ironies: the song playing when I got in the car was 10,000 Maniacs' Trouble me. The exact verse, and I kid you not: "Tell me where the hurt is and hoooooow it ends."

Someone up there must have been listening.

So at the end of the day I sit here, telling you my story from the "comfort" of my very own sitz bath. I feel like an old man... but I'm closer to a senorita.

50% of adults...or so they say...

Welcome to my world.

-- posted 7.9.2007 by sits bath senorita

POOPREPORT OF THE WEEK -- 7.2.2007

When I was probably about three or four, I remember being very interested in food. When my mother would cook I would always grab interesting items like apples, tomatoes, or whatever else tasted good. One day I waddled in the kitchen, saw a jar of pickles on the counter, and started eating them. They were so good and the jar was so small that I ended up eating almost all of them.

When you are little, everything you eat seems to go right in and come right out. About an hour went by. I complained how sick I felt to my mother and then went to bathroom. My mom, who always wanted make sure I was healthy, headed in there to check it out. I felt better -- but to my horror, my mom had seen something green floating around in the toilet.

She ran around the house trying to find any sign as to what could of happened. She also started calling the doctor. Through all this I was just playing with my blocks in heavenly kid bliss. While waiting on the phone with the doctor, she ran past the kitchen where, lo and behold, there was the empty jar of pickles.

My mom slowly hung up the phone and ran into the living room where I was holding a jar of empty pickles. I just started to smile, and giggle ‘cause kids think that's funny. Nothing like scaring the total poop out of my mom!

-- posted 7.2.2007 by In Poo We Trust

POOPREPORT OF THE WEEK -- 6.25.2007

Many years ago, we had no plumbing and only an outhouse at our cottage. There was a local service truck (called the honey wagon) that picked up the pails of gold every week. But while that service ended around 1985, the outhouse is still there. It still got used occasionally when you wanted peace and quiet for your daily dump. The problem was what to do with the pails when they got full.

I decided one day that I would take on this project. I proceeded to put on some work gloves and carry the ten-gallon pail full of joy out into the woods. After walking some hundred yards or so, I decided that I had found a good place for the manure spreading. I did a sort of 1-2-3 build-up to swing the pail and heave the load out. It worked. I had a great launch of ten gallons of brown soup into the air.

You know how healthy spruce trees have long horizontal limbs that stick way out? Well my wave of crap caught one of those branches, which slowly bent down with the weight of the stuff. Then the spring action of the branch started to happen, sending a shower of old, festering poop right back at me.

It was one of those things that while it is happening, you see that it is going to happen, and you say to yourself, "Oh God, here it comes!"

There was nothing I could do. Nature had rejected my delivery and returned it to sender.

I stood covered in poop.

Needless to say, I disrobed, walked back to the house in my skivvies, and burned my clothes.

-- posted 6.25.2007 by jeffh

POOPREPORT OF THE WEEK -- 6.18.2007

I know PoopReport doesn't believe in turd terrorism. But the story I am about to tell will explain what happens when the best laid plans backfire.

This past weekend I was out with my best friend and a photographer who did some pics for her. After the photos, we went out to get a bite to eat. The waitress was rude and clueless, so I found myself in the bathroom plotting an upperdecker.

I was all alone, sitting, praying for a nice, large brown baby to birth itself. Well... I failed. That bad boy prairie-dogged it for about two minutes, but was too shy to make his way out into the world. He hid back in my butt. He refused to be born that night.

I guess my ass has a conscience: it was not going to be part of my demented plan to drop the brown boy off.

I returned and told my dinner companions about my failed attempt at turd terrorism. They never laughed so hard!! (I then recited to them some of the screen names of PoopReporters, like "Bunga Din", "Assblaster2000", "Gottagogirl", "Motherload", "The Dumpster" and others. I got even more laughs from the creative names!)

My point is: a lesson was learned that night. I will never attempt to do the drop again. My butt does not condone turd terrorism.

-- posted 6.18.2007 by Miss Simone Scat

POOPREPORT OF THE WEEK -- 6.11.2007

In eleventh grade, there was a girl in my class by the name of Cori. She was sort of cute, but she was painfully shy. We all sort of felt sorry for her because she didn't have any friends.

One day our whole class went on a biology field trip to the forest about an hour outside the city. We all went on one of those huge yellow school buses. Cori sat right across the aisle from me. About halfway through the trip, she started holding her stomach. It looked like she was really in pain.

I asked her if she was all right. She said she was, but she looked as if she was about to cry.

About three minutes later, I was shocked to hear a huge farting sound. I immediately stared with astonishment towards Cori and saw a huge brown spot spreading across her blue track pants. She immediately broke into tears and didn't stop crying for the rest of the trip.

By the end, the whole class knew what had happened. She had to wait about twenty minutes until we reached the forest, and then she had to sit in soiled pants for another hour until her father was finally able to pick her up and drive her home.

Some of the other kids made fun of her for the rest of high school. I still feel sorry for that poor girl.

-- posted 6.11.2007 by Jaomes O'Neal

POOPREPORT OF THE WEEK -- 6.4.2007

In '03, I had to have a D&C and laparoscopy. The doctor was a bit generous with the carbon dioxide, which meant I had the great fortune of meeting the Arse Rock of Doom.

This meeting was unexpected, and at the time I didn't see the humor in my situation. I'd been out of hospital for ten days. I tried dulcolax, senna, kot, lactulose, etc. No brownie-hole activity. I'd sat and strained until I was purple in the face. I'd even exercised to Richard Simmons videos -- hell, HE sure looked regular!

By nightfall on day ten, I felt like a turkey stuffed with concrete. Couldn't even fart, such was my blockage! So I put my son to bed and sent Hubby to the market. I had a plan: time to induce labor!

Locking myself in the downstairs bathroom, I slipped on my gloves and grabbed a tube of K-Y jelly. It took me a good ten or fifteen minutes to slide my fingers in. But the Rock was lodged sideways. My anal walls burned. I gnashed my teeth. Stuck.

Plan B: mining for ore. I managed to remove the Arse Rock a bit at a time, digging chunks out with my fingers. Digging where no (wo)man had gone before. Humiliating, but what a relief it was to expel that last chunk of Rock! Plunk!

My hands smelled for days in spite of the gloves, and I became acquainted with Preparation H for the first time in my life. Rectal bleeding, sure -- but damn it, I was FREE!

-- posted 6.4.2007 by Chocolate_Custard_Assault

POOPREPORT OF THE WEEK -- 5.29.2007

Let this serve as a warning to college students everywhere.

For a couple days, I had to crap. A lot. I couldn't figure out why. Not like a little bit, either. I'm talking colon-cleansing, end-of-the-world, brown-eyed-bowels-draining, every-hour-need-more-toilet-paper kinda poops. And my stomach felt like it got kicked by Ronaldo.

So I thought about what I ate, and I remembered I had eaten a bread roll the day before it started. I checked the rest of the package (there were around four rolls left) and they were SUPER moldy. Like green with leprosy spots. I had forgotten to check it before I toasted the crap (heh) out of it and slathered it with garlic butter. I had eaten a roll that was borderline spoiled and was now paying the price.

What was worse, I had to go to class. Now, for most campuses I know of, the cleanest and most peaceful place to drop a deuce is the library. So I headed there, knowing that if it's really quiet that one can hear people using the first floor restrooms from twenty or thirty feet outside the door, where there are tables and desks. The best place to go, had I been thinking rationally, would've been the second floor restroom, because nobody uses that one and fart sound insulation is better. But one look at that long flight of stairs and the courage left me; I opted for the first floor crapper.

Thank god the library was closing in fifteen minutes, because when I was through, you'd think somebody died while watching a another guy die from crapping himself. I swear -- had someone been anywhere near that john, my face would've been redder than a baboon's ass. (On top of it being red from pooping so hard.)

Moral of the story (at least for me): check all of your food, no matter how hungry you get.

-- posted 5.29.2007 by voodoopoo

POOPREPORT OF THE WEEK -- 5.15.2007

You know how every child holds their waste until the last second possible? And then they will run to the bathroom and barely make it?

I was at the tender age of six. One day, all seven of the people who lived in my house (aunt, uncle, brother, sister, grandma, mother) were busy doing something while I was playing outside. Well, at some point, I guess, I had to poop, but I held it until the last second. But this time, I believe my bowels were getting their revenge for all of the times I strained them.

I ran as fast as I could to the toilet, up the stairs, down the hall, through grandma's room, and through her closet towards the bathroom -- but I stopped there. I couldn't make it. So I laid a little surprise in grandma's closet.

I think I then thought for a moment, looked around, and then ran away to play outside again.

I wouldn't get off that easy. Someone was horrified to discover my droppings. Word got around, and my grandmother, being from the south, could be heard saying, "Lord have mercy!"

Everyone in the house was in an uproar. Who pooped in grandma's closet? My grandma called a family council (this wasn't uncommon) and we sat around as she explained her horror and disgust at whoever pooped in her closet.

Finally I broke out crying and admitted it was me. I remember my mom comforting me while my brother shook his head in shock. And to this day, whenever closets or grandmas are mentioned, this story comes up, and everyone bursts out laughing.

Except me. The tormenting hasn't stopped since the day this story transpired. I will never hear the end of it until the day I die.

-- posted 5.15.2007 by sneaky grandaughter

POOPREPORT OF THE WEEK -- 5.7.2007

Editor's note: this was originally posted on the author's blog.

I once dated a fairly famous photographer with a less-than-average-sized prick who went on a trip to Virgin Gorda (an island also called Tortola). He told me a story that always springs to mind whenever I stare at the ocean. Damn him for etching this particular association in my mind at the first sight of waves and the first scent of the sea!

Whilst on this shoot, this guy shat in the ocean. And not just him, but several guys on the crew. For some odd reason, these guys synchronized a mid-ocean bowel movement. How they were all able to produce at the same time -- and why they chose the ocean as their point of departure -- has baffled me every time I recall the story.

I guess there are two types of people in this world: those who are free enough to defecate in the ocean, and those who aren't.

I could never take a shit in the ocean. Peeing, of course, is another story entirely. Faithful readers know I've been known to pop a squat in the most inappropriate places.

But things are connected in this life somehow. The circular nature of events dizzies me.

On my honeymoon to Punta Cana, a most memorable thing happened. William and I were at a resort secluded on each side. Miles and miles of deserted beach lay to the right and left. We walked and walked and did not come upon another soul. I was struck suddenly with the urge not to fuck my new husband in this untouched part of nature, free on the beach with only the sun watching us -- but rather with the urge to shit.

The bathroom was several miles back. I'd never make it. The ocean immediately came to mind, thinking of that photographer and his story. But that was an obvious no-no.

Much to William's dismay and eventual horror, I shat publicly, for the first and only time in my life, on that plot of sand.

At least I shat safely ensconced in our marriage and not, like William later would, on it. (I am now divorced; the public shitting had nothing to do with it.)

I piled sand over it, placing a marker of rocks to prevent other wayward wanderers from stepping on it.

-- posted 5.7.2007 by Charmingly Neurotic

POOPREPORT OF THE WEEK -- 4.23.2007

Editor's note: the author originally posted this on a forum dedicated to distance running. He resubmitted it here, and I'm glad he did.

So I'm running along one day when I see one of my teammates running towards me in the distance. As he gets closer, I see he is pale and sweating bullets. He approaches and asks where the nearest bathroom is.

As I have to shit quite often on runs, I have the area mapped out nicely. The bathroom nearest to our location was locked for the winter; I said there was another one about four minutes jogging away. So I turn and begin to lead him to the port-a-potty. I don't hear him following, however.

I turn again and ask, "What's the matter?"

He says he can't make it that far.

So, being the run-pooping expert I am, I instruct him to run into the woods.

"No," he says, "it's too late."

Shocked, I inquire further. He responds with a frightened look and two words: "It's happening." He turns white and his expression is one of terror, agony, and disgust. He was shitting his pants. I watched my friend and fellow runner shit his pants. I was only two feet away. The smell and the sounds were terrible. But sharing that moment with another distance runner is something else...

-- posted 4.23.2007 by Rob

POOPREPORT OF THE WEEK -- 4.16.2007

This joke was sent to me today. Sorry, I don't know its author.

THE CARDIOLOGIST'S FUNERAL

A cardiologist died and was given an elaborate funeral. A huge heart covered in flowers stood behind the casket during the service. Following the eulogy, the heart opened, and the casket rolled inside. The heart then closed, sealing the doctor in the beautiful heart forever.

At that point, one of the mourners burst into laughter. When all eyes stared at him, he said, "I'm sorry, I was just thinking of my own funeral... I'm a gynecologist."

That's when the proctologist fainted.

-- posted 4.16.2007 by Win R.

POOPREPORT OF THE WEEK -- 4.9.2007

I decided to quit smoking a while ago. Around the same time, a new vending machine was installed in the break room of my workplace. It sold, among other things, Hot Pockets. I figured that I, a skinny smoker, could both gain weight and satisfy the oral thing by having two Hot Pockets per shift in lieu of my normal cigs. This would also be cheaper than buying smokes (I live in NYC = $$).

As a result of this drastically misdirected attempt at doing something healthy, my bowels became clogged as they never have in my twenty-seven years of normally overactive poops. Long story short: two Hot Pockets put me in misery for five days!!! Painful cramps, and not even a decent fart to give me hope.

But it took me four Hot Pockets to realize what was happening. I quit the Hot Pockets and took up smoking again! Back to normal.

-- posted 4.9.2007 by Jon

POOPREPORT OF THE WEEK -- 4.2.2007

My daughter wrote this for school when she was eight years old.

There's A Poop In My Closet

There's a poop in my closet that I just found now,
I don't know how it got there, but I heard my cat say "Meow".

She come out of the closet with a sneaky smile on her face,
She was walking at a slow, steady pace.

She has her own litter box, but Mom forgot to scoop it.
She slinked into my closet, and there she decided to poop it.

Now my room is stinky and I don't know what to do,
Cause there's no way in this world that I'm gonna touch that poo.

-- posted 4.2.2007 by Dianna

POOPREPORT OF THE WEEK -- 3.26.2007

My family had a yearly summer ritual of renting a cottage in Northern Ontario for a few weeks. Every year it was a different place, but always in the middle of some creepy remote woods with lots of deer flies and mosquitoes. One particular year, the "cottage" happened to have a tiny cabin off to the side, hidden by some trees. I decided that my best friend Jen and I would stay in there so we wouldn't have to be near my parents, and so we could secretly smoke cigarettes and talk about the mysteries of sex.

Unfortunately, the cabin was a tiny box with no toilet, and we were both scared to death to exit the cabin in the dark to use the bathroom in the cottage. One night, after a long day of swimming, building sand castles, and eating far too much corn, I had that incredible feeling of being completely full of shit. It felt like it was about three feet long, with one end poking out my asshole.

Well, we had this plastic cup in the cabin that we used to sneak alcohol. I had the brilliant idea of using this as a makeshift toilet. I told Jen to turn away and proceeded to fill it to the brim. I then took an old sock and wiped. Jen claims she turned around halfway through the shit and saw the cup steam up. I was laughing so hard I almost lost my balance and tipped the poo cup over.

Disposal of the poo consisted of opening the cabin door, and throwing the cup and sock into the woods with as much force as I could.

Not very exciting, I know, but one of my favorite childhood memories. When else in my lifetime could I have the satisfaction of throwing a pile of shit?

-- posted 3.26.2007 by Steph

POOPREPORT OF THE WEEK -- 3.19.2007

It all began with me being at that awkward mid-puberty stage. I was about twelve years old, and my older cousin was stationed not far away on a naval base. Since he was hours from his parents, he would often come to my house to have dinner with us and satisfy his hunger for family time. Every once and again, he would bring a friend. And since he was around twenty years old, he had a lot of young, attractive friends. In fact, there was one in particular I found myself fond of. It was this friend whom my cousin chose to bring by the house on an unannounced surprise one weekend.

I was in the bathroom when they arrived, and was completely clueless as to their arrival. I had just let loose a snake of a turd. I recall it being an endless mystery of curves, spiraling downward toward the drain. I was slightly appalled and massively proud, so I ran from the bathroom hollering, "Guys! Guys! You HAVE to see this huge poop I took!"

But instead of seeing the amused faces of my sisters, I was met with my cousin and his pal's shocked expressions.

Needless to say, I ran to my room, not bothering to flush the monster, and remained there until they left some six hours later. I keep my long ones to myself now.

-- posted 3.19.2007 by Fenix

POOPREPORT OF THE WEEK -- 3.12.2007

Have you ever had to poop gassy, watery, black diarrhea while holding a crying toddler in your lap? Trust me, it sucks. My husband left for a meeting with his buddies at precisely the exact time that my ass decided to explode.

Let me back up a little. I knew that I was getting diarrhea shortly after lunch that day. I think it was the greasy pita meat. I'm no seismic reader, but I could tell this one was going to be bad. The hairs on my arms were prickling and the ants where evacuating. After four hours of much rumbling and prayer -- e.g. oh God, oh God, oh God -- it was finally time to head home.

You may be wondering why I didn't just use the office restroom. Well, let me 'splain: 1) I knew this one was going to be LOUD, and 2) the bathroom is located right at the front of the office for everyone to hear. Ain't happenin'!

I drive stick shift, so the drive home was excruciating. Clutch, gear, release clutch, step on gas, clutch, gear, gas, clutch, gear, gas. DAMN this traffic!! When I finally made it home I ran through the door, leaving the garage and the side door open. I franticly pulled down my pants and plopped my ass on the toilet and then: nothing. Sure I let some farts out, but that was it. Hmmm. Okay. I guess it was a false alarm.

I told my husband what had happened and that I didn't feel good. "I'm sorry," he said. "So what's for dinner?"

Around six o'clock the rumbling started again. Great -- another false alarm. Right at that time, my husband handed me the baby and said he had a meeting with the guys at church. I think they get together and do nothing God would approve of.

When Baby Poop saw that Daddy Poop was leaving, she started wailing. And then it happened: I got a stabbing sharp pain in my lower gut that screamed "RUN TO THE BATHROOM!" With my toddler still in tow and crying in my ear, I managed to pull down my pants and plop down my ass yet again, just in time to feel the backsplash of cold water hit my cheeks.

I've never seen poop like this before. It was black and liquid. It was like I was crapping melted tar. What the hell? I don't remember eating the copier toner. Baby Poop started laughing and clapping at the farting noises. My evil black liquishit continued through the night. I even had nightmares about crapping my bed.

Moral of the story: none. Just remember to put your toddler down before you bolt to the restroom.

-- posted 3.12.2007 by Anal About Poop

POOPREPORT OF THE WEEK -- 3.5.2007

Aren't babies so precious? If only they could stay precious forever.

My mom gave birth to my triplet siblings in May of 2000. They were preemie, which is common for trips. They came home on respirators and heart monitors. I think by time the events of the story I'm about to tell took place they had graduated off of the machines, but I'm not certain.

It was their first Fourth of July. At the time, they were on a schedule to have a bottle every three hours, day and night. This meant that they were awakened at one AM to have their bottles. It was just my mom and I running this operation all summer. Their father didn't give a... poop report.

Well, they were wearing these Luvs diapers, which were fairly inexpensive compared to other brands. Luvs boasted that they didn't leak. But Luvs was wrong. I was feeding one when a thick, oily sludge peered through the cracks between diaper and baby. I handed her to my mom for cleaning and she handed me one of the two boys. Within minutes this one had created the same oily sludge, which was pouring similarly from his lower-back line. I handed him off and received the other boy who, within seconds of being handed to me, poured through his diaper as well.

I was covered from my chest to the bottom of my thighs with black sludge. I had to throw away the clothes I was wearing. But those three were sure in the spirit of their first Fourth of July, with their own variety of fireworks.

-- posted 3.5.2007 by KnuxTheFox

POOPREPORT OF THE WEEK -- 2.26.2007

One day a friend of mine and I were on the way back to my house after a trip out for cigarettes. As we were approaching my front door, I felt an agonizing pain in my stomach. You see, the day before I'd eaten chicken tikka masala, which is never very good for me.

I burst through the front door and ran up the stairs and got into the toilet. I shut the door and began to undo my pants. The problem was, my ass was facing in the opposite direction of the toilet.

Just as I got my pants down, I detonated.

And as I swung my ass around to try and get it on the toilet seat, I sprayed my whole bathroom with shit.

There were a lot of casualties, including my son's favorite dressing gown. That had to go in the trash.

After I'd finished, it took me an hour to clean the bathroom.

And thanks to my wife and friend, I'll never live this incident down.

-- posted 2.26.2007 by ChickenStu

POOPREPORT OF THE WEEK -- 2.20.2007

I have only been constipated twice in my lifetime -- both times being immediately after surgery. I'm sure it was the anesthesia that was responsible for it. After my first surgery, a tonsillectomy, I didn't crap for a week. I didn't eat much; but still, I knew I was due for a poo.

The doctor had advised me to take a half a dose of milk of magnesia, but I guess I have a fear of laxatives (perhaps due to my brother's experience with them on a hunting trip), because I couldn't do it. I have never taken a laxative in my life. I was too young to know about stool softeners, which might have helped.

Anyway, a week went by and still no poop. I didn't even have the urge to poop. Even my seventeen-year-old brain understood that it was not good to retain fecal waste, so I decided to sit down and push until it came out.

After the first thirty minutes of pushing and grunting, the only progress I made was a turtlehead that felt like it was made of rock. Well, that and a near stroke. Finally I realized that this sucker wasn't coming out (back then, I wasn't familiar with the concept of impaction). So I got a super-thick wad of toilet paper as a cover for my hand and I literally started pulling this solid brick nugget out.

I had to push as well, but the pulling made the biggest difference. Once I finally got the diamond-tough chunk out, I was able to easily squeeze out two or three soft turds. And other than feeling as though someone drove a Ford Expedition through my asshole, I felt a lot better.

The next time I had surgery, I didn't wait any longer than two days before I started trying to push one out. That way, I didn't have to go digging again.

-- posted 2.20.2007 by i fling poo

POOPREPORT OF THE WEEK -- 2.12.2007

My first house. Small, one crapper. I had the day after Thanksgiving off, and I decided to install the new toilet. I had done my #1 and was feeling fine. Water off, line unhooked from the tank, unbolt the ol' porcelain and get ready for the new throne. New wax ring, fancy one with the rubber flange, goes on no sweat. Set the toilet in place but it doesn't quite line up, so I take some time and careful jostling. Hmm, sensing some pressure down below.

Moving on. I got the tank mounted and the new fixture plumbed in. Cool! Pressure building, so turn on the main and over the tank valve. Crap! A leaker! Water off, disconnect the hose. REAL pressure building now!

Back together, water on, holy s*#t! Still leaking. I'm squeezing the cheeks pretty hard now. The dancing has started! Mind you, this is in a five-by-eight bathroom with a tub, a sink, and a toilet. It's a tight dance hall.

So, water off. (Urg!) Found the problem. (Squeezing hard now!) Connected the hose. (Thighs tight together!) Water on.

SUCCESS! No leaks. LET'S CHRISTEN THE NEW THRONE!

Seat down, pants down, let er' fly! Ah, sweet relief on your own brand new crapper at home. Fortunately, everything worked.

Make sure, if you have butt (heh, heh) one toilet: do your business before taking on the job.

-- posted 2.12.2007 by AndyVH

POOPREPORT OF THE WEEK -- 2.5.2007

Editor's note: this story is appearing as part of Fake Stories About Poop Week. Yes, a human being actually invested time and effort into creating this story just to get published on PoopReport. Why?

Before you can hear my story, you have to know something about me: I'm just about 5'3" and I weigh three-hundred-and-forty pounds. It is so freaking hard to wipe my ass after a big dump in my less-than-royal bathroom throne. I crap A LOT! Not as much as some other PoopReporters, but pretty close. I guess it's because I eat more than Fat Bastard on Austin Powers.

One early morning I awoke in perfectly good spirits and trudged to my car for another day at work. I am a college proffesor [sic] at the Kansas State University. Just as I was settling in for my first literary class on the author Michael Chriton's [sic] books, I felt an awful pang in my stomach -- kind of like I always feel when I'm watching Late Night with Letterman and have an urge to defecate in my underwear.

Just as I was about to begin introducing the assingment [sic], I felt my load beginning to escape my ass. I squished up and made a face and grunted, prompting my class to ask me what was wrong.

Then I began to crap my pants. The crap was liquidy and hot as hell. It began to escape my really thin pants that I wear just about every day (I'm so fat that that's the only thing that will fit me). The shit leaked out onto the floor and right in front of the eyes of my unsuspecting students.

"Mr. Buren, are you all right?" shouted this one popular cheerleader girl who I hate because her essays are always perfect (I give her F's anyway).

"Of course I'm not okay, you f**ker!" I yelled back. I then ran out of the classroom and leaked all the way to my car and home. I never came back to work and am currently employed as a used car salesman in Minnesota.

-- posted 2.5.2007 by Butt Nose van Buren

POOPREPORT OF THE WEEK -- 1.29.2007

Ever since I hit puberty, my ass has smelled nastier and nastier. Years after I took noticed to the fetid stench of sweat and residual poop, I finally figured out why.

For one, I have a horrible combination of a huge ass and a small attention for detail. Two, ever since I hit puberty, my grundle hairs have gotten longer and longer. For years, they've been acting like nose hairs catching boogers -- except on a much grander scale.

Solution: I shaved my grundle. Now, all I need to get going is a couple swift wipes and I'm skippin' through my day worry free. No more cuttin' in to my lunch break for mid-afternoon maintenance. Gentlemen, I highly recommend this "technique."

-- posted 1.29.2007 by DaveLopan

POOPREPORT OF THE WEEK -- 1.23.2007

In the 80's, my band rented the basement of a building that was originally a home but had been converted to a dental lab. As a dedicated pop guitarist and songwriter, I was often the first to arrive. One day I used my key to the basement door and set up my guitar. I had just finished tuning up when the urge to purge suddenly hit. Even though I knew that the door to the main rooms upstairs would be locked, I wishfully tried the knob... shit out of luck. Locked for sure.

I stepped back down the five or six steps into our finished studio space. Could I make it to the nearby bar -- the only public toilet for miles? Nope. As my stomach gurgled audibly, I knew things were rapidly getting critical.

Wait. There was more to this basement than the area we had framed out, carpeted, and painted. There was the unfinished part just around the door.

It was dark, musty, and creepy. It was a cold New Jersey December. There were boxes everywhere. Several contained dental casting plaster. I sifted some through my fingers. On some very instinctive level, the stuff inspired me, like cat litter.

You can guess what happened next. I found some old invoices in a transfile to use as makeshift bum wad, and I finished my dirty deed. My bandmates never smelled anything, as I had covered my callous contribution as any fecious feline would. I do wonder what happened when the day came that the dentist dispatched some unfortunate assistant to retrieve more number two casting plaster from the basement...

-- posted 1.23.2007 by racingstripes

POOPREPORT OF THE WEEK -- 1.16.2007

I apologize for taking another shit in public.

I honestly didn't mean to. This time, I was about two miles into my morning run when the very same dreadful intestinal rumblings began -- but this time, they were far more severe. And there was pain -- pain of a sort I would never wish upon any man, woman, or child. The severity was such that I knew I would not be able to make it back home in time. Thus, turning back was pointless.

And as if in the midst of a frightening déjà vu, I was again in the middle of nowhere, surrounded by hills and trees and little else, in the pre-dawn hours. The wind was blowing cold and strong and getting stronger by the minute. There was no service station or other facility where I could relieve myself. And unlike my previous incident, there was not even a discreet drainage area. I began to cry as I realized that there was nothing I could do. I had no choice but to accept the hand of fate.

With the cars roaring past me and none of them stopping out of compassion to help me, I ran to the side of the road, ripped down my shorts, squatted, and let fly with a huge rush of wet, messy, stinky shit. But it did not stop. Every minute or two there would be another burst of wet excrement -- until, finally, it was over. It was horrifically disgusting, even by my obscene standards.

To anyone who should be unfortunate enough to have witnessed my very public defecation, please accept my most humble and sincere apologies. But there was nothing I could do.

P.S. Don't even ask about the clean-up procedure.

-- posted 1.16.2007 by Jacob Weiss

POOPREPORT OF THE WEEK -- 1.8.2007

I have a slight rectal prolapse. And I must say: it is the best condition on earth! When I start pooping, the anus turns slightly inside out -- maybe an inch or so. This happens before the poop start coming out. This means that the poop never touches either the exterior of my anus or the parts near it. When I am done, I make sure that I keep the anus turned out while I wipe. I then gently wipe it clean, padding it while it is protruding slightly. Not scrubbing, though -- a touch and go, and not the sliding movement. When I am done, I tense my muscles and help a bit using my hand with paper on it.

The result is the cleanest anus on earth. It is unbelievable. I never ever have skidmarks or dingleberries. I can always fart and know that it is just gas and that there are no bits of poop coming out because there are no small poop particles close to my anus. I wonder if other people have discovered this, because no one I know have told me that they have.

-- posted 1.8.2007 by Mr. Clean

POOPREPORT OF THE WEEK -- 1.2.2007

I was skipping merrily about my brother's room when I came across a round ball -- hard, like cast iron. Me and my best friend picked it up. We fondled it. We smelled it. Turning around, we placed it in my brother's curio cabinet with all his other collectables. We left, believing that we had found a miniature ball belonging to one of my brother's collectable cannons. Later that week, to our disgust and surprise, we learned that we had actually discovered a small turd that had escaped the diaper of my young friend's baby brother. We quickly disposed of the small, rabbit-like turd.

-- posted 1.2.2007 by sirpoopsalot

POOPREPORT OF THE WEEK -- 12.11.2006

Not so long ago, our family of four that shares a single bathroom was afflicted with the shit monster virus from Hell. My husband and I had the most vile things projecting from both our ends. I will never look at Olive Garden's shrimp linguini the same again. Ever.

So we had a bucket in the bathroom to accommodate us, as the case was that you'd be exploding out your rear with all the force of a tsunami while simultaneously puking and dry-heaving as your body withered with the dual efforts it made to evacuate everything.

I was in my room when I first felt the offending rumble. I cringed. I knew my husband was on the toilet groaning his discontent and misery as my stomach began to growl its own.

I tried to wait. The first cramp rolled in, quickly followed by a second and the third. The next thing I knew was that the levees were being breached and my pants were the Ninth Ward!

I raced to the bathroom, squeezing my ass cheeks together with all the fervor a laboring woman puts into squeezing out a baby. Of course my husband was planted firmly on the toilet. Much like George Bush, he was going to stay the course until the mission was done and there would be no persuading him to relent the territory.

I was fighting a war of my own, and losing, as my own crude oil bubbled and frothed. Liquid hell.

I looked around frantically. I saw the tub. Oh God, no. I saw the vomit bucket. There was a choice to be made and seconds counted. Being that it would be much easier to throw away the bucket than to replace the bathtub, the plastic white receptacle's fate was doomed. I grabbed it and clutched, my legs half-squatting, my husband just a foot behind me in the bathroom.

My puckered brown eye blasted forth the most vile fluid.

I thought it would never end. I glanced over my shoulder to see my spouse watching -- staring, in fact -- in wide-eyed wonderment. I wanted to smack him but my arms were, err, otherwise busy holding up my crap container.

Now it can be said that in our marriage there is nothing that has not been shared.

In time the virus passed, and the bucket was sent to dump yard retirement. But the memory of seeing my husband watching me shit into a bucket remains forever...

-- posted 12.11.2006 by Poopy-Dooby-Poo

POOPREPORT OF THE WEEK -- 12.4.2006

While serving in Iraq, we had to survive on the bowel-sealing M.R.E! As anybody who has served and has or eaten an MRE can attest, they will clog you up faster than anything. On a convoy of about thirty vehicles, a series of consistent breakdowns delayed us well over three hours on our return to base. I had been clenching, grunting, and cussing the whole time because I had an intestinal build up of monumental proportions due to the fact I hadn't crapped in three days.

After being told we were stopping AGAIN, I had finally had enough. My blowhole was ready to explode like four pounds of c-4, and the stench, I knew, would be labeled by the United Nations as a WMD. Dropping my pants, I hung my ass off the vehicle and let loose with what can only be described as a fourteen-inch Farmer John's summer sausage.

Well, the first seven inches came out fine; then I decided to stop and take a breather. Right then, who at this point should be walking towards our vehicle? An officer! Just my luck. Not one for normally feeling shame or embarrassment, I still got nervous. With a deep breath and a prayer I pushed as hard as I could to free this log of meat before he spotted me. The whole time this was going on, my buddies are laughing hysterically and egging me on.

My efforts were to no avail -- I could not do a thing to free this plug of mud. All I could do was salute as the officer walked by with a crooked grin and an order to move out.

-- posted 12.04.2006 by Powerdump

POOPREPORT OF THE WEEK -- 11.13.2006

Ok, where to start? I was a janitor at 3M in Minnesota for a little over a year, and I had a lot of shit to deal with. Literally. Once, as I was doing my daily rounds, I heard a page over the intercom: "Aaron to the warehouse bathroom IMMEDIATELY." I knew something was horribly wrong. The only time this had happened before, I had to unclog a shitter that had overflowed.

I strolled back there, not wanting to see what had happened but preparing myself for the worst. I turned the corner and my eyes watered. My nose started to burn and threatened to drip. "What the hell happened?" I thought. "Did someone shit all over the walls?" It smelled that fresh.

I was dead wrong. As I opened the door to the one-toilet shitter, liquid came spilling out over the doorjam. At first I thought it was just water from the overflowed toilet until I realized that this water was brown and streaked with other colors, like a shit rainbow. It had raw logs, black and red streaks, and green chunks floating all around. The smell assaulted me so badly that I had to retreat for a minute to get my bearings.

This was not just any old sewer backup. This was the Flood of Feces, come to claim my sanity and sense of smell. It also claimed a pair of socks and shoes, as when I'd opened the door the liquid spilled into my shoes, and you can imagine how happy that made me. (I later found out that the backup came straight from the main line, and had been in there for probably a week or two.)

I suited up and did battle with the flood. I couldn't mop it up -- there was too much to squeegee, and also I had other shitters to service. So I brought in the big guns: I vacuumed the liquid shit into the extractor -- a big, industrial Rug Doctor with a ten-gallon tank -- and dumped it into one of the nearby janitor sinks.

I had to go through this process four times before the liquid stopped flowing up from the drain. And it took two more full tanks before I could actually consider sanitizing the floor.

It took a long time to get it under control -- but when I left, I felt like a hero. You couldn't even tell there had been a leak in the first place.

After that day, though, I always wondered if the Flood would come back to do battle again. And it did -- but that's a story for another time.

-- posted 11.13.2006 by Silverflame

POOPREPORT OF THE WEEK -- 10.30.2006

The PBS! Today started like every other day: woke up tired and wanting to roll back over. Got in the shower, shaved, got dressed, made lunches for everyone, and got on the road. Although... the morning *did* have a feeling like a wind of change was coming my way. I felt that gurgling building up in my duodenum, and I was so very grateful not to have had that cup of coffee yet, as traffic was at a virtual standstill. I was brewing up a monster of a bowel pizza, and I was nowhere near a facility, and I had no intention of dropping trou in the rain.

I drove on and the eminence front seemed to subside for the time being. I listened to the radio and the moment faded into my past. I went into the office and sat down to turn on my computers, and just as my arse hit the seat: rrrrrrrgggggggmmmfffff! A huge gas bubble made its presence known.

Not that I farted, mind you; but I did feel the beast's call. I would have to get up gracefully, all the while clenching my arse cheeks together like Glad-wrapped day-old loaves of bread to keep the menace from visiting too quickly!

I got to my throne and none too soon. No sooner had my trousers hit the floor then my body released the most noxious, loud, and bowl-drying flatus of my life; and the newly constructed bathroom with nothing on the walls captured and replayed the sonic boom echo at least a time or two more. Ahhh, at least I had made it, the worst was over, and now was time to just sit back and enjoy the ride.

WRONG! Ever have one of those shits that you think you're gonna have to wipe until your arse bleeds, and then to your amazement there's nothing there? Even when you wipe a second time to be sure you don't get monkey butt later, still nothing there? Well, this was NOT one of those times! This was the Holy Grail of arse-wiping shits: the dreaded Peanut Butter Shit! I need some friggin' Brawny TP to get all this PB-smooth crap out of my grommet! I nearly broke a sweat trying to get it all off.

Then, to make matters worse, when I did finally get it all spic n' span, I sat back down to rest and catch my breath and one lone little nugget jumped out of my ass for good measure.

Needless to say, I feel roomier and ready for the world.

-- posted 10.30.2006 by vicaxp

POOPREPORT OF THE WEEK -- 10.23.2006

Last week I had my hemorrhoids cut out. Boy, I thought I could handle pain -- not true. Five days later came my first bowel movement. It felt like a hot iron was jammed up my butt. The momentum increased, and it squirted out five days of locked-up shit.

After a hemorrhoid operation, you can't wipe your butt, and you must take hot soaking baths for the pain and for healing the incisions. So into the tub I jumped. It felt great -- the pain went away. And then I started to feel little tickling things around my legs and torso. I look down to see little turds floating around my body. I have now taken my first shitty bath.

-- posted 10.23.2006 by runningshitter

POOPREPORT OF THE WEEK -- 10.8.2006

My usual Friday night. Rally up a few friends and go out for a high carb, fatty meal before we hit the bars. We chose Pizza Hut. After our fill, we made our way to a few watering holes. At around two AM, we usually have another hour of drinking, shooting pool, dancing, and mingling, but my buddy Brad was hungry. So was Scorch. We decided to guzzle our last beers and head to Denny's.

On the way, Scorch sees a Taco Bell and screams out, "Gordita!"

Let's stop. Last thing I needed was a taco or any of that spicy shit. I had just demolished half a New Yorker pizza about seven hours earlier and had yet to take a shit. I'm a guy who likes to eat, but I am very selective about where I shit. I won't dump a load at a public restroom. Definitely not a bar. I mean, I'll piss anywhere -- in the woods, in a porta-potty, on the back of a dumpster, at the side of the road. But I either shit at home or rent a motel room.

We went inside at the fake Mexican restaurant. I ordered a Gordita, two beef-and-bean burritos, and two double deckers. I wasn't but halfway through my greasy feast when not only was my belly rumbling, but ground zero was ready for the nuclear fall-out!

I saw NO restrooms.

I mean, I hate laying waste in the public porcelains, but my shit bladder was at capacity and the spicy sting of the little brown dog restaurant was like an explosive gunpowder! I would have taken a shit at a prison holding cell in front of some of the meanest low-life bastards in town. But I saw no restrooms.

I went to the counter and asked the little zit-faced worker where her bathrooms are. She says there are no public johns! I thought there was a law that there had to be facilities where they serve food. She says sorry and takes an order from a group of drunks from the same bar we just came from. I mean, I was already drawing mud on my white underwear. I can tolerate a skidmark, but I'm old enough to not shit my drawers.

I see a Shell gas station across the street. After another uncomfortable situation, I finally explode at the men's room of the Shell. My question is: why in the hell does an asshole-burner of a restaurant not have any stalls?

-- posted 10.8.2006 by DrivinNdrinkn

POOPREPORT OF THE WEEK -- 10.1.2006

I an Aussie who lives mostly in Phuket, Thailand. I work as an H2S engineer on offshore oil rigs. This story starts with a phone call: "We need someone quickly to do a gig over in Congo. Can you fly out within forty-eight hours?"

"Umm, sure. Over where?"

Forty-eight hours later, I'm on a flight to Congo, West Africa. Well, not actually a flight to Congo directly -- oh no, it's not that simple! You can't get to Congo from Phuket. I had to fly from Phuket to Bangkok, over to Hong Kong, then double back to Johannesburg, then up to Brazzaville, Congo, and then on to Point Noire, ready to take a boat to an accommodation barge (a crappy floating hotel) in the middle of the ocean somewhere.

So I'm on the accommodation barge (the wrong barge, but that's a different story), and I'm feeling a little uncomfortable in the lower stomach area. I realize that I haven't had a poo in over seventy-two hours. For some reason airline and airport food seems to travel much slower than regular food. I had eaten a LOT of airline/airport food! Not much else to do on an airplane other than eat and watch movies.

Luckily, just one single meal of accommodation barge cuisine made the whole concrete plug move. I hastily retreated to my cabin and took the biggest dump I've ever taken in my life. It was huge! Like a knotted two-inch wide rope: coil upon coil of semi-solid poo. It snapped off pretty clean, and a couple of wipes later I stood back, evaluating the contents of the bowl, thinking, "That ain't gonna go down." You see, the toilet was a vacuum-style toilet. Just like the ones you see on airplanes. No water in the bottom -- just a small hole, a lot of suction, and a splash of water at the end.

"Won't know 'til I give it a try!" I hit the magic button. There was an almighty roar of suction, and the poo started to shimmy and wiggle as it was sucked through the tiny hole. It resembled a gelatinous alien being sucked through a small breach in his spacecraft. It put up a struggle, but it was ultimately powerless in the face of the empty space below. The remaining cable stood up, danced around momentarily like a cobra being wooed by a snake charmer, and then succumb to the power of the mighty vacuum toilet and quickly disappeared out of sight. The bowl was empty and I almost pissed myself laughing. I really wished I had videotaped it.

-- posted 10.1.2006 by Yenner

POOPREPORT OF THE WEEK -- 9.25.2006

After a long bout with IBS-C, my gut unexpectedly decided to behave. One November morning, I had my first decent bowel movement in months. It must have been fourteen inches long and two inches thick. As I wiped I noticed blood, but I paid no mind to it and carried on with my day.

As the month progressed, the blood continued. By late month, pain accompanied the blood. Finally, the pain got very bad. I resigned to see a doctor. When he did a rectal, his finger felt like a hot poker going up there.

He diagnosed it as a severe case of hemorrhoids. I was prescribed a topical cream.

Things got worse. In December, I went through a phase of turds so huge that they ripped me wide open. He prescribed Lidocane, which helped, but it couldn't penetrate deep enough into the skin to ease all of the pain.

New Years found me raising hell. Liquor made my hemorrhoids twice as bad. I called out sick on January 3rd because the pain was so bad I had to slowly dig the poop out. By the time I was done, forty-five minutes had passed and I had only got half the poop out. There was more blood than poop in the toilet. I took a Sitz bath. I still had to poop, but I was in such pain, I just couldn't.

Later in January, my hemorrhoids mysteriously went away.

-- posted 9.26.2006 by healthy 1

POOPREPORT OF THE WEEK -- 9.11.2006

I was a young kid, and at the time I didn't know much about love, life, or poop. Being a Jewish youth, I have been sent to many a sleep-away summer camp, but one remains constant in my thoughts. This camp, called Camp Harlam, had particularly BAD food. Namely, an abundance of refried Kosher beans.

At our camp there were only two outhouses -- one for the boys and one for the girls. Being a boy, our outhouse was more disgusting than the south end of a north-bound horse with the runs. The very first night of camp, the refried Kosher beans and tacos really started to affect the campers. Late one night, while sleeping on the top bunk, I felt something drop into my lower intestine.

I uttered a sharp cry of pain, then cursed the beans and prayed for relief. My prayer was answered sooner than I thought. I was trying to hold it in, I really was! But the pressure was building up. The air got thin, my face became red, and I couldn't hold it any longer.

A long, low-pitched fart ripped from under the covers. Like a dam bursting, something was coming outta there, and it wasn't pretty. I knew what it was. The most dreaded of all droppings: DIARRHEA!

During the night the watery "substance" dripped down onto the lower bunk; my bunkmate woke up to a horrible, smelly brown surprise. I was put on outhouse cleaning duty for the remainder of the camp. And from then on, everybody I know has called me Gassy.

-- posted 9.11.2006 by Gassy

POOPREPORT OF THE WEEK -- 9.4.2006

When I was eighteen, I moved back home briefly. Such a move allows one to party without pesky real life getting in the way. I was working as a waitress and making great money, so the party was a long, top-notch one.

One Sunday afternoon I made my way home and went immediately into the bathroom to relieve myself of the party turd I'd been saving up -- I really don't like to poop anywhere but home. I sat down and proceeded to give birth to the most amazing turd EVER! It was really three turds, and not only did it feel amazing to be rid of it, but when I stood up to take a look at my masterpiece, there in the bowl was my name spelled out perfectly: S-U-E.

Now, this really blew my mind and my ass away. I started yelling for my mom -- thank God I'd moved back home so there was someone to witness this! When she came in the bathroom she was mad -- mad that I'd called her away from what she was doing and mad that she could smell shit when she came into the room, but she came in anyway ‘cuz, well, she's my mom, and she had to make sure I was alright. When she got a gander at what was in the bowl she knew damn well I wasn't!

After we stopped howling with laughter, we were on a mission to find a camera to preserve the moment forever. There must have been a dozen cameras in the house, but not ONE with what it took to capture my doodie. I was crushed -- I knew no one would ever believe me except for the fact that my mommy was a witness. Now, whenever I feel the need to share that amazing event with folks, my poor mother is forced to confirm the sighting of a turd named S-U-E.

-- posted 9.5.2006 by Sara Sue

POOPREPORT OF THE WEEK -- 8.28.2006

Back in seventh grade, I had a paper route. At school one day I had a nasty cold and ate a bag of cough drops to get through. After school it was raining, so I put on a yellow poncho and then went off to do the route. After a half an hour the sugar kicked in, and I had to poop. But there was about another half-hour's worth left to do, so I tried to ride it out.

I delivered the last paper and then had about a block to walk home when suddenly it all let loose. Diarrhea with the farts pushed out with the same force as if on the toilet. But there was no toilet -- just me standing on a sidewalk in a yellow poncho. As I walked home a trail of fecal matter shook to the ground through my left pants leg.

Fortunately the poncho covered up what was probably a big and moist poop mess bursting through my pants fabric. I finally got home, went to the basement door hidden under the porch to disrobe, and then ran naked to the shower. My mother tossed that dung-stained poncho, but I will never forget it.

-- posted 8.28.2006 by Doctor Hot

POOPREPORT OF THE WEEK -- 8.14.2006

The night started out with promise. The keg was tapped, the music was loud, and partiers were arriving. As the house began to fill, apprehension filled my veins. During our usual parties at Ohio U., I knew about 75% of the guests. This one, I only knew a third. One contingent of partiers in particular caught my interest. They were dressed in togas and were quite lit. One guy in particular was a walking party foul. No one knew who they were, or where they came from. But the Natty Light dulled my suspicions, and I enjoyed our party.

Until a friend came up to me. "There's a problem in the bathroom," she said. She didn't elaborate and from her grim look I knew it was serious. As I followed her to the bathroom, thoughts of dread filled my head. Puke? Dead body? Aborted fetus? Upon entering our sacred room, I was met with a sight that was awesome in the biblical sense. Someone had covered the back half of the toilet seat with a thick, dark brown paste. It was well congealed and looked like the rolling foothills of Appalachia. The sight of it was so overwhelming that my I don't even recollect the smell. I can only surmise that the mud splurted out the pooper's bottom as he/she began to sit.

I had to act fast. This was our only bathroom. I ran to the kitchen and grabbed a full roll of paper towels. My roommate was pre-med, so I grabbed a couple latex gloves.

However, upon arrival the toilet appeared factory fresh. A friend of ours told me he cleaned it up. Now, that there's a good friend. Later on I learned that he skillfully "wizzed it off" the seat. He is trustworthy, and although there may be limits on to what precision peeing can accomplish, I never doubted his story.

The question was, who done it? My money was on the toga guy. But eyewitness accounts placed a young, small woman as the last person in the bathroom. The mystery will never be solved. But the memories will never be lost...

-- posted 8.14.2006 by Dumplestiltskin

POOPREPORT OF THE WEEK -- 8.7.2006

I am a tractor-trailer driver. I used to drive over the road virtually all over the country. One night I parked my truck at a typical truck stop in Boonesborough, Kentucky. I woke up at about six AM the next morning. Right away I felt the typical morning yearnings and churnings, so I put my sweatshirt on, and my shoes, and set out across the parking lot to visit the inside of the truck stop to take care of number two.

It was very cold that morning, probably about twenty degrees, so I braced myself for the three-minute walk. As I got about halfway across the lot, I noticed that it was uncharacteristically dark outside. But as I approached the building, I was relieved, thinking in less than two minutes my inner demon would be exorcised. How wrong I was. The doors were locked and the employees inside told me there was a blackout. There was NO electricity and they couldn't unlock or open the doors for me. D'oh.

Now what the fuck do I do??? I walked back to the truck, contemplating my dilemma. The feelings inside my bowels were intensifying with every step back towards the truck. Something drastic had to be done. Realizing that it was freakin' PITCH BLACK outside, I decided that I could go behind my parked truck where there was a grassy knoll and just drop trou without being seen. Then I would wipe my arse with paper towels in the truck and just leave.

I set out behind the truck and unleashed the beast. It was freezing outside. You couldn't see shit -- almost literally. But what I could see was this big trail of steam wafting from the ground. MISSION ACCOMPLISHED! I went back into the truck, wiped my ass, and threw the paper towels into a plastic bag, which was promptly thrown into a dumpster which I could thankfully make out was nearby. I then immediately vacated the premises. I only wish I could have seen the face of the first unlucky soul to come across my Leonardo da Vinci in the daylight. That and the poor sap who was responsible for removing it.

-- posted 8.7.2006 by Eaglenation

POOPREPORT OF THE WEEK -- 7.31.2006

In my early adolescent years, I was clearly in my "shitting prime," if there is such a thing. Combining a toilet that cannot tolerate large quantities of intestinal mass with a teenager at his shitting prime in the same household just screams CLOG. I would indulge in unctuous, oily, greasy dishes that would work my system to the max. And then I would plop myself onto the shitter with the intention of relieving as much booty juice as possible,