For about the last six years, Guy Uhreea has been studying to obtain a higher-rated marine transport ticket. His latest course is the hardest yet. It's all about ship stability and the formulas you need to know for various situations regarding loading and unloading ships and tons of other crap that I don't even know or care to know about. Naturally, these formulas involve a lot of intricate and complicated algebraic questions.

In school, Guy Uhreea excelled in language arts and sports.

I, obviously, did not. I was way at the other end of the spectrum, kicking ass in Honors math, biology and chemistry. I say that now with pride even though it was almost fifteen years ago. Once in a while, Guy Uhreea turns to me for help with the algebra questions. And as I've been helping him over the last few weeks, I've noticed that ship stability formulas have definite fecal references.

Some are very obvious, some are only obvious to the trained PoopReporter eye, and some need a little embellishment or substitution. Have a look at these and tell me that the supreme mathematician who developed these didn't have poop on the mind!

First, some of the abbreviations:

I or i = Second moment (movement) of an area

L = The distance of the center of flotation (floater) from aft (ass)

WL = Original Waterline

W1L1 = New Waterline

f = stress

Q = shearing stress

There are more, but I'd rather get on to the formulas.

Homogenous Log:
Draft/Depth = Relative Density of Log/Relative Density of Water

BM = I/V (my favorite)

For Box(car) Shapes:
BM = B2/12d

For Triangular Prisms (like in that porta-potty story):
BC = B2/bd

Stress = Load/Area

Strain = Change in Length/Original Length

Sinkage Due to Bilging a Compartment With Cargo:
Dynamical Stability = W x Area Under the CURVE

Effect of Trim on Tank Soundings:
Head When Full/Length of Tank = Trim/Length of Ship

Inclining Experiment:
GM/GG1 = Length of Plumb(er)line/Deflection (defecation)

And there are probably many more, like in other formulas that contain the words "aft," "tank," "waterline," "density," and "log;" my heightened level of scat awareness automatically sees these words as fecal references.

Have any of our other PoopReporter students or teachers encountered fecal references in their studies or teachings?

-- posted 6.13.02005 by Di Uhreea

POOPREPORT OF THE WEEK -- 5.31.02005

I was working nights at a local college when I felt the urge to purge. I went to the restroom and found it to be in a shameful state -- someone had pooped not only all over the seat, but also had splattered on the walls of the stall and all over the toilet itself.

Now, in the official annals of the Poop Olympics, this maneuver is known as the Free Standing Butt Blast. This competitor, however, must have been quite the novice; points off for:

1. Bad targeting. A FSBB should never hit the seat.
2. Splatter. With that much crapnel on the walls, the competitor surely must have soiled parts of his clothing and legs as well.
3. Flushing. One never EVER flushes the results of an Olympic Poop event without letting official Poop Olympic judges witness.

So overall I -- not being an official judge myself, mind you -- I give it maybe a 1.0 or 2.0, maybe a 2.3, for this attempt. A Free Standing Butt Blast is a difficult move to pull off; novices should be warned not to attempt these more complicated movements until they have mastered the basics.

-- posted 5.31.02005 by Arthur Itus

BONUS POOP OF THE WEEK -- 5.31.02005

A Bubblin' Crude

Is it a fart, or is it a poo?
Don't look to me for an answer,
I asked you.
Don't be afraid, take a peek below,
Stick your head down there,
Real nice and slow,
Caution is the key,
to avoid getting hit,
and finding yourself unhappy,
with a face full of shit.

-- posted 5.31.02005 by Steve T.

POOPREPORT OF THE WEEK -- 5.23.02005

Knowing how keen Americans are to learn about foreign places and add to their cultural diversity, I thought I'd send in my own special tip for those countries which have toilets with inspection shelves.

Most people from my group of (British) islands find these particularly offensive, as they force you to take a good look at your brown friend before you see him off to the coast. But sometimes the shelf may give you timely warning that all is not well in the bottom and bowel departments. It would be easy to detect a ring of blood around the feces, for example, should that ghastly event ever befall you; and it allows accurate color-coding, should you be in possession of the relevant chart.

Most important, though, the shelf has also acted as my daily augur for the last eighteen years. It's much more fun than reading tea leaves or coffee dregs. I try to work out what the funny shapes may mean as the poo coils on itself or drops in disparate chunks. Tip: blowing your nose while about to deliver provides most satisfying results.

My point, however, in this long-winded blow off is how to get the inspection shelf clean. A brush is always handy, but may prove a bit sticky, should you fail to time it with the proper flow of water (in Germany, we have adjustable delivery quantities and a stop button to save water). A moment's delay in setting to work could in the worst case necessitate the purchase of a new brush.

In foreign climes (even more foreign than this one -- Hungary, for example), you may find your deposits are particularly sticky due to the strange food; and a bog brush may not always be available. I find that four or five squares of toilet paper placed in a V-shape on the shelf before your performance will provide a sort of a raft that should, under normal loads, float and plop off down the U-bend, alleviating the need for a brush. Obviously, in this case, in order to prevent any longer logs from overlapping and thus besmirching the bowl, don't blow your nose. Once safely departed, the water flow can be stopped, usually in a fraction of the time it takes to wash an unsupported dump from the porcelain.

I hope this is helpful to your traveling readers.

And now for a joke: What's brown and sticky?
Answer: a stick.

-- posted 5.23.02005 by Johannes in Hamburg, Germany

POOPREPORT OF THE WEEK -- 5.16.02005

My mom is a nurse and just told me this story about a new procedure involving the transfer of stool. At first she thought it was a joke, but it was later confirmed by the doctor:

Clostridium difficile (C. diff.) is a bacterial infection that causes chronic diarrhea. A patient a local hospital had come down with the disease and one of the attending nurses explained to my mom that a stool-transfer was an option to cure the patient. My mom laughed a little and told the new nurse that this was a joke. Later, she checked in with the doctor, inquiring about the procedure and asked if this was truly in jest. The doctor assured her that this is not a joke and is a real option for suffering patients.

Basically, a relative can donate a sample of their stool to be inserted anally to the patient, far enough to have it held there for awhile. In the process, "good" bacteria can be replaced into the intestines, at which point regularity should begin again.

I thought this was an interesting little story about poop-transfers. Didn't know if you'd use it or not on the site, but now you know it's out there.

-- posted 5.16.02005 by Stefanie, PA

Editor's note: does anyone have any more info on this? It sounds fascinating!

BONUS POOPREPORT OF THE WEEK -- 5.16.02005

I was reading a book about Mozart when I found a quote from one of his letters that you'd probably appreciate:

"Forgive my wretched writing, but the pen is already worn to shreds and I've been shitting, so 'tis said, nigh twenty-two years through the same old hole, which is not yet frayed one whit, though I've used it daily to shit, and each time the muck with my teeth I've bit. "

-- posted 5.16.02005 by Dave's cousin Matt

POOPREPORT OF THE WEEK -- 5.9.02005

Do you poop in layers or in sets?

I was backpacking with my son. We ate a freeze-dried dinner -- like lasagna or stir-fry or something -- followed up by a freeze-dried blueberry cobbler (blueberries and poop!) for dessert. The next morning my poop seemed to replicate exactly and in the same order the previous night's dinner: a reddish-colored cowpie topped by a compact fist of blue curds as neat as whipped cream on a sundae. It was almost like two separate poops. In fact, it WAS two separate poops -- I started to get up from my crouch but realized there was another course coming and was efficient enough to combine both in the same session.

I don't usually exchange poop notes with my son, but the poop was so curious I had to remark that I had seen strange wonders -- not in the sky, but on the ground, in the form of color-coded poopsets. My son noted he had lately seen similar such wonders.

Were we so hungry that our digestive systems sucked everything in without getting it the least bit mixed up? I usually don't mind if my peas touch my potatoes on my plates, let alone worry what happens in the afterlife of vegetables. But I would think you'd have to have multiple stomachs, like a cow, to pull off such a feat.

-- posted 5.9.02005 by LikeGravel

POOPREPORT OF THE WEEK -- 5.2.02005

Sometimes, as a vegetarian, I eat a little too much fibrous food. It had really never been a problem for me until one day when I hadn't shit for like three days and I really had to go. It wasn't the gee-I-can't-shit-cause-there's-no-shit-there type. It was the type where it's there but it's too damn much to move. I was literally full of shit and I didn't know what to do. I was becoming panic-stricken.

I went to the bathroom, on that fateful day, determined to shit. I would wait for no incompliant poo. I was going to shit if it killed me.

Well it didn't kill me, but I did break a rib. I pushed really hard and I felt something in my rib cage pop. It made a horrible sound, like when you separate the leg and thigh quarters of chicken. It hurt so bad I fell off of the toilet and could not continue the session.

When I called my mom I told her not to laugh, and then proceeded to tell her of my broken rib; she gasped. Then I told her how I had broken it while trying to shit. She laughed so hard she had to hang up and call me back.

My doctor told me to stop eating Raisin Bran.

-- posted 5.2.02005 by Catherine

POOPREPORT OF THE WEEK -- 4.25.02005

Last Wednesday, I woke up late for work due to heavy drinking the night before. I had to haul ass to get to work on time, so I got dressed without showering. As I put on some clean athletic shorts (underwear of choice when laundry is mainly dirty), I noticed a questionable smell arising from my nether regions. I figured I could do with a shower, but there wasn't time!

When I arrived at work, I tried to inconspicuously take a seat in the back. My hangover was in full swing and I wanted to curl up into a ball and die. About fifteen minutes into the meeting, my bowels began to rumble, and I thought it best to hit the bathroom immediately, rather than risk any embarrassment. As I got up out of my chair, I felt something wet. In my pants.

I didn't know what to make of that, so my hungover brain chose to ignore it. I arrived in the stall and dropped my pants. There, in my shorts, was a small circle of mushy shit. How the %$# did that get there? More importantly, when did that get there? During the night? Five minutes go? I will never know.

What was the most disturbing to me was that I hadn't noticed until I hit the bathroom.

Fortunately, my pants were in the clear. I removed my shorts, put my jeans back on, and deposited the shorts in the trash on my way out. I hope no one noticed how shitty I smelled!

-- posted 4.25.02005 by Fredo

POOPREPORT OF THE WEEK -- 4.18.02005

When I was in Lisbon recently, my hotel room had the most beautiful bathroom I've ever had the pleasure of using for an entire week. It had high ceilings, beautiful tiled floors and walls, and an enormous window overlooking a monestary where Vasco de Gama used to pray before long voyages. It also had a bidet. As you're a curator of the largest poop-related site I know, I thought I'd send you some pictures.

-- posted 4.18.02005 by Jeff

POOPREPORT OF THE WEEK -- 4.11.02005

I'm all for a good story, especially a good poop story. But this one was almost too much even for me.

It was at the office, on the eighteenth floor, the one with the training rooms that customers often visit. One floor up from my abode. I don't even remember what class I was participating in. But I was walking down the hallway toward the stairwell to go down to my floor. Along the way was the ladies' room. I headed down the hallway and got a whiff of badness. Had someone done the Walk And Fart just in front of me?

Ohhh... look... there, in front of the ladies room... a small pile.

First thought: "Who had a puppy in here???" Second thought: "Oh, no... that is human badness."

Keep going... walk through security door to non-customer area to head down to my floor. And see on the floor in red writing on white sheets of paper: "Please" -- plop -- "watch" -- plop -- "your" -- plop -- "step." -- Plop.

God, this cannot be. Thinking that it must be hugely overweight girl, M. God, this cannot be.

Head straight back to my cube. Say not a single word to even a single person. Even though I'm all about the story... this one was just too much. Could not share. Had to block.

About twenty-four hours later, the story began to make its way out. "Did you hear about...?" Did I hear?? I SAW. I witnessed the aftermath!!!

Story has it that inside the ladies room was truly horrendous. And that the poor cleaning woman who had to deal with it became physically ill. Who can blame her?

And story had it that it WAS hugely overweight girl, M. And that she went BACK to a meeting afterward!!! Poopy-crusted and all! I would have driven off into nowhere claiming that ebola had overtaken me.

My friend, B.N., was the one who appropriately christened the day as Brown Tuesday. The phrase still rings through the halls six years later...

-- posted 4.11.02005 by Rpinatl

POOPREPORT OF THE WEEK -- 4.4.02005

A poor college student gets no respect. He drives a crappy car, wears crappy clothes, and craps on the highway.

The last final exam was over. Accounting. The only goal was to pass and I think I had done that. My 1986 Ford Crown Victoria (a former cop car purchased in Milwaukee from a police auction) had sixteen-inch tires and the intercept package. The car would go 140 miles an hour, but it only achieved thirteen miles per gallon. It was painted (literally with a brush) an awful shade of gold.

So why was I walking along the interstate in the middle of Nebraska? The Ford-inburg finally died a violent death just as yours truly was driving toward Milwaukee and a summer job at a fish cannery. The entirety of everything I owned was crammed into the car.

I abandoned the smoking hunk of burning love and first jogged and later walked toward the next exit. A sign said it was four miles. I was wearing flip-flops.

For breakfast I had eaten a Nebraska country pigfest somewhere in the middle of the state. My shirt still smelled of cigars, disinfectant, vomit, bacon, and English leather aftershave. I started to sweat. I wanted to have a poo.

Options, however, were highly limited. After leaving the car, Country Squire Station Wagons full of screaming Amway dealers, trucks, and wary middle Americans whistled by the dirty college student. They didn't want to mess with me. They had already seen the loser cruiser full of disco clothes and the bumper sticker saying that "We don't brake for lawyers." It was probably on fire by now, melting a deep crater, sending a toxic plume of gas towards area residents. Let the dirty hobo walk, Eleanor. No point in getting knifed to death before we get to Wally World.

There isn't anywhere to drop my pants and I wonder if I can make it to the gas station. A metal fence keeps the otters and beavers from becoming interstate glop. Can't get across there, so will have to hunker down right in front of the six o clock news.

I won't make it to the gas stations.

As soon as the beeping and waving dies down, I feel better. The family from Iowa will not forget my little show anytime in the next few years.

Over an hour after this, I am finally going up the exit. A cop pulls along, saying, "Did you walk from the car? I could have given a ride!"

-- posted 4.4.02005 by Squelch Dawson

POOPREPORT OF THE WEEK -- 3.28.02005

I knew when I took that first bite that something wasn't right.

It was the birthday of a woman at work and someone brought in a homemade cake. I normally refrain from potluck occasions and rarely eat home-cooked food from strangers. I know eating at a restaurant is probably more hazardous, but sometimes kids help with the cooking and that can be an unsanitary practice.

I was pressured into eating a piece of this cake. I am not a cake lover to begin with, but I didn't want to hurt feelings, so I accepted. It was a chocolate cake with white frosting and I detected a strange spearmint- or peppermint-type aftertaste. I guessed I was safe because I heard that the poison arsenic taste like almonds.

Upon finishing this cake, I felt a little nauseous. The frosting was rather sweet, so I just figured that was the problem. I drank a few pints of water to try and settle my stomach, but as the next few hours passed, I became quite bloated and then gassy. I was somewhat lightheaded and tired. Was it a flu bug, or was I poisoned by my coworkers?

After work, I headed home to sit on the toilet. I farted a lot, but that was about it. I still felt some pain, nausea, and pressure. I chewed some antacid tablets and decided to lie down. Within twenty minutes I felt a rumble and ran to the bathroom. I then proceeded to spray the toilet bowl with a chocolate-colored liquid that stunk to high Heaven. My stomach now hurt worse. I laid back down and put my heating pad on my aching gut. Over the next four hours, I blasted three or four more loads of liquid cake; and then I suddenly felt better.

I have decided to firmly turn down home-cooked free food in the future. It's not worth the consequences.

-- posted 3.28.02005 by Fred

POOPREPORT OF THE WEEK -- 3.21.02005

My name is N8. I'm Clustersnarf's brother. I have been reading PoopReport for some time, hiding in the shadows, waiting for a story that might be worthy of its readers.

I work the night shift at a twenty-four hour copy shop. We get some crazy people in here from time to time, but they usually don't really bother anybody. But lately there have been a barrage of mystery shits showing up lately, the last of which was tonight  March 5th -- which just so happens to be both Clustersnarf's and my dad's birthday.

It was about three AM, and I needed to relieve myself with my nightly micturation. As I rounded the envelope rack making my way to the boys' room, I kicked something. Upon looking down I realized it wasn't just something... it was SHIT. Someone -- male or female, I have no idea -- apparently shat in their hand, balled it up like a snowball, and tossed it out onto the floor.

The only person/people I saw going that direction tonight was this nice-looking couple asking where the bathroom was -- they came straight in from outside, and went straight to the bathroom. I didn't think anything of it until I made my discovery hours later.

The loaf itself was roughly the size of an eight-ounce can of soda. If some poor bastard had to pass that, then I feel for 'em. But in my opinion, this poop was hand-formed, and placed in this conspicuous spot. I have witnessed some sick shit in my day, but this tops it.

-- posted 3.21.02005 by N8, aka Young Clustersnarf

BONUES POOPREPORT OF THE WEEK -- 3.21.02005

On our way back from France, on a British Airways flight from London to Toronto, we got delayed for four damn hours! At first they wouldn't tell us anything. They started passing around glasses of bottled water and still said nothing of great import. Finally some purposefully vague information made its way to us passengers. Someone, presumably the captain, announced that there was a questionable note written in Arabic taped to the toilet, and they would be calling in experts to decipher it. Following this, some official people made their way through the narrow aisles in the direction of the secret toilet message.

Now how long does it take to translate into English the following: "Please do not flush. Toilet is not working properly." Or something like that. This informative and thoughtful note was left by the cleaning crew who had made our high altitude plane respectable! Either it took four hours for the expert interpreters to translate this courtesy, or they were so paranoid that they had to dismantle the toilet to see if any nasty Arabs had planted a bomb! I know if they were going to do something, they wouldn't leave a note signaling intent, would they?

People were given the option to disembark or deplane. And then, as people decided at the last minute to get off, we had to wait while they were given their luggage! And then I got punished even further by the Brad Pitt movie they showed us while we were waiting!

-- posted 3.21.02005 by Teri

POOPREPORT OF THE WEEK -- 3.7.02005

After a work luncheon one afternoon, I realized nature was suddenly calling in a big way. I was in my Tahoe and figured that the nearest place to take care of the situation was at the Home Depot across the street.

Well, after hitting every light out of one lot and into the other, I was about to bust. I parked at the end of the store where I knew the restrooms were located and began the penguin-walk to the door. Halfway there, I realized that I was probably not going to make it. I headed back to my Tahoe.

I danced around outside the vehicle, acting like I was on the cell phone, trying not to soil myself. Searching through the vehicle, I found a cedar cigar box that I used to carry pens and miscellaneous office stuff. I put down the rear seats and proceeded to fill up the box. Tinted windows kept me from view.

Fortunately I had some toilet paper in my travel kit with which to clean up. I closed the box and headed to another Home Depot, where I was to meet a co-worker. Leaving the vehicle, I placed the cedar box on the ground and gave it a kick, sending it beneath the Tahoe. As I walked away I glanced back and noticed that it was well under the truck, between the front tires. Perfect, I thought.

Upon my return to the vehicle after a couple hours I was stunned to see the box GONE! Someone had picked it up! To this day, I wonder what happened. It must have been a shocker for sure when whoever it was opened that box. Surprise!!!

--- posted 3.7.02005 by Gordon

POOPREPORT OF THE WEEK -- 2.28.02005

Here I go again with another second-hand poop report about my husband, the Metatherapist. He's the guy who's too shy to report his own poop.

Meta is a New York City fashion photographer. Last weekend he had a photo shoot in Los Angeles that involved two transcontinental red-eye flights in one forty-eight-hour period. That gave him just enough time to visit his favorite restaurant in LA, Roscoe's House of Chicken & Waffles. No kidding. It's a real place. And yes, a chicken dinner with a side of waffles is their specialty.

At the airport, about to board his flight home, Meta had a poop premonition. At sixty-four, and being a standing, sorta-bent-over wiper, pooping in an airplane toilet is very uncomfortable for him. So he decided to go into the last real restroom by the gate and proactively push out the remnants of Roscoe's.

In the stall, he grabbed an ass gasket from the dispenser to line the seat. Once it was in place, he began to drop trou. The electric eye auto-flusher activated a furious flush that sucked the gasket down the drain. So he positioned ass gasket two. As Meta backed his rump toward the bowl, the thing flushed mightily and again sucked down the gasket. Picture this three happening more times. The poor guy couldn't get a gasket down and get his hiney on the seat! And now he had to poop for real.

The procedure that finally succeeded for him involved holding the gasket down on the seat with both hands behind him and slowly maneuvering butt to bowl so as to foil the flusher.

Plops at last. But as Meta reached for the toilet paper, the flusher went off and sprayed his cheeks with icy cold toilet water laced with chicken & waffle fragments. "Shit!" he cried (of course) as he catapulted off the bowl. It flushed again, spraying his shirttail and slacks.

As he angrily turned to get toilet and glare into the electric eye, it flushed again, and some of the spray hit him in the face.

He spent lots of time, plus lots of soap, hot water, and paper towels repairing the damage. He almost missed his flight. He arrived safely at home to tell me this tale. He got no sympathy -- just laughs!

-- posted 2.28.02005 by Crapola

Editor's note: Serendipitously, Crapola sent me this story two days before this movie went online. Truly there is a collective soul.

POOPREPORT OF THE WEEK -- 2.21.02005

One day when I was about fifteen, I was walking through the woods with my friends. One of my friends' beagle puppy also went along with us. As often happens, I suddenly had to take a dump.

When you're outdoors, there are plenty of places to unload, but if you're not an Arab or from another country without toilet paper, there's no way you want to take a dump without being able to wipe. So I thought I would just hold it in. Then I got the bubbly feeling and a little voice from below that said, "You will be taking a crap very very soon."

I knew that within a minute I would be taking a dump, whether I had toilet paper or not, and whether my pants were up or down. Without even thinking, I ran into the woods and leaned my back up against one of the tall pine trees, like I was sitting on a chair -- but there was no chair, just my back against the tree.

As soon as I got in this position, I blew a ton of stool. Some of it was diarrhea and some was almost normal. I commenced to building a fifteen pound humanpie.

Before I got done, my friend's puppy came running up to me and started lapping it up faster than I was making it. He was eating it as if he had gone wild. I thought for sure he would die from it and started yelling and swinging at him. But he turned his head sideways so I couldn't hit him and didn't even slow down. He just kept lapping it up like he hadn't eaten in a month.

I was really upset, because I thought he would die. There was more stool than there was puppy, and he sucked it all down. I was afraid to tell my friend and I didn't know what to do. I didn't want his family hating me. So I took the low road and kept it to myself and thought I would just act surprised at the bad news.

But the puppy didn't die. What a relief.

-- posted 2.22.02005 by Sir Jimmy

POOPREPORT OF THE WEEK -- 2.14.02005

This message was sent to me a couple years back by a friend of mine. I think it belongs on your website as a poop story.

"I just took a poop that could best be described as fecal l'orange. It began as an exercise in firmness, but the completion trailed off, much like an altostratus cloud into the setting sun, leaving phlegmy scatological bits to lazily intermingle with my viscous, Folgers-thickened, bile-colored urine.

"I took a crap a few months ago that resembled babka bread. Actually, there were several. I thrusted, and what I thought was the head protruded. But what was this fluctuation? Every time I thought it would drop, another side of the sticky orb would cling to my heaving rectum like a many-tentacled mollusk. I mopped my ever-furrowing, glistening brow. Would it ever drop? Or would it continue to wax and wane? As my rectal ring and the surrounding fructuous satchel grew more florid, I began to worry: had I created a vacuum?

"After a furlong of knee-splayed anal galloping, I was certain my intestines would dispense from my poopchute like eight cans of crazy string, my stomach sinking down into my pelvic basin, sloshing about, and then coming to rest like a beached sperm whale. Ahh! But yes, my foe was finally retreating! A suctiony schlurppp rung out as the ass fritter drowsily lurched out like a juicy scoop of begrudged muskmelon and down into the murky depths. I had obviously been consuming far too many lutein-rich foodstuffs."

-- written by Joseph S. and posted 2.14.02005 by Antonio D.

POOPREPORT OF THE WEEK -- 2.7.02005

A friend of mine was living a bohemian lifestyle in the mountains of Colorado. All he wore were an old pair of maroon jean shorts and nothing else. After crapping in nature for a period of time he became quite adept at finding a place to dump and wiping with leaves.

One day while walking, he found that he had to have a squat. The ground was too hard to bury his poop, so he decided to hang his ass over the side of a steep hill that led down into a small valley. He pulled his shorts down, hung his ass over the side, and let loose.

Unknowingly and accidentally, his ass was not sufficiently projected, and he ended up laying a turd inside his pulled-down maroon shorts. He was so startled and upset by this that he lost his balance and tumbled down the hill with his shorts around his thighs and full of dump.

After about fifty yards of tumbling and cussing, he climbed back up the hill, bruised, scraped, and covered in shit. He never gave up the shorts, though; and I'm not sure if he bathed after that, either.

-- posted 2.7.02005 by Father Bohab

POOPREPORT OF THE WEEK -- 1.31.02005

While visiting in-laws in Brazil, my wife and I decided to spend a day in a wonderfully historic village. As we walked along the brick-paved streets, we ate some type of large berries purchased from a local street vendor. The berries were tart, but very refreshing as a mid-morning snack. At noon, we stopped to eat fried, stuffed pastries. After getting our fill of food and sightseeing, we headed back home.

Back in my wife's city, we decided to stop for a glass of sugarcane water at a quaint patio establishment. Having never tried this type of beverage, I had no idea of its laxative powers (especially on gringo bowels!). Needless to say, shortly after imbibing the sweet, fruity water, I felt diarrhea bubbling in my innards. I headed toward the shop's public restroom. There was only one stall, but the bathroom was sparkling clean. I opened the stall door to discover that the toilet bowl had no seat! It seemed that the owner had only intended it for pissing.

The thought of sitting on the porcelain rim was disgusting. Still, I was desperate, and this kind of loose stool could ooze through even the tightest sphincter. So I stood, squatting over the bowl with my butt a couple of inches from the rim. I was forced to lean forward a bit to relax my bowels, with my elbows resting on my knees.

The muddy poop shot out in three explosive bursts. Not wanting to prolong the experience, I wiped and pulled up my pants. When I turned to flush, I realized that I had missed the bowl completely! The top of the toilet and the wall behind it were spackled with a gooey mix of pastry and partly-digested berries.

Fortunately, we left the place quickly thereafter. I later told my wife, who thought it was so funny she told all of her family and friends. Brazilians aren't a skittish about poop as Americans.

-- posted 1.31.02005 by Bald75

POOPREPORT OF THE WEEK -- 1.24.02005

I'm surprised that, as far as I can find, no one has yet provided a definitive explanation to the repeatedly confirmed blue/purple drinks = green/gray excrement phenomenon. I have decided to do so myself.

Basically speaking, most blue food dyes are the salts (sodium) of green dye counterparts. Upon exposure to a concentrated strong acid (typically sulfuric acid in the literature, in this case stomach acid), the dye loses a cation (or two, for sodium) and turns anything from a greenish-blue to a yellowish-green while simultaneously being diluted and dispersed throughout the rest of your digestive contents.

Specifically, in the case of Mountain Dew Pitch Black, the Blue #1* dye listed at the bottom of the can/bottle is turning into a compound that is more like FD&C Green #1.**

Below is an image of the substructure that FD&C Blue #1, D&C Blue #4, Aniline Blue, FD&C Green #1, FD&C Green #2, FD&C Green #3, and several other food additives have in common.

Editor's note: well, there you have it. Blue food makes green poop. Thus sayeth science.

-- posted 1.24.02005 by W. L. M.

* Disodium bis [4-(N-ethyl-N-3-sulfonatophenylmethyl)aminophenyl]-2 sulfonatophenylmethylium
** Sodium bis [4-(N-ethyl-N-3-sulfonatophenylmethyl)aminophenyl]-phenylmethylium

BONUS POOPREPORT OF THE WEEK -- 1.24.02005

Being a kid was the greatest experience of my life. Some of the funniest and most classic things happened in the summers of my early years. This statement leads me to the swim lessons I took when I was eight or nine years old, reluctantly riding my bike to the pool and meeting up with all the other latchkey kids for some morning time-kill required by our single mothers.

One morning while we were grouping in the shallow end for some demonstration by our hot swim instructor, a whisper scurried around the group. It seems there was a brown "turd"-like object on the bottom of the pool, right before the moderately deep zone. Everyone was giggling and jokingly pondering which loser in our class has done it.

I am known to be a bit of a class clown. On this particular morning, I wanted to make everybody freak out. I said, "Watch this." I swam over and sank down to the brown piece, hovering a moment for drama's sake. When I came up and out of the water I held the brown "turd" between my teeth.

Derek Handle puked, and several more kids got sick and actually later called and complained directly to my mom. Our instructor laughed, being the high school girl that she was, and said, "Oh, Mark, that is so gross."

Well, I saw Derek last summer, and he still doesn't believe that I planned the whole thing with a Baby Ruth bar. In fact, everyone thinks I just say that to make up for being such a freak. But it is true -- it was a Baby Ruth bar planted by yours truly, Mark Eastridge.

-- posted 1.24.02005 by Mark Eastridge

P.S. I tried the same trick later in Italy, but my fellow soldiers just looked at me like I was really dumb.

POOPREPORT OF THE WEEK -- 1.17.02005

I was at college. Because I'm a clean freak, I always used the coed bathroom, adjacent to the regular community bathroom. The coed bathroom was much more spacious, had one shower, and was almost never used. It was designed so after spending the night, a girl wouldn't have to go begging to find another girl to let them use the women's bathroom, which was kept locked.

One day I felt like I had a really big load to drop, and I wanted to take my time and make sure I wasn't rushed. So I got in, got to work, and had a field day giving birth to a nice ten-inch log. It was a beauty -- smooth and full of fiber. I knew it was good because of the dense and heavy smell. Needless to say, I felt near orgasmic as I finished wiping and washed up.

I exited the bathroom, satisfied that not only did I feel great, I also dropped one of the biggest, healthiest, and smelliest bombs of my life. As I left the coed bathroom, a girl emerged from a guy's room and sauntered in there, not knowing the business I had just finished. She didn't see me, luckily. One of my most fond memories was this prissy girl heading into the coed bathroom and letting out an "Ewwwwwwwwww! Oh Gross!!" before having to leave because of the stench I generated.

I laughed my ass off and felt a sense of pride in showing her who drops the biggest loads.

-- posted 1.17.02005 by Yazad

POOPREPORT OF THE WEEK -- 1.10.02005

When I was pregnant I had a hard time pooing, which the doctor warned me would happen while I was taking prenatal vitamins. This was devastating to me, because I was a regular pooper -- sometimes going three times a day. They used to call me Miss Poop-a-Lot. But for some reason, whenever I would go to my cousins and sisters house, I would get the urge to go.

So one day, while at their house, the urge hit me. I went to the upstairs bathroom and got myself a magazine to read, because sometimes it would take a long time to get going. After a lot of grunting I was finally able to push it out -- and it was a big one! I think it was bigger than my baby was when he was born! I know it hurt more, even though my baby was born by emergency c-section.

So this big turd, along with some smaller ones, lay there in the toilet. I looked at it with pride -- it was so big it came out of the water! Then I flushed.

After some time, my cousin yelled downstairs to me that I didn't flush the toilet. I thought I had, and I said that to her. I checked anyway -- sure enough, the poop was still there, in all its glory. So I flushed again. It got stuck.

And then the water came. It wouldn't stop. I think there were about five inches of water on the floor. My cousin started screaming and jumped up on the tub while I grabbed a bunch of towels and put them on the floor.

I was able to shut off the water to stop it flowing. I thought the water would soften up the poo enough to go down, so I continued to try to unclog the toilet... but to no avail. After a while, I left. Oh well, I thought. I don't live there. They can deal with it.

Every day for four days I called to see if the toilet was unclogged. It wasn't. Luckily, they had two toilets -- but the next time, I clogged that one!

I am happy to report that since I have had the baby, I can go with more ease than before. But it's a lot in one sitting, and it keeps piling up and up until it's out of the water. I love it -- I lose five pounds every time I drop off the kids!

-- posted 1.10.02005 by Adrienne

POOPREPORT OF THE WEEK -- 1.3.02005

Today I went to a local coffee house where I could use the free wireless Internet on my iBook. There were no tables open right off, so I waited, drinking some black coffee with honey. Finally, after my second cup, a table opened. I plugged myself in and got to work. The patrons just arriving were eyeballing my table, covered in books and assorted papers. I had just begun the opening lines on the chapter I was writing when the poo came on -- the coffee made me have to go BAAAD.

But I was determined to get done the work that I'd set out to do -- I drove all across town to get here! -- and I'd be damned if I let myself waste all that time and energy because of an inopportune poopy attack. So I toughed it out. I stayed, and I coaxed my bowels into forestalling the impending deposit.

So as I was driving home, the caffeine and sugar hits me about the same time that Slayer comes on the radio. My mind is racing and my body wants me to punch something, so I stop at a local gym to dish out this sudden burst of the crazies. I arrive at the gym, and since there are others in the locker room, I change into my gym clothes before I take my dump.

I calmly sit down in the toilet and empty my bum while reading my gym log and deciding on a routine for the evening.

As I sit there writing, I can hear others enter the locker room, and I can see them changing clothes and shooting glances toward the stall I inhabited.

Then one of them says, "It stinks in here."

They others agree.

I silently said, "#### ME!," because there were no available scapegoats.

The whole time I was working out I was conscious of the looks that those gentlemen were giving me as they pointed me out to their girlfriends. It was hard to miss, as the gym has mirrors everywhere.

In their defense, however, the poop that I left was horrendous. The three-and-a-half servings of canned corn that I ate for breakfast really cleaned me out.

-- posted 1.3.02005 by Jake

page 1 | 2 | page 3 | page 4 | 5 | 6 | 7 | 8 | 9