POOPREPORT OF THE WEEK -- 6.29.2009

Last night I decided to make Trader Joe's chile verde stew and rice for dinner. It was excellent -- I ate the whole thing. (Serves three.) This morning I could tell that something was percolating, but I needed to get to the office early to participate on a conference call, so my morning bowel movement (MBM) was not given the due diligence that it deserved: MBM did not occur before I left the house.

As I began to cross the bridge, the percolation accelerated, and I knew I was dealing with a short planning horizon for project delivery. By the time I had reached the Oakland side, percolation was complete, and MBM was positioned at the edge of what I like to call "the drop zone": that last trap door before release. Truly a horrifying situation when one has approximately ten minutes of driving left to go.

It was a sprint to the finish line. Had this been the forty-yard dash, I would have clocked a sub 4.4 time. Instead of parking in the lot, I left my car on the street so that I could hop out and get to the restroom.

I made it to the office and let 'er fly: a type-six monster at 14.5 Courics, released with the force of a high-pressure water cannon used to disperse crowds in riot situations. I was actually early for the call, and as far as I'm concerned, the rest of the day will be a piece of cake compared to birthing that monster.

-- posted 6.29.2009 by The Crap Duster

POOPREPORT OF THE WEEK -- 6.15.2009

In the parking lot of Wal-Mart yesterday, a crazy guy was walking around, screaming, "I gotta take a shit!" repeatedly. Finally another guy yelled back, "So take a shit, motherfucker!" The crazy guy proceeded to drop his pants and give birth to something the size of a baby's leg. While everybody recoiled in horror, another guy commented, while gazing at his load, "Damn, he really did need to take a shit." And everybody lost it. I was laughing so hard I was crying.

-- posted 6.15.2009 by Spackle

POOPREPORT OF THE WEEK -- 6.8.2009

My last poop story was about a visit with my mom who, due to an accident and surgeries in the past, needs to wear disposable diapers for #1 and #2. That time, she took a messy dump that escaped her diaper and ruined her pantyhose. Today, she had the opposite problem.

I met her for lunch at the mall. While we waited in line at the food court, she complained about how tight the top part of her pantyhose was. She wears them to help disguise the diaper under her skirt, but apparently they're pretty uncomfortable. After lunch, she said she had to get to the restroom to change a "wet one".

Later, standing outside the food court, my Mom started to take a dump in her diaper (which is why she has to wear diapers -- she can't always make it to the toilet). But she encountered a small problem. Apparently her pantyhose top was so tight that it was pushing her diaper up her butt -- to the point her body couldn't get her poop in her diaper.

I looked in a few shop windows while Mom stood there. Eventually her butt won out, and the load was pushed in her diaper.

We walked back to the restroom so she could change again, and I took a big pee. Mom decided no more of that brand of pantyhose.

-- posted 6.8.2009 by Steve

POOPREPORT OF THE WEEK -- 4.27.2009

I was at school, during break. Felt the tickle and knew it was time for another deposit. Got to the bathroom, battled furiously for forty-five minutes: it was as if the turd and my sphincter were having a fencing match back and forth. There were thrusts, lunges, parrying, and occasionally contact when I needed finger assistance retracting the monster back up into the bowels just to rest myself.

Finally the pain was too great, and I decided to hold it; due to its breadth, solidity, and impending massivity, I knew that containing the beast posed no serious threats, as my struggle clearly excavated as much loose matter as was to be found at the dig site. Furthermore, I had already missed the last half of class.

After bracing, clutching, and preparing to hold myself despite the fecalroids pressing firmly against my prostate, I staggered through the commons, only to run into the teacher whose class I had just missed. A brisk chat and a sweaty, blurry stroll later, I climbed tenderly into my car, drove home and the rematch was on!

After a climactic struggle, through a brief moment of clarity, exertion, and intense exorcism, I was able to pass the demon. Its foul plunge resonated deeply, thundering victoriously after the blinding experience. With relief and anticipation I stood and did the appraisal: its dry, robust mass and length (broken tragically in half by the narrow confines of a basin too small for its burden) were worthy of legend.

-- posted 4.27.2009 by Wolfpellets

POOPREPORT OF THE WEEK -- 4.13.2009

I work at a Marriott as a front desk clerk. As I was finishing a check out, the gurgling in my stomach hit me out of nowhere. I was the only one working at the front desk because of slow hours, and I could not leave. No big deal, I thought. I would wait until the checkout was complete and then head to the restroom.

But just when I thought I saw the light at the end of the tunnel, that's when it happened: a group of people came in to checkout some rooms. There must have been about fifty or so who just dropped by. I was completely horrified, but I thought if my mind was elsewhere, I wouldn't think about the fact that I had to poop.

Except poop is not all I had to worry about - I had terrible gas as well. I made it through about three check-ins when it happened. I thought I let out a small fart, but all of the sudden my butt cheeks seemed really wet and slippery. I knew what had happened. I had pooped myself.

The smell was terrible, and the new guest gave me a strange look. I had to excuse myself and call my supervisor to come in and take over. Not only that, I do not drive, so I had to take public transportation home and deal with the strange looks all the way home. Horrible.

-- posted 4.13.2009 by horribly embarassed

POOPREPORT OF THE WEEK -- 2.23.2009

Near Christmastime around ten years ago, my brother was grappling with the horrible feat of toilet training. He absolutely refused to cooperate and continued on his mission to spout shit across all over God's creation. But under threat of losing McDonald's, he tried to cover his trail of brown fury at every turn. Eventually, after he fece'd all over the socks, washcloths, and towels, he turned to his only other alternative: an antique wooden Santa with a white hair and a snow white beard. He surreptitiously flossed his cheeks with Santa and put him back where he lay.

Several hours later, we all came home to this terrible smell: the stench of a dead, swollen armadillo left in the road. We searched for an hour in all of the usual places, until we ran upon Santa. He wore the same wooden expression of idleness as he did before the incident, only his hair was worked into a point . An enormous brown point. Like some sick mousse. As the realization dawned upon us that it was, in fact, shit, we dumped Santa and his stiff beard in the trash.

-- posted 2.23.2009 by ThePoopTalker

POOPREPORT OF THE WEEK -- 2.9.2009

I'm a fairly regular guy. I get lots of fiber, I eat lots of fruit, and I poop every day. Until yesterday. Holy fuck. I've been taking Oxycodeine for the last couple of days for back pain. Time released codeine, 150mg. And it started to bung me up.

Tuesday, I farted out a couple of turds. Yesterday, I couldn't shit at all. This morning, however, I felt a poop coming. I sat on the toilet and felt the turtlehead poke out, but it wouldn't proceed further. I don't like to push too much -- it's not good for the bunghole; you can end up with anal fissures -- so I tried to let it come out on its own. No dice.

I started to push. It began to move. My asshole felt like it was being ripped in two. Flashes of childbirth flashed through my head. It was coming. Just another push and the pain exploded -- but so did the poop.

A healthy two-pound log came out into the world. The relief was instant, but it took four flushes to get rid of the thing.

I've decided to live with the back pain and poop normal from now on.

-- posted 2.9.2009 by John Myers

POOPREPORT OF THE WEEK -- 2.2.2009

Last fall, my mom, age 49, came to my apartment after her work at the Clinique counter so we could celebrate her birthday. She's had several surgeries that mean that she has to wear disposable diapers for #1 and #2.

She was anxious to change her diaper immediately upon arrival, as it was soaked. I assured her no leaks were visible (she had on a shortish tan skirt and light colored sheer pantyhose, so it would be obvious). She changed, putting the soaked diaper in my garbage. We ate dinner, and she changed another wet diaper.

Later, as she was kneeling on the floor to open a present, she paused with that worried look I knew meant she was taking a dump. After thirty seconds she slowly rose, tears filling her eyes. "I just had a messy leak..."

I helped her to the bathroom and got a plastic bag for her diaper. She decided to flush her new $10 pantyhose (they actually flushed). Her skirt was okay. After showering and a fresh diaper and some new pantyhose, she was just fine.

My mom is very slender and they'd been out of her smallest size diaper at the store, leading to the leak.

Incidentally, my dump later was large but solid.

-- posted 2.2.2009 by Steve

POOPREPORT OF THE WEEK -- 1.12.2009

My friend was sitting on the throne when something jumped up from the water and bit her butt. She immediately screamed and fled when she saw a slimy black thing jump from the bowl to the floor and literally take off after her.

She called the police.

When they came, my friend was in hysterics, running all over the house announcing to the world that something from the deep dark recesses of the underworld had come up from below and attacked her.

The police finally located the black slimy thing under a cabinet. They captured it with a long-handled hook of a sort and pulled it out. It turned out to be a squirrel that had fallen down the flue and was covered in you know what! Yes, it really was!

-- posted 1.12.2009 by T&K

POOPREPORT OF THE WEEK -- 1.5.2009

I had just had surgery on my abdomen and was spending a few days in the hospital to recover. I was sick of hospital food and begged my boyfriend to bring me some M&M's.

My boyfriend came through like a champ: instead of the normal, human-sized bag of M&M's that I was expecting, he brings me the biggest bag of peanut M&M's that are made. And, being bored in the hospital watching TV in between my Demeral-induced hazes, I managed to consume the whole bag!

The nurse had warned me that I had to pass gas or have a bowel movement before I could go home. Well, I neither passed gas nor pooped, so the nurse somehow gave me a suppository while I was out of it.

When I came to, I noticed how wonderfully warm everything was from the waist down. Then, snapping back to reality, I reached down by my thigh and felt my hand sink into warm, peanuty poo.

It was disgusting. And the nurses were glad to see me go.

-- posted 1.5.2009 by Amy

POOPREPORT OF THE WEEK -- 12.22.2008

A few years ago, my aunt and uncle were in town visiting my grandmother. My uncle is on the heavier side. If I had to guess, I would say he is around 380.

After their weekend visit, my other uncle got a frantic call from my grandmother. She told him that her toilet was clogged upstairs and it was also backing up into the shower. This uncle called a good friend who lived nearby -- a friend who also happened to be a retired plumber.

Within a few hours, the plumber arrived at my grandmother's house. He went upstairs armed with a normal plunger and took inventory of the situation. After twenty minutes of working on the clog, he called my uncle.

"I have been in the plumbing business for twenty-two years," he said, "and I've never seen anything like this. How big was this guy?!? There were knots in it. I had to go out to my truck and get an old broom handle to break it up."

-- posted 12.22.2008 by Jason

POOPREPORT OF THE WEEK -- 12.8.2008

Today I got an indwelling Foley catheter and now I am carrying the piss purse. This has me extremely worried. For the past few years, due to a back injury, I haven't really been able to tell when I have to poop. It usually happens as a result of sitting on the shitter and relaxing into a satisfying piss. This seems to release the urge for brown. Now I won't be making the twenty-or-so trips a day to the toilet and I'm seriously afraid I'll start shitting my pants. I guess I'll have to keep the Depends until I see what's going to happen.

But tonight will be my first night in years that I will sleep dry and not wake up on a pad soaked in stink water with a dripping diaper hanging down between my knees.

-- posted 12.8.2008 by Loocretia Kornmush

POOPREPORT OF THE WEEK -- 11.10.2008

So I know almost all embarrassing stories begin with, "I have this friend..." But seriously, I have this friend who went on a wingman mission to some girls' house for his roommate one night. When he woke up the next day and had no recollection of how he got home, he figured he had had a good night. That was until he received about a dozen text messages while he was in class from his roommate, all asking him, "What the hell did you do last night?"

It turns out that he didn't have a good night. He got hammered, mistook a closet for a bathroom, and shat in a Louis Vitton purse. Then he wiped his ass with the prom dress hanging above it.

-- posted 11.10.2008 by Richie

POOPREPORT OF THE WEEK -- 10.27.2008

For some unknown reason, I seem to need to take the nastiest, runniest, and foulest dumps at work, wherever I may be working at the time.

I've been a table games dealer for six years. I'd have to guess that what ends up in the bowl has something to do with the employee dining room food. There are colors in the bowl that even Sherwin Williams don't make. There is a particular shade of green(ish?) -- it is the most foul, explosive diarrhea that my body produces.

The food served to the employees at casinos in Las Vegas is typically from the buffet after it has been sitting there for around five hours. It is no longer fit for guests to consume, but apparently it is fit for us. I consider it an employee benefit. The toilets, not the food, I mean; along with their generous supply of paper.

-- posted 10.27.2008 by Halaspa

POOPREPORT OF THE WEEK -- 10.20.2008

I'm sure you've heard all the classic Halloween pranks: eggs, shaving cream, big kids running around stealing little kids' candy. But there was one year when some evil, vile person took it to the next level.

I was seven or eight, and it was my first time trick-or-treating. I live in the middle of nowhere, so we had to drive into town and park somewhere so we could go. Leaving the car unattended was the biggest mistake my dad ever made.

After an hour or so of trick-or-treating, we were headed back to the car. It was dark out, and as we were walking back to the car, we saw a big lump on the hood. My siblings and I got all excited, thinking someone left their bag of candy out on the car. We got closer, and into better light, and nearly retched up all the candy we had eaten. There, in the middle of the hood of the car, was a giant turd.

This thing looked like it should have been saved for Christmas. It was green and had little pockets of blood in it, giving it a Christmas tree look. No six-year-old could have accomplished this; it had to be a teenager.

We stood there dumbfounded for a couple of minutes, until it hit us at approximately the same time: what were we going to do about it?

What could we do about it? My dad ripped one of the cardboard signs off a telephone pole and proceeded to scrape this behemoth off. Oh my god. This thing smeared seventy-five percent of its mass across the hood, leaving a giant smeared mess.

Cursing loudly, we were told to get in the car. Instead of going to a car wash, my dad drove home and pressure-washed the hood of the car. Not a smart thing to do when twenty-five percent of the car is rusted away.

Still, the car walked away almost unscathed, but so totally violated.

-- posted 10.20.2008 by greenpoopertrooper

POOPREPORT OF THE WEEK -- 10.6.2008

I was just getting over a rare and deadly brain infection that I had fought for two weeks, barely eating the whole time. My husband decided to celebrate my recovery with dinner at my favorite Chinese restaurant. I gobbled down my food; instantaneously, my stomach began working up a weapon of mass destruction. Leaving the restaurant, groaning in pain, we only made it halfway down the road before I yelped, "I NEED TO GO POOP -- NOW!" My husband quickly pulled into a mini-mall, where I told him to drop me at Staples.

I nonchalantly strutted around looking for the bathroom, all the while being stopped every other step by overly anxious employees asking me if I needed anything. I spotted the bathroom and, with speed that light would be envious of, pulled down my drawers, plopped on the backless latrine, and ripped a watery stream of bung troopers. After some time of the burning butt slaughter, I bent over to rest; for I knew the battle was not yet over. I had to call for reinforcements.

My stomach gurgling, bunghole quivering, and drenched in sweat, I suddenly sat up at the shooting arrows in my abdomen, letting out a wail similar to Robert Plant in Immigrant Song, and clutched the nearby rail as I spewed incessantly. I nearly passed out.

When the war of my digestive tract versus Chinese food ended, I stood and raised Old Glory (that is, my pants) with trumpets sounding. I washed my hands and left the battle scene.

As I opened the door, an unsuspecting casualty of war stood with a disgusted look on her face. Being the Shameless Shitter that I am, I smiled, nodded, and said, "I won." Giving me a nasty glare, she opened the door, and I walked away with pride as I left her gasping for air in the aftermath of the war.

-- posted 10.6.2008 by Grey_Poopon

POOPREPORT OF THE WEEK -- 9.22.2008

I work smack in the middle of a downtown area of a well-known west coast city. Usually the most exciting thing I see is the homeless population. But today, I found a large pile of shit sitting on the sidewalk, in between me and the post office I was walking towards.

It wasn't just any old pile 'o shit, though. This looked like either someone, or perhaps their pet, ate an entire bird's nest and shat it out. It was that full of twigs and sticks. I can only imagine how badly that must have hurt coming out.

Here's my real question, though: how on EARTH did someone/something manage to squeeze that out, on one of the busiest intersections in the city, without anyone noticing?

-- posted 9.22.2008 by poospicacious

POOPREPORT OF THE WEEK -- 9.15.2008

Something interesting just happened to me. This past Saturday involved me drinking a very large amount of tequila and beer and afterwards having one of the spiciest gyros I have ever eaten from a sketchy cart in some alley near the bars. The rest of the weekend involved large amounts of fast food from various vendors, including the infamous White Castle. It is no surprise, then, that on Monday I had decided my gastro intestinal tract had been punished enough and that I would have a salad for dinner.

I wasn't too worried when I got that calling from my mid-section this afternoon -- after all, I couldn't expect one salad to fix the atrocities I had inflicted upon my bowls for two days. However, I was surprised when, after I got up from one of the loudest toilet incidents of my life, I looked down and saw the most disgusting bowl of salad I had ever seen in my life. I seriously thought I shat a bush.

Damnedest thing.

-- posted 9.15.2008 by The Pied Pooper

POOPREPORT OF THE WEEK -- 8.25.2008

Every Thanksgiving or the day before, the brother of one of the guys I work with buys dozens of pies for the operations employees. He always gives me two and I always scarf them down ridiculously fast over the next couple of days, in addition to whatever I eat on Thanksgiving.

About three years ago, I was in the middle of my two-day super pie binge, and I had gas that would have sent the Pilgrims rowing hell-bent for leather back to the Mayflower and the Indians committing seppuku with their own tomahawks. It's morning, before work, and I'm taking a felonious dump in the head at the Hollywood Park casino, when in walks this eighty-year-old dude.

I'm looking at him thru the crack between the stall door and the wall. He stops in his tracks and, with a look that's part shock, part amazement, part disgust, says, "Oh my God! Oh, Lord!" And then turns and beats a hasty retreat.

For the next three months, every time I thought of him, I cracked up, no matter where I was or what I was doing.

-- posted 8.25.2008 by Humpty Dumpty

POOPREPORT OF THE WEEK -- 8.18.2008

I was walking around the local Target store after dinner with my family one night when my intestines decided to begin their mutiny against my body. Swiftly walking to the bathroom, I encounter a hefty "emo" kid dressed in black. He was giggling as he walked out the door. Going to the only available stall, I was taken aback by the sight of poop all over the seat. Not normal, healthy poop, but poop that looked as if the depositor was on a diet of hay and barley. You emo bastard! I hope you get hugged by your mom.

I quickly exited Target and walked into Pier One. I was the only person in there. The sales people jumped on me, asking if they could help. I wanted to tell them to get out of the way, but I was nice. I casually told them that I saw what I needed... a basket... which was, of course, near the bathrooms.

I walked back, passing the baskets and going into the bathroom. Oh, sweet relief. Feeling bad for the poor bastard that would have to clean the bathroom, I grabbed a medium-priced basket and bought it.

When I found my family back in Target, they asked me why I left Target to buy a basket at Pier One. I laughed and told them to mind their own business.

-- posted 8.18.2008 by KG

POOPREPORT OF THE WEEK -- 8.18.2008

When I was a child, I would often climb high up into trees until I found a nice "Y" on a limb. The air was fresh up there and plenty of natural wiping paper grew all around me. I loved to shit from high up and watch it flatten out when it bombed into the ground. Has anyone ever heard of this before? I wish that I could do it again, but I am now too big to be out on a limb, crapping in the breeze.

-- posted 7.28.2008 by poopship

POOPREPORT OF THE WEEK -- 7.21.2008

Diets can be hell on the bum. A few years back, I was on a strange diet -- a mostly liquid one. One way we could have solid food was to make things like "pizza" (ha!) or "chicken patties" (as if!) with the disgusting liquid powder, water, and that danger to all bung holes: oat bran.

I was also into walking my dog a lot. As in six miles a day from my house. One lovely afternoon Toby and I took our hike, admiring the deer and bunnies, when suddenly I felt something akin to an elevator dropping down a twenty-foot shaft. My gut screamed and my ass clenched, trying to contain the carnage on its floor. There was no way I was going to make it home.

So I ran for the bushes and proceeded to have an enormous, messy attack of wet shits like you would not believe. I had to use grass to wipe my ass. And then, the damn dog started eating the crap! That made me barf. So I got it at both ends.

Moral of the story: Never trust someone who gives you recipes full of oat bran, unless you want to shit al fresco and feed a dog.

-- posted 7.21.2008 by buscuitsburner

POOPREPORT OF THE WEEK -- 7.7.2008

My senior year in college was the first year I had a serious girlfriend. We spent a lot of time together at my aunt and uncle's house since it was close to the university. Their house had a finished basement, so she and I could basically be together whenever we wanted. The only problem with that arrangement was that the only bathroom in the basement was literally right off the den.

One evening, after eating out, she and I settled in at Aunt and Unc's basement to watch a movie. She told me she needed to use the restroom and retired to do so.

Pausing the movie was my biggest mistake. Neither of us had seen it, so I thought I was doing both of us a favor by pausing it. I couldn't have been more wrong.

With the sound off due to the tape being paused, I was treated to several plops as my girlfriend relieved herself in the nearby bathroom. Oh, if I had only not paused it...

-- posted 7.7.2008 by Porta Pooper

POOPREPORT OF THE WEEK -- 6.30.2008

I was roped into umpiring my son's minor league team. As the only umpire, I was calling balls and strikes from just behind the pitcher when a harmless little fart made his presence known, but turned out to be significantly juicier than expected. Fortunately the pitch was a credible strike three, the third out, and I ran squeezing my butt cheeks to the porta-potty past right field. My briefs were a loss, but fortunately they did their job in saving the pants. I cleaned up as best I could and went out to finish the game -- with twenty-odd eight-year-olds and as many parents staring at me for a stain, no doubt.

-- posted 6.30.2008 by L-Umpire

POOPREPORT OF THE WEEK -- 6.23.2008

If you've driven down I-65 lately and suspected that you saw a rather large man taking an incredibly, almost ungodly, large shit, then you were, unfortunately, correct. I couldn't help it. There was heavy traffic and I HAD to go. It was either that or shit my fancy pants. I'm not going to lie: there was a little poop in my pants and my whole brand-new ecofriendly car had the smell of rotten eggs. That's when I knew it was bad. I held out as long as I could, but I couldn't make it any longer. I was embarrassed beyond belief -- but to make problems worse, the local law enforcement stopped by and I now owe the great state of Indiana four hundred and twenty-seven dollars for public defecation.

My point is: DON'T SHIT ON THE SIDE OF THE HIGHWAY!

-- posted 6.23.2008 by manny_poops_alot

POOPREPORT OF THE WEEK -- 6.9.2008

Once there was this microcephalic teenage girl who had the worst BO to pass through the cribiform plate. And one day she had a very large shit. I'm at the nurse's station and I get the call that she is vomiting -- come quick!

The malignant funk shit smell body slammed me in the face before I even got to her hall. It was like walking against the wind -- the damp, malodorous, worse-than-a-dead-animal animal stink was that thick and heavy. I recognized the stench immediately, as I had cared for her in the past. As I approached her room, I see Bob standing in the hall with a pale green complexion, clutching his stomach, dry heaving. "HHHAAWHOO (guttural) WHHHAA..."

I pass him up to go to the patient, thinking her vomit must have made him gag. Nnnoewah. The girl's funkadilla shit stink made him vomit. The mom called for a nurse because her NURSE WAS VOMITING.

Needless to say, I had to help the mom clean the girl up. My eyes burned and it was hard to breathe. I couldn't get that distinctive, rancid, malodorous funk shit stink smell out of my nose memory for days.

Afterwards, any time I worked with that nurse, I couldn't help myself not to say, "Hey Bob -- HHHAHHOO HHHHAAA!" and walk away laughing. It was the worst olfactory offence from shit I have ever encountered in my career, and I will never forget the funk shit stink smell that girl produced. Not ever.

-- posted 6.9.2008 by sittingpretty

POOPREPORT OF THE WEEK -- 5.19.2008

I have five kids, ages one to fourteen. I also have cats, dogs, chickens, and goats who poop on our porch. So as you can imagine, my life is quite hectic. There's always something going on: doctor appointments, vet appointments, grocery shopping, etc.

On one particularly busy day, I was running late. I grabbed an organic chocolate chip granola bar, an apple, a banana, my water, and my baby, who was only a couple months old at the time. I buckled her in the Suburban, started it up, and scarfed down the food. I was still hungry, though -- my baby nursed so often that I could never get full.

So I'm driving and thinking about what I can eat. Then I notice this piece of chocolate smeared on the thigh part of my pants. I must have dropped it when I carelessly scarfed down the granola bar. I used my fingernail to scrape this partially-dried chocolate chunk off my pants. I licked it off my finger with the thought of how chocolate always tastes -- so creamy and sweet. But this time it did not taste that way. I wasn't quite sure what it tasted like, so I licked my finger again. To my surprise, I realized that I wasn't tasting chocolate at all. I must have sat on something unmentionable, gotten it on the back of my pants, and then crossed my legs Indian-style at some point -- because I was licking chicken poop off of my finger.

-- posted 5.19.2008 by Tasty Gravy

POOPREPORT OF THE WEEK -- 4.28.2008

I'm now thirty-one years old, and my newborn son pooped himself for the first time today. This reminded me of a long-since passed memory of a certain grey blanket, and of unfortunate timing.

I was four years old at the time, not yet in school, and I had been holding in my shit for a commercial because I was watching my favorite show. I suddenly felt my bowels rumble and I immediately shot up out of my chair because I knew this was it -- it was coming out!

My bathroom was two floors above, and I knew I wouldn't make it in time. I quickly looked around for something, anything, to poop into. And there I saw it: a fuzzy grey blanket in the corner of the room. I darted for it and lifted up my bathrobe and BOOM -- I let a massive log right out into the blanket.

I stood there staring at it for a few moments. I realized it wasn't even slightly stinky, so I just took the blanket and wrapped it up and threw it in the basement closet.

A week passed. I was in my basement. I realized there was a horribly rancid smell. Just as I remembered what I had done, my mother came down and her face was something that no man had seen before.

I think you can put the rest of it together on your own. And yes, I was grounded for four weeks.

-- posted 4.28.2008 by Shiz

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, thus ensuring a clean gastrointestinal system. Week after week my household would erupt with anger, knowing that I had mercilessly stuffed the toilet with shit, delaying their opportunity to take a dump. After about two or three plumbing bills were paid, I began to feel rather upset that I was responsible for these visits.

Then a thought came to me: why not use a Dairy Queen Spoon? You know those long, red spoons that you get with your DQ Blizzard? Well, after once again clogging the toilet after a greasy onslaught of church picnic food -- this was brutal -- I decided to try it. Lo and behold, it loosened up the grisly matter and flushed with no hassle.

No one in my household was aware that I did this, so I just proceeded to do these things under the radar. I had to have used the Dairy Queen spoon about twenty times before we moved in my later adolescent years. Talk about screwing the plumbing company! I may have saved about $1500 just by utilizing the Dairy Queen spoon! I hope that this can be a legitimate tip to those of you who have the tendency to stuff the toilet with exorbitant quantities of bile. It can save you some cash as well.

-- posted 7.31.2006 by Prestone

POOPREPORT OF THE WEEK -- 7.24.2006

Old Brown Shoes.

This is not a tribute to The Beatles, but rather to the fellow at work whom I know only by his old brown shoes. You see, every day when I make my humble fecal deposits, this guy inevitably shows up. I can only speculate on the frequency of his toilet visits, but they are indeed many. It is most unfortunate, too. This is a meditative time for me, sitting on the "one seat," contemplating the cosmos; then the brown shoes march in. Before his butt even hits the seat, it explodes -- and all sorts of hideous thwaps, plops, and groans ensue. The stench quickly invades the room and seeps into my clothes and hair. I make certain to close my mouth and eyes in hopes that his fecal particles do not invade any orifice. I see his brown shoes contorting in the stall next to mine and can only imagine the ludicrous grimaces he must make. Aye, old brown shoes -- you poop uncontrollably upon my gentle peace.

-- posted 7.24.2006 by Squalid Squatter

POOPREPORT OF THE WEEK -- 7.17.2006

Germans are brutally honest, to the point of rudeness. Bavarians, especially. Germans are the world connoisseurs of toilet humor. Bavarians are especially delighted by the vulgar.

When in the hospital for severe intestinal pain that happened to be located near my appendix, such that they at first suspected I might have appendicitis, I was given "Stuhlgang" to get things moving after the pain moved away from my right side.

None of this wimpy "laxative" for the Bavarians, nor even its slightly less direct German version, "abführmittel" ("down-driving substance"). No, Bavarians tell it like it is: "bowel movement."

"Stuhlgang" most literally means "chair-going" -- but it never carries that sense. Imagine packets of Ex-Lax labeled instead, "Bowel Move."

Bavarians are awesome.

-- posted 7.17.2006 by A Texan in Bavaria

POOPREPORT OF THE WEEK -- 7.10.2006

I was the manager of a crafts store in Northern Kentucky. Crafters are a funny bunch -- usually not highly educated, hence the trailer park fashion and the need to put glitter on everything.

Anyway, on one warm spring afternoon, the other manager and myself were putting stock out when a lady walked up to us and said, "I don't want to alarm you, BUT... there is a woman in your bathroom naked from the waist down." The other manager and I threw rock, paper, scissors to see who would go in. I lost.

So I opened the door slowly, and yup, there she was, in all her glory, washing out her very shitty underpants in our only sink. She had let a very juicy fart and wanted to freshen up a bit.

I guarded the door so no one else would get the shock of a lifetime, and waited. I expected her to come out and apologize and leave, but NOOOOOOO! Not this broad. She came out of the shitter wearing her pants and her wet, shitty underpants, and continued to shop. NOW THAT'S CLASS. She smelled awful and other customers were complaining, so guess who had to ask her to please leave and return when she was fresher.

The moral of this story is stay out of big box retail management -- it's not worth it.

-- posted 7.10.2006 by Stacey

POOPREPORT OF THE WEEK -- 6.19.2006

I came to learn the power of poop when I was a kid, around eleven or twelve. My brother got in a fight with a local bully, and although my brother could box like a champ, he really had his hands full trying to beat this kid. "Honor" demanded that I didn't jump in and double-team this kid, so I stood by, hoping for some miracle.

Then we got one.

My big bro got dropped by a right cross and landed dangerously close to some dog poop.

Well, you KNOW what happened next: he picked up the poop and smeared it right in the kid's face, aiming especially for the mouth.

Which he got!

Needless to say, the kid was too busy gagging, sputtering, and heaving to effectively defend himself from the barrage of punches he received from my big bro's poop-stained mitts.

Better on his hands than in his mouth, I'd say!

-- posted 6.19.2006 by ToiletmanElgin

POOPREPORT OF THE WEEK -- 6.12.2006

Picture this: a boxer just goes pro and his birthday comes. Many of us go out to dinner to celebrate with him. Roger, the birthday boy, is at the head of the table when gives himself a present: one big SHART.

And I mean baaaaad. He does a good job in being discrete and manages to make it through the dinner; and then he coaxes his girlfriend that they need to go home right away. All of our friends still go to a club downtown and wait for them there. Roger and his girlfriend go home and he explains to her what happened -- and tells her that he will not be going back out because he is embarrassed.

Roger's girlfriend is pissed because all of their friends are out there celebrating his birthday and he is not going. While he goes to clean himself up, his girlfriend calls all of his friends and announces that Roger sharted and can not go out to the bars now. Now, this might be okay when you are young and naïve, but not when you are thirty years old and a boxer!

Go Roger!!!

-- posted 6.12.2006 by Eric D

POOPREPORT OF THE WEEK -- 6.5.2006

A couple weeks back there was a great fight on the pay-per-view -- De La Hoya vs. Mayorga. I usually get pretty fucked up on big fight nights. I had a few beers during the course of the day, so by one AM I was completely polluted.

I woke up at about four AM to take a piss and noticed the room smelled a bit shitty. The wife has told me in the past that I tend to fart in my sleep, so I figured no biggie. I waddled downstairs for some aspirin and a drink of water and noticed the smell downstairs, too. I gave a little shake and felt something more in my shorts other than my cock and balls. Sure enough, a quick peek revealed two Jimmy Dean sausage-sized turds! FUCK! I done shitted myself!

So now I waddled down into the basement, a bit taken aback by what has happened. First reaction was that the underwear needed to be washed. Hence the trip into the basement. But what do I do with the Jimmy Deans? After a quick glance around the basement, it hit me. I spotted the cat's litter box in the corner, freshly cleaned earlier that day by my fifteen-year-old son. Fuck it. I took the underwear off and turned them inside out right over the litter box. A little scratch, scratch, with the cat scoop and voila! No more Jimmy Deans. Tossed the underwear into the dirty pile, and no one knows the wiser.

Later that day when I heard the wife tell my son to clean the litter box, all I could do was laugh. I cleaned his shit for the first three years of his life. Time for a bit a payback.

Thank Christ for having a cat.

-- posted 6.5.2006 by Sir Poopalot

POOPREPORT OF THE WEEK -- 5.22.2006

I fly about five or six times a year; and when I land, I invariably have to empty the pipes. Usually I have a long enough layover to have a nice, restful poop session. I have been a Shameless Shitter since junior high -- I'll shit anywhere, anytime, in front of most anybody. The thing I have noticed is that even the most Shameful Shitter becomes Shameless when he only has five minutes to drop trou and catch his flight.

I sit there and listen to the constant barrage of gunfire and bombs dropping. The Atlanta airport toilets are automated so you can't do a courtesy flush when you let out a big one. I can picture what goes on in the next stall. The guy rushes in, sometimes not taking time to wipe off the seat. He quickly unbuckles his belt, unfastens his pants, and sits down. He doesn't have much time; and he hopes I will leave so he can quickly unload.

But I don't. He feels his colon start to push its contents toward freedom. His sphincter tightens to hold it in, but a small fart escapes. That is followed by a series of other small farts. His face is starting to redden from embarrassment. This shameful shitter looks at his watch. Time is fleeting; there are just a few minutes until his plane leaves. What to do?

He relaxes his stopper just a bit. A small stream of liquid goo escapes (the turbulence from the plane has shaken things up a bit). Finally he thinks, "What the hell." He fully relaxes and out comes an explosion of gas, lava, and ash. He quickly grabs the toilet paper and cleans up.

Meanwhile, in my stall, I time my cleanup so I can exit my stall around the same time my Shameful neighbor. He is hoping he can get out without his toiletmates seeing him face to face. We exit our stalls at the same time. I make it a point to look at him and give him a knowing smile. He averts his eyes in Shameful embarrassment; now the sound is matched to a face.

The handwashing goes very quickly. He exits the bathroom and runs to catch his flight, thinking, "Next time I'm not eating for forty-eight hours before my flight."

-- posted 5.22.2006 by goanywhere

POOPREPORT OF THE WEEK -- 5.15.2006

When I was eight years old, my parents and their best friends rented a house in Cabo San Lucas and hauled all six kids along for the ride. One night we were invited to a person's house for an "authentic" cookout. They had all sorts of salsas, spicy this and spicy that, and oh, the goat on a rotating spit. My palette was beyond my years and impressed even the best foodies back then, so I grinded my way through many tortillas, jalapeños, and about two-thirds of a pound of old bbq'd goat.

Like most kids would, I then ran around with my brothers and sisters until there was a pain so crippling that I remember having to fall to my knees, squeeze my butt cheeks so damn hard, and asked my older brother for assistance.

I ran the best I could to a bathroom and shut the door, not even locking it. Barely getting my jeans down, I turned and it happened -- I did not even get a chance to sit before it left me at two hundred miles an hour. A liquid funk flew over the back of the toilet, hitting the wall and splashing and splattering all over the back of my shirt and the walls, the floor, and whatever wasn't covered by the little pink rug.

Oh my god -- what do I do? I cleaned myself up, took off my shirt (thank goodness for undershirts!), locked the door, and got into the shower to clean my shoes. While I was in there, I noticed that there was no wall to the outside -- just a light curtain that slid to cover where the wall should be.

Though only eight, I was not completely stupid. I slid out the shower to the side hill, walked around to the front of the house, let myself in, and rejoined the rest of the party.

-- posted 5.15.2006 by Dr.DammAwful

POOPREPORT OF THE WEEK -- 5.8.2006

Dave, I got this in a forwarded email. I have no idea of the author, but it was kinda cute; who knows if it's true?

"Have you ever asked your child a question too many times? My three-year-old son had a lot of problems with potty training and I was on him constantly. One day we stopped at Taco Bell for a quick lunch in between errands. It was very busy, with a full dining room. While enjoying my taco, I smelled something funny, so of course I checked my seven-month-old daughter. She was clean.

"Then I realized that Danny had not asked to go potty in a while, so I asked him if he needed to go. He said, 'No.' I kept thinking, 'Oh Lord, that child has had an accident, and I don't have any clothes with me.'

"I said, 'Danny, are you sure you didn't have an accident?'

"'No,' he replied. I just knew that he must have had an accident, because the smell was getting worse. So I asked him one more time: 'Danny, did you have an accident?' This time he jumped up, yanked down his pants, bent over and spread his cheeks and yelled. 'SEE MOM, IT'S JUST FARTS!!'

"While thirty people nearly choked to death on their tacos while laughing, Danny calmly pulled up his pants and sat down. An older couple helped me feel better by thanking me for the best laugh they'd ever had!"

----- posted 5.8.2006 by GottaGoGirl

POOPREPORT OF THE WEEK -- 4.24.2006

It all occurred on a beautiful summer's afternoon in Maidenhead, England. It was a Saturday, and the streets were packed. I was walking up a pedestrian-only street with my friend, quietly minding our own business, walking and talking, when suddenly I noticed something strange. I asked if my friend saw what I saw. She hadn't. Under my breath I uttered, "Don't look now, but there's a guy taking a shit outside Boots." (Boots is a UK drugstore chain.)

So of course she looked back, and she saw it, too. Startled, we continued to walk. Suddenly we saw the man jogging ahead of us towards his friends. We both stopped and looked at each other.

"Do you think he was successful?" He had been rocking back and forth, straining. Since we were both curious to see what was causing all the trouble, we turned back and walked over to Boots. Sure enough, a poo lay there.

And I don't like to judge, but it wasn't much to write home about.

The most bizarre thing about it was that nobody on that busy afternoon seemed to take any notice of this public display. Like it was perfectly normal to drop your trousers outside Boots and have a dump.

Anyway, I never did return to Maidenhead.

----- posted 4.24.2006 by Kim F.

POOPREPORT OF THE WEEK -- 4.17.2006

I was working on the house one nice summer day when my wife came in and yelled, "I'm covered in shit!" I laughed, because obviously this must be a joke.

It was no joke.

She had taken our two-year-old son to buy some shoes. She had him on her lap, trying on some goes for our ever-growing boy. Suddenly she detected that smell and her lap felt warm.

She picked him up -- and, to her horror, discovered that he had filled his diaper with such vigor it was overflowing. It had oozed out the sides and out of his shorts entirely -- and right onto her lap. To top it off, when she picked him up a big clump of it plopped off and fell onto the floor.

Picture this: she is in the middle of a shoe store holding our son, both of them covered in crap, wondering how in the hell she's going to get out of this.

Discount shoe stores don't have a ton of salespeople running around. The last thing she wants to do is stand in line so she can tell the teenager at the register (and a line full of people) that her son just shat all over their floor. And then what would she do? "Okay, well, sorry. I'm leaving now."

There was only one choice. Just walk away. In picking him up to make a hasty getaway, though, she made a mess of her blouse, too.

While sprinting to the car, she's thinking, "No problem. I've got the diaper bag with a ton of wipes and a change of clothes for him." Small problem: no diaper bag. Now what? She happened to have some papers in the car. After destroying them cleaning him up the best she could, she stripped him down, put him buck naked in the car seat, and gave him a toy to at least partially cover himself up.

That took care of him, but what about her? She's still got shit all over her blouse and skirt. She could remove them and drive home like that, but I don't think she was interested in putting on any kind of show in the parking lot; nor, more importantly, in getting pulled over and having to explain the whole story. The only option at that point was to get in, roll the windows down, and get home as fast as possible.

Of course, as she's relaying this story to me in tears, I'm laughing my ass off. There's no way she was getting any hugs from me smelling like that. I'm also thinking about the poor person who discovered the pile of shit on the floor and having a good chuckle about that.

"Well, look at it this way," I told her. "You'll have a good story to tell!"

----- posted 4.17.2006 by Poopy McPoopy Pants

POOPREPORT OF THE WEEK -- 4.10.2006

I remember, as a child, going down to my basement to play. It was quiet and a little spooky to me, but that's where my toys and games were. It seemed that almost every time I went down those stairs, I would get this nervous feeling. "Oh, no!" I had to go. So I ran upstairs and into the only toilet we had in the house.

Why is it that when we start to feel a little nervous, we have to go?

My Aunt Maria, an old German woman, came for a visit from Germany. As we know, traveling seems to get us a little out of sync with our bowel habits. Well, this poor woman couldn't have a bowel movement for nearly a week. She was so miserable.

One day my Mom and I took her sightseeing. We went up to the John Hancock Center in Chicago. Soon after we reached the top (one hundred floors up) and saw the wonderful view, my Aunt said, in an urgent voice, "Where is the restroom!?" There was a look of fear and terror in her eyes. So we quickly rushed her off to the restroom, where she finally dropped the bomb.

She came out of that restroom with the most relaxed and pleasant smile on her face. To this day, whenever I get a little stopped up, I say to my Mom: "I think I need to take a trip up to the John Hancock Center." And she knows what I mean.

----- posted 4.10.2006 by sphincter cramp

POOPREPORT OF THE WEEK -- 3.27.2006

A former girlfriend shared this youthful tale. When she was about ten and her younger brother was six, they would compete in almost everything. Sports, bicycle races, getting the other sibling into trouble: it was all part of growing up. But in this episode, I think she may have played older sibling tormentor.

She and her brother were sitting around the house one summer afternoon. One got the idea to start a farting contest. At first the farts were easy and noisy. Minutes passed, as did more gas. Lifting, straining, grunting, whatever was necessary to get in the last word, err, fart salvo.

The contest continued in the backyard. Her younger brother, in an attempt to strain and get leverage, gripped and hugged a tree, urging the last methane offering. It was one grunt too far.

The next moment there were denim gravy blasts everywhere. The boy had crapped his pants. Next there was the "Mommy, come and wipe me!" cry. He knew not to enter the house self-soiled.

During the cleanup, older sister was doing her best not to laugh. Her brother was helpless. Deep down, I think she plotted this all along.

----- posted 3.27.2006 by Chuck

POOPREPORT OF THE WEEK -- 3.6.2006

Me and feces, we go way back. Pivotal moments in the formation of my psyche and worldview have been permanently stained with putrescent bowel ichor. Like the night back in '64 when Mommy, Daddy, and me were watching Daktari on the black and white when we were interrupted by the screams of my little brother. He was taking a bath. We all rushed in to see what had happened. There was little brother clutching a newly-minted dung steak topped with a frosting of Mr. Bubble. He held it aloft like a waiter balancing a tray. "Mommy, I made a doodie in the tub."

"Yes, son, you sure enough did."

I was horrified, but I laughed and laughed at his shit-caked humiliation. It wasn't but a few months later that karmic retribution came in the form of a humble shit-pie.

I was five years old, and it was a lovely summer day. A perfect day to go tear-assing around on my training wheel bike -- perfect, that was, until a substantial bung cannoli moved quite suddenly into the on-deck circle. I dismounted and made for door of the apartment, but the door was locked. I banged on the door and called for Mommy. "Mommy, I have to go to the bathroom." No answer. "Mommy, let me in, I need a make."

Finally, an annoyed yell came from upstairs. "Hold on a minute, I'm coming."

"I need to go now, hurry up Mommy. Mommy!"

And I stood there, and stood there, and banged on the door, and hollered my little lungs out, and finally I shit in my pants.

That was forty years ago and I still remember that moment when I couldn't hold it anymore and the burning stink stick -- probably composed of Lucky Charms, Fizzies and hot dogs -- ripped into my skivvies and made a hard left around my butt cheek.

Mommy was not pleased, but hey. I told her it was an emergency and she didn't snap to, so it's her fucking fault, no? In retrospect, I should have dropped trou and shit on the porch, but I was just five years old and hadn't yet developed the wherewithal to weigh my options while under pressure.

Life lesson learned. I lived to shit another day. And shit I did. Oh boy, did I shit.

-- posted 3.6.2006 by TurdleHaid

POOPREPORT OF THE WEEK -- 2.27.02006

Usually when nature calls, I am ready to answer. But sometimes I'm forced to improvise. This was the case a couple years ago when we were having inspections done on a house we were buying in a rural area.

The house had been unoccupied and, as it was late fall, it was winterized -- pipes drained, no water anywhere. Everything was going fine until, without warning, I felt that cramping and gurgling in my guts: my insides saying, "I gotta shit, NOW!" This was one of those party-crasher dumps -- it just showed up at my back door uninvited and unannounced.

I went over my options. Hold it? Not for more than a couple minutes. Find a working toilet? None around for miles. The woods! There were a couple acres' worth, and all the rest of God's creatures use them, so why not this one? So I discreetly excused myself, thankfully found some fast food napkins in my jacket pocket, and trudged back through the trees and brambles until I found a secluded place to do my doodie.

I dropped my drawers and cut loose a foul load of brown slop in an unusually short time. Since there were no walls to contain the smell, I didn't note an exceptional stench, but I knew this was definitely a vile pile, and I was glad to be rid of it. While squatting in the woods isn't nearly as gratifying as a leisurely sitting on the throne, I felt much relieved as I rejoined my party with no one the wiser.

We since closed on the house and moved in, and we thoroughly enjoy the location. Occasionally it occurs to me that among the bird, squirrel, rabbit, possum, raccoon, chipmunk, and maybe deer droppings lay the remnants of my own dook. I am just another beast shitting in the woods!

-- posted 2.27.2006 by Heavy Doodie

POOPREPORT OF THE WEEK -- 2.21.02006

My favorite aunt invited me over for the weekend to celebrate her newfound freedom after selling her home and moving into a retirement community. I gladly visited, not only because she is a very sweet person, but because she makes me the most delicious Cajun food. After having all my favorite meals and sitting up all night for our normal talks, I got the urge to go to the bathroom. It wasn't a matter of urgency and she had gone to bed, so I casually strolled to the bathroom.

Upon entering her bathroom I noticed a disturbing sight: there was no fart fan! Those of you who are true connoisseurs of restrooms know the importance of a good vent. To lessen the linger in case she needed the restroom in the middle of the night, I opened the window halfway.

In the middle of my exploits I heard a loud shriek. The neighbor had also opened her bedroom window to allow in a cool breeze of night air. (Winter in southern Florida is very mild.) I overheard the following conversation:

"Bob! Get up! You've shit the bed again!"

"I did not! I'm going to sleep"

"Get the hell up! You reek!"

"Harriet! I'm trying to tell you that I didn't shit the bed!"

"Go to sleep. It was a false alarm."

(Five minutes of muffled bickering)

I quickly grabbed a towel off the rack to muffle the hysterical laughter that left me trembling. The next morning my aunt made me breakfast and asked if I had smelled anything strange during the night. I gingerly asked, "Why?" She started to say that the maintenance man had knocked on her door asking if the sewer had backed up, but before she could complete the sentence she burst out into laughter. Apparently she sleeps with her windows open, too, and she couldn't resist a good joke.

-- posted 2.21.2006 by Hot Carl

POOPREPORT OF THE WEEK -- 2.13.02006

Seismologists speak of a phenomenon known as the Slow Earthquake. A Slow Earthquake is an earthquake in which the oscillations of the ground occur over a period of days or weeks, so slowly that nobody notices. These can still be high magnitude quakes, but because the waves of energy are of such low frequency, no movement is felt. But they can have the same results of the noticeable, high-frequency quakes: pressures are still released or -- worse -- built up. Very strange.

Well, this past week I have suffered what I can only describe as Slow Diarrhea. I have all the cramps of any Fast Diarrhea and the liquishit ejected is just as vile; but despite the cramps and the urge to shit, I have to strain to get this colon puke out, as if I were constipated. It defies the laws of physics -- in a liquid state, it resists like a solid. Also, it's been going on for days. It's like being constipated and having diarrhea at the same time! The worst of both worlds.

-- posted 2.13.2006 by Pinworm

POOPREPORT OF THE WEEK -- 1.30.02006

Editor's note: For this week's Poop of the Week, I've got a couple of poems. The first one is a little dated, obviously; but it's entertaining nevertheless.

Three Weeks Before Christmas
by Bunga Din

It's three weeks before Christmas
and I'm mighty bunged up.
No booze I've been drinking
to help make some muck.

A fart here or there
but never a dump --
just a gut-wrenching fever
for this sad, sad shit slump

I've tried eating fiber
and even flax seed.
But nothings come out.
(Except a steady pee stream.)

But wait -- what's that rumble
Coming from my derriere?
Is it finally ready --
or is this just another lame scare?

I sit on the throne,
contemplating my fate.
Small pebbles are dropping,
their shape quite oblate.

But time passes on
without any more action.
So I'll go to the doctor,
get my ass up in traction.

He takes a good look up
my puckered ringolo
and then screams at the nurses,
OH MY GOD, HES GONNA BLOW!

His face white with fear,
his eyes clenched real tight.
My ass cheeks give out --
they've lost this fight.

It explodes from my ass.
It hits his head square.
It streaks down his chin.
It resembles beard hair.

I look at the doctor,
his face all agog.
I say Merry Christmas!
That's my Yuletide log!

Mistaken Identity
by The Dumpster

I was so ashamed I could die,
at the home of my boss last July,
when his dog named Smedley
let a silent-but-deadly,
and everyone thought it was I!

Untitled
by The Dumpster

By the sewer I lived,
By the sewer I died.
Tell me--was it murder?
Or was it sewer-cide?

Fresh Country Air
by Conny Jasper

Munching on green grass and golden hay.
They low in the heat under the Sun,
lazing about until day is done.
All the while, the bovine eat and shit,
as flies are swatted by tails that flit.
And driving down the old country road,
I felt the need to use a commode.
So next to a big old country tree,
I stopped the car and started to pee.
But when I inhaled a breath of air,
of the foulest smell I was aware,
and flies buzzed round me on all my sides,
all flies from the shit of brown cow hides.
"Oh, shit, that stinks," I thought in my mind.
As quick as I could move my behind,
I yelled, "Goodbye, cows, I cannot stay!"
And ran to the car and drove away.

Untitled
by lol

Last night I had a curry
it tasted very nice
But when I sat upon the loo
I wiped and then looked twice!
Instead of muddy brown poo
The type I did expect
There staring right back up at me
was orange poo instead!
I went and did some research on the food dyes there within
Now I'm gonna eat a rainbow
So let the shits begin!

-- posted 1.30.2006 by Dave

POOPREPORT OF THE WEEK -- 1.23.02006

It was a normal round of golf. No signs or symptoms of a problem down below. Upon completion, one of my buddies invited the foursome to his place for beers. This was his way of showing off his million-dollar home on the 14th fairway.

After a couple Becks, I excused myself to drain the lizard. During the process I squeezed out a quick fart, which I have accomplished without consequence a million times. But this time was different. It wasn't at all normal. It was warm. It was runny. It was stinky. It was -- you guessed it -- poop.

I did a quick spin, dropped my already damp drawers, and squatted over the toilet. So there I am, thinking, "I'm in trouble here." There's poop in my pants. Runny poop.

Then the situation just gets worse. These rich fucks have no toilet paper on the wall. No problem -- there's got to be some under the sink, right? Nope.

Now I'm really screwed. So I do what any self-respecting person would do. I flush the toilet, pull up my disgusting pants, and run the hell out of that house. I didn't even stop for my shoes at the front door.

The next day all three called and asked why I disappeared without notice. I told them I wasn't feeling well -- which was the God’s honest truth.

-- posted 1.23.2006 by Webster

POOPREPORT OF THE WEEK -- 1.9.02006

I left the house at five AM for my morning run. Fifty yards from the house it hit me hard: I had to crap bad. I made it to the front door but couldn't get my key out in time and lost a warm, soft pile of greenish/brown poop in my running shorts (the greenish tint is from the wheat grass caps I take).

I waddled inside, gently bent over to untie my running shoes, and hit the crapper. Now: how to get the shorts off without making a mess. I gingerly got my foot through the one side then it happened -- I accidentally dropped the other leg of my shorts to the sound of a soft plop as the pile hit my bathroom tile. What a mess.

Tomorrow morning I'll be more aware of vacating my colon before venturing out for my run. My dogs now think I'm one of them.

-- posted 1.9.2006 by runningshitter

POOPREPORT OF THE WEEK -- 1.3.02006

My First Career Sober Public Sh$tting (FCSPS) occurred yesterday. I ate PF Chang's leftovers for lunch -- some very spicy stuff. I went for an easy five-mile run around four PM. By the time I hit the mile, I knew I could be in trouble; and by the time I hit three miles, I had to really focus to keep it in. I could tell it wasn't one of those you can squeeze the head back in and have it give you a break for a bit. I had to squeeze continuously, as this thing definitely wasn't solid.

I was running on trails, but they were open space trails with little coverage and there were houses in the area, so I felt I had to hold it in the last two miles. And I thought I could. The last half-mile was really tough, and with about a hundred meters left I had to cross Broadway (a four-lane road with a turn lane in the middle) to get back to the YMCA and rush to the men's room. Well, something must have happened when I stopped to cross Broadway, because as I started again, there was no holding it in. I was in shorts and long sleeves, and I had to make a very quick decision to either have runny sh$t in my pants and all over me, or to drop my pants.

I decided to drop my pants, which I did while squatting in the turn lane of Broadway. Keep in mind this was around 4:30 PM and there was plenty of traffic. I got plenty of horns and plenty of yells (what the F's, etc); but fortunately no one followed me to the YMCA. Can you be arrested or ticketed for that? If so, can you get out of it if the circumstances are as they were?

In case anyone cares, it wasn't a small amount that came out -- probably around a liter. It was sort of a dark beige and with a consistency that looked kind of like a thick (but runny) squash soup.

-- posted 1.3.2006 by Greg Spocho Nash

POOPREPORT OF THE WEEK -- 12.19.02005

I was in Cub Scouts. Twelve of us ankle-biting little turds were in the big woods along with my father, the pack leader, and a couple of Boy Scouts -- some older teenagers just looking to mess with little kids' heads (and rectums). We were on a weekend outing, roughing it in the very worst way. The only luxuries we were afforded were tents, sleeping bags, cooking utensils and, of course, toilet paper. We had packed in very little foodstuffs -- we were to find or catch our sustenance. Fortunately blueberries, strawberries, and raspberries all grew wild at this particular retreat, so scurvy and rickets weren't an issue.

Fishing was pretty good. We caught dozens of sunfish and ate very well. The second night, after our evening feast, the pack leader, my father, and the Boy Scouts brought out treats we hadn't known about: the makings of s'mores! The campfire burned brightly and we gorged ourselves on graham crackers, Hershey bars and marshmallows, setting them on top of the greasy fish and berries we had consumed a couple hours earlier. As dusk turned to night, the ghost stories started.

We listened with rapt attention as one of the Boy Scouts told his tale of the lunatic in the woods with an axe, a maniac allegedly responsible for several unsolved murders and missing persons. He got to the climax of the story -- and suddenly a huge figure rushed out of the bushes, swinging an AXE!!

Every single one of us screamed like little girls and ran in every direction. Every single one of us but me. I jumped and screamed like everyone else, but then I took two steps and filled my drawers with two days' worth of berries, fish, chocolate and marshmallow.

The ghost story wasn't nearly as fear-inducing as crapping your pants in front of "the guys;" and when you're nine-years-old, the trauma and mind-bending embarrassment is almost insurmountable. I began to cry, more from shame than anything, not daring to move from the spot, my feet seemingly frozen, afraid any movement would cause a cascade of runny butt spackle down my legs.

Of course it wasn't an actual maniac; one of the other Boy Scouts had snuck out and dressed as an axe murderer as our attention lay with the storyteller. It was a complete setup, one wholeheartedly endorsed by the two adults. After much to-do, and after much laughing his ass off, my father helped me get cleaned up. I went to sleep, my face burning red, dreading the stories to be told about at school the following week about Bilgepump's Woodland Adventure.

I got over it (with many trips to some of the greatest psychologists available); but from that day forth, pooping would never be taken lightly. I have, through this particular adventure, learned that pooping is nothing to be Shameful of, but to glory in -- as I do now, on PoopReport.com, with my fellow Shameless Shitters. Thank you all for providing me safe haven.

-- posted 12.19.2005 by Bilgepump

POOPREPORT OF THE WEEK -- 12.5.02005

It can all be traced back to the French Dip sandwich I had eaten earlier in the evening. I'm sure the "dip" part contained MSG -- which my colon doesn't tolerate.

I was doing some late night shopping when I felt an untoward rumbling in my abdomen, followed by a cramp. I thought it might be wise to seek out the bathroom. I was at the back of the store and the bathroom was WAAAAAY up front. Since it was the wee hours there were, fortunately, very few people in the store. I let slip a silent-but-squishy and the rumbling and cramping became worse, followed by more silent-but-squishies. By the time I saw the "restroom" signs I was waddling like a penguin and feeling like I was going to lose the load.

I thought I made it to the throne just in time to make the smelly download; but, as it turned out, those silent-but-squishy farts were a bit more! I sat there wiping for about fifteen minutes, getting rid of as much as I could of this awful mess. Then came the bad part: pulling up the soiled underwear with the now-cold poop smears in the back. I'm just glad I'm not the sort to wear a thong, as then it would have been all over the inside of my pants, too.

I slunk sheepishly to the self-checkout and hurried for home to shower as quickly as I could. I had one more mishap before this horror subsided. All I can say is I will never again order the French Dip.

-- posted 12.5.2005 by La Petomaine

POOPREPORT OF THE WEEK -- 11.21.02005

As long ago as this was, it seems like yesterday. I was about seven years old at the time; but on that day, I became a man... of sorts.

I had been shopping for school clothes with my parents. We were out of town and visiting all the stores that we didn’t have in the town where we lived. Then it happened – we went to Hardee’s for lunch. Some of you might remember the old Hardee’s menu. All the shit you get at McDonalds.

As I eat my nuggets, I get a gut-wrenching rumble. The gods are calling to me. I am the chosen one, and I will rise to my duty. I make my way to the crapper. I assume I looked like a duck as I squeezed my ass cheeks together and tried for a sprint.

As I get to the bathroom, I rip a HUGE fart. I am amazed -- I feel 100% better and I don't even have to wipe. This is a true victory. I stand up, bend over, and let another one rip. This time bigger than the first. As I gather my shorts to pull them up, I catch a glimpse of the horrible.

I turn around. To my surprise, I have blown shit all over that stall. The toilet was covered, the wall was covered, even the toilet paper roll was covered. I fumble with the roll, peeling away the layers with the shit. My dad yells in, "Hurry up!" I wonder if it is because he has to go, too.

The dilemmas of a seven-year-old kid. Do I try to clean the poo? Do I take even longer and raise more suspicion? Do I leave it for the poor sixteen-year-old kid who most likely started yesterday?

I have no regrets. I left the shit-stained bathroom as fast as I could. My parents were eagerly waiting for me -- they had my food in hand to finish in the car. As I got into the car, my Mom happened to notice a little brown streak on my shorts. On the front. We both agreed it must be BBQ sauce.

Not only did I swear off chicken nuggets, but I still haven't eaten at Hardee’s in over twenty years.

-- posted 11.21.2005 by Swamp Ass

POOPREPORT OF THE WEEK -- 11.14.02005

As long ago as this was, it seems like yesterday. I was about seven years old at the time; but on that day, I became a man... of sorts.

I had been shopping for school clothes with my parents. We were out of town and visiting all the stores that we didn’t have in the town where we lived. Then it happened – we went to Hardee’s for lunch. Some of you might remember the old Hardee’s menu. All the shit you get at McDonalds.

As I eat my nuggets, I get a gut-wrenching rumble. The gods are calling to me. I am the chosen one, and I will rise to my duty. I make my way to the crapper. I assume I looked like a duck as I squeezed my ass cheeks together and tried for a sprint.

As I get to the bathroom, I rip a HUGE fart. I am amazed -- I feel 100% better and I don't even have to wipe. This is a true victory. I stand up, bend over, and let another one rip. This time bigger than the first. As I gather my shorts to pull them up, I catch a glimpse of the horrible.

I turn around. To my surprise, I have blown shit all over that stall. The toilet was covered, the wall was covered, even the toilet paper roll was covered. I fumble with the roll, peeling away the layers with the shit. My dad yells in, "Hurry up!" I wonder if it is because he has to go, too.

The dilemmas of a seven-year-old kid. Do I try to clean the poo? Do I take even longer and raise more suspicion? Do I leave it for the poor sixteen-year-old kid who most likely started yesterday?

I have no regrets. I left the shit-stained bathroom as fast as I could. My parents were eagerly waiting for me -- they had my food in hand to finish in the car. As I got into the car, my Mom happened to notice a little brown streak on my shorts. On the front. We both agreed it must be BBQ sauce.

Not only did I swear off chicken nuggets, but I still haven't eaten at Hardee’s in over twenty years.

-- posted 11.14.2005 by Swamp Ass

POOPREPORT OF THE WEEK -- 11.7.02005

It was back in the sixties while I was stationed at Yokota AB, Japan. I had just gone to sleep early in the morning after having worked all night when I was awakened by my roommate, Jack.

"Come and look at this," he said excitedly.

This better be good, I thought to myself -- I was very tired and more interested in sleeping than anything else. I followed Jack down to the latrine. He stopped at the second commode and pointed to what was in it.

I had never seen a turd of this magnitude. The base of it was nestled in the drain hole at the bottom of the commode. It was as big around as a quart beer bottle and it stuck up so high that if someone had sat without looking first it would have stabbed them in the ass. I had no idea that the human anus could stretch enough to accommodate the expulsion of such a huge turd. Needless to say, it was streaked with blood. I could only imagine the relief the shitter must have felt when the tapering began and his asshole could return to its normal size -- if it ever did.

One of our Japanese houseboys came in and began trying to break up the turd with a broom handle so it could be flushed. He was muttering some probably uncomplimentary things in Japanese while he went about this job. I never found out who pinched this monstrous loaf, but I am sure their anus was never normal again. The turd should have been placed in a museum for all to behold. It has been over forty years and the image is still etched in my mind.

-- posted 11.7.02005 by Charles F.S.

POOPREPORT OF THE WEEK -- 10.24.02005

I have lived in Japan for six years and have had several strange and enjoyable poop experiences here. A few years back I had my first encounter with her royal highness, the Sound Princess -- Oto-hime, in Japanese.

I don't remember where I was, but I remember the bathroom was unisex. I had to take a dump so I sat down and made myself comfy. It was a nice stall, not dirty or revolting in anyway. Aside from the subways, Japan is pretty good for its high quality toilets. I went to flush by pushing the button on the wall that I thought was the flusher.

A very loud sound of water running roared out of the box on the wall. That was not the flusher. This was the SOUND PRINCESS.

As has been mentioned elsewhere on PoopReport, the Japanese are the premier Shameful Shitters. And the Sound Princess, my friends, is the apex of shame. It is a small box fitted on the wall beside the bowl so that Shameful Japanese women can mask the sounds of their #2 deeds. And it is loud! I nearly jumped off my seat. But then I smiled. It was more funny than anything else. I went on and finished my job, wiped up and waited for the loud-ass Princess to stop her watery strains.

I walked out, actually embarrassed that I has pressed the Sound Princess button. I mean, I had no intentions of being a Shameful Shitter, yet I hit the most Shameful button possible. Believe you me, I have avoided that contraption in unisex toilets ever since.

And so I ask all Japanese women: Do you really think that someone hearing electronic water sounds has no clue as to what you are doing? Also, you don't need to spray perfume in the toilet when you're done. Shit stinks. Admit it. Be proud of it. And if there is anything worse than the smell of someone else's shit, it's the smell of someone else's shit and bad perfume mixed together.

-- posted 10.24.2005 by L. Wrong Hubbard

POOPREPORT OF THE WEEK -- 10.17.02005

My husband was working for a mortgage company about five years ago. I used to like to ride along because his job took him to some interesting places. One day we would be in the city at a big house and the next day we would be in the middle of nowhere -- which is where we were this particular day. The rule was that I had to stay outside in the van while he went into the customer's home and did all the paperwork. This usually took forty-five minutes or so.

So there I was, waiting in the van, when a sudden pain started in my belly -- you know, the oh-my-God-I'm-gonna-shit-my-pants kind. Panic then set in. I knew it would probably be another forty minutes before my husband came out of the house and I couldn't go in -- that might cost him a sale. I looked around and saw a port-a-potty across the street. I thought to myself, "I wonder if I can make it across the street?" But I soon knew the answer. My stomach started cramping like someone just stabbed me with a large knife.

I looked around, not knowing what to do. And then I jumped in the back of the van and saw my son's sleeping bag that was still there from our camping trip the weekend before. I grabbed it and dropped trou just before I exploded very smelly shit -- all over the sleeping bag.

I felt so much better -- but now what to do with it? I opened the van door and shook out the bag, but it was still very smelly. So I rolled it up as best I could and stuffed it inside the stuff sack it came in -- no easy task when you don't want to get shit all over your hands.

I finished that task just as my husband came out of the customer's home.

"Oh no," I must have said as I rolled down all the windows and jumped back in the front passenger's seat. My husband got in. "Oh man, what is that smell?"

"Yeah," I said. "I know. It's awful, isn't it? I had to sit out here and smell it the whole time you were in there. Just hurry up and drive."

When I got home I washed the sleeping bag three times.

I only told my husband and son about this three years ago after my husband told me one of his shit stories. My son wanted to die after he realized he had used that same sleeping bag when he went on a camping trip with his dad.

-- posted 10.17.2005 by Vicky Bryan

POOPREPORT OF THE WEEK -- 10.11.02005

Being a plumber, I decided to replace all the fixture shutoff valves in my house. Being a lazy plumber, it took me a couple of years to finally change them all. The last one was to change my utility room toilet. I put it off because it entailed cutting the copper riser and sweating a new piece that stuck up far enough above the floor to get the new valve on.

About a week later my four-year-old (who had pooping issues, like only crapping once a week) burned a mule. My wife wiped him (two squares, no stain) and flushed. The water quickly rose in the bowl. She screamed for me. I went running and shut off the water -- something I could do because I had just installed a new valve! I couldn't believe my work had paid off so quickly!

I also couldn't believe the size of the turd in the bowl. I called my brother, who lives a couple of blocks away, to witness it. It made us reminisce about a semi-legendary childhood dook dropped by one neighbor at another neighbor's house. It was so big that our friend's mom had to bust it up. Just like I had to bust up my kid's bowl blocker. I ended up having to instruct my wife and son that Daddy had to be present for any future flushes.

We got the kid to eat more vegetables, so those days are over; but he actually used to cry because his little sphincter was trying to extrude man-sized logs.

-- posted 10.11.02005 by Mudwhistle

POOPREPORT OF THE WEEK -- 10.3.02005

As a first year apprentice, my journeyman partner told me the best turd story I have heard in the trade. His boss sent him on a service call to The Hill, some public housing in Joliet, Illinois. The complaint was that the toilet was backed up. He goes in and notices a hole knocked in the living room wall so the next-door neighbors wouldn't have to go through the hall if they wanted to visit. Feeling a bit apprehensive, he enters the apartment. His eyes starting to sting a little bit, he walks into the bathroom. The bathtub is full of charcoal while ribs are cooking over them!

The toilet, he told me, was like a volcano. A conical mound of poo was rising out of the bowl like Krakatoa out of the Java Sea. He said the residents finally called a plumber when the pile was so high they couldn't squat over it without smearing it on their cheeks. He told the resident that he had to get a special tool off his truck; he went out and burned rubber back to the shop. He was so mad at his boss he quit on the spot. His boss was laughing so hard he almost peed himself. The boss then asked how the ribs were.

-- posted 10.3.2005 by Mudwhistle

POOPREPORT OF THE WEEK -- 9.19.02005

My girlfriend is a teacher at a residential care facility. One morning she felt the familiar knocking on Heaven’s door and decided it was time to open up. She headed to the upstairs bathroom, only to find it occupied. So she headed down to the bathroom on the first floor and opened the door. And that's when she encountered the turd that changed her life.

It was beautifully displayed in the bowl, missing only a nice velvet box to complete the gift. The way she explained it to me is that it looked like a cornucopia. It was about seven inches in diameter at the top and tapered down to a nice two-inch diameter tail. She does not know how long she stared at it, but she does know it had her in some type of poop trance. When she finally came around, her first thought was a wild animal came into the school to drop off this mighty turd.

She ran out of the bathroom to get reinforcements. One of her closest friends was teaching in the next room. My girlfriend walked in her friend's room and said, "You are going to think I am crazy, but I think a bear or something came in and used our bathroom."

Her friend stared back at her with the same look you or I would have given her -- like what the hell are you talking about. My girlfriend just answered with, "You got to see this."

The friend took one look and started laughing. She explained that one of the students leaves impressive logs like this at least once a week. She continued to explain that he is on a lot of meds, and they all cause constipation, and he loves to use the women's bathroom to drop his cornupoopias.

Since her friend did the explaining, my girlfriend got to do the disposing. But, as you can guess, no way this twelve-inch turd was going down in its natural state. So out came the plunger for some chopping. My girlfriend said she had to cut it in four chunks and also into thirds the long way.

And since her first exposure to the cornupoopia, the student has left her more gifts in the women's bathroom.

-- posted 9.19.2005 by Chief Poopsaton

POOPREPORT OF THE WEEK -- 9.12.02005

When I was about sixteen and still living with my parents, I accidentally flushed a toilet freshener down the loo. I figured there wasn't much I could do about it, so I just left it and then forgot about it.

Not long after this, the toilet became blocked. No surprises there, then. Various family members had pooped into the toilet and it was brim-full of poop, pee, and toilet paper, and it had been surrounded by a few hundred visiting flies before my lazy father decided to address the problem. Unfortunately at this point I had made the mistake of confessing that I was responsible for the blockage.

My dad actually had to remove the toilet from the wall to get at the air freshener. As you can imagine, this resulted in gungy liquidised shit being all over our bathroom floor. Of course, as the guilty party, I was assigned the job of cleaning it up. With great reluctance I adorned myself in a boiler suit, industrial gloves, and a white mask that went over the mouth and nose. I also inserted two pieces of toilet paper into my nostrils for added protection against the smell, and armed myself with bleach and a bucket of soapy water.

I think it took at least one hour to clean up the family's poo, and I retched continually as I got rid of the foul, liquid shit, even though I couldn't smell it. The look of it was enough. It included various shades of brown and had bits of sweet corn and tomato skin here and there for a garnish.

I emerged from the bathroom over an hour later, shaken, sobbing, and disturbed. I threw the gloves, boiler suit, and mask into the trash as rapidly as I could. I have never forgotten this experience and feel that my father forcing me to go through this ordeal was almost child abuse, even though it was, indeed, my fault. What if I had gotten a disease like cholera or typhoid or something?

-- posted 9.12.02005 by The Chocolate Kiss

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