WIPE UP AND SHIP OUT!
A memoir by D. Bruce

I admit it. I spend way too much time on the toilet bowl. There -- I've said it. Just call me the prince of the porcelain palace. But I never thought my rear would get in the way of my career. Yes, it's true -- I was fired because my ass was on fire. I was given the pink slip while letting it rip. I was canned -- on the can.

I remember the days -- clear as fresh toilet water -- when I would go straight from the cereal bowl to the toilet bowl. It was rise and shine -- only to give the toilet bowl a shiner. But soon my direct deposits started putting a dark spot on my record. My boss told me I was spending more time on the john than on the job. He told me I was never going to get ahead if I spent so much time on the head. In fact, he asked me how I had the gall to spend so much time in the stall. Basically, he told me that if I kept staying regular I would no longer be a regular.

I knew that my career was about to tank, and my face grew flush as my boss told me to stop flushing, but I asked myself, why does he give two shits if I take four shits? And so I kept returning to relieve the burning. I kept going to back to the shack. My boss warned me that as far as he was concerned I wasn't sitting pretty. He told me to stop cleaning my crack and start cleaning up my act. I asked him to stop dumping his problems on me. But still, he kept unloading on me, threatening to take me to the cleaners if I continued to stain the company's reputation.

Then came the fateful day when my pants fell and then the axe fell. My boss came into the restroom. He said, "Clean out your bowels and then clean out you desk." From inside the stall, I tried to stall for time. He said, "Wipe up and ship out! Clean off the brown and take the next bus out of town. Towel off your poop chute -- I'm giving you the boot."

I tried to make him see reason while I kept on squeezin'. But he said, "Your head will roll as soon as you've finished the roll." At this point I was literally shitting a brick. I was being raked over the coals for being on the bowl. I knew I did not have long on this mortal coil. He told me, "I gave you a shot, but you spent too much time on the pot. Now wipe your crack -- you've just been sacked." I knew I was shit out of luck.

I learned my lesson. From now on, I'm gone unless I can stay on the john. That's right-- as far as jobs go, I won't apply unless there's two-ply.

-- posted 10.18.02004 by Punky Portia, Pirate Pierce, and Taffy Aragona

POOPREPORT OF THE WEEK -- 10.11.02004

I was visiting with my brother one night, despite the fact that he had the flu and bad case of the runs. Every half our or so he'd excuse himself from our conversation to make another trip to the head. Making his way on one of these occasions, he mentioned that his asshole was getting mighty tender, and I called out to him that he should treat himself to a little Vaseline.

On his return, he said that he'd followed my advice, but he'd almost made a fatal error. Rifling through the medicine cabinet, he'd first grabbed the jar of Vics Vapo Rub. He had a nice fingerful ready to go when he happened to catch a whiff of it, saving himself an unimaginable jolt.

We rolled around in our chairs, holding our guts, just trying to imagine what that would have felt like. I got that squirmy feeling in the ass. (Which I find a curious sensation, by the way. In this case it sort of fit with the imagined event. But why do I get that airy-ass feeling when someone tells me about getting a nasty cut, for example, or when I approach a sheer drop? What has a nasty cut or falling to my death got to do with my asshole? Others have reported to me feeling a similar sensation in these sorts of instances. Someone ought to get a grant to study this.)

Anyway, three days later, I ended up getting the same damn illness my brother had. My ass was raw in no time, and I figured I should take my own advice. I was staying at my parents at the time, the same house I'd grown up in. Their medicine cabinet was filled with stuff that went back fifty years. They still had a bottle of iodine in there with a little glass applicator. That stuff stung so bad on an open wound that we had learned as kids to hide any cut from the folks. Bactine, in my mind, was the first miracle drug, and its innovation was why the bottle of iodine was still in there, the last quarter of the bottle never used.

Despite all the junk in the medicine chest, it wasn't hard to spot the jar of Vaseline. I did, however, inspect it carefully, reading each letter on the front of the jar: V-A-S-E-L-I-N-E. Having made sure, I dabbed my finger in and covered my asshole with a healthy dose.

My feet left the floor. I can no longer recall the feeling really, but I do remember an urge to run naked over a row of low hedges.

After I'd gotten my wind back, I looked back at the jar. What I hadn't noticed the first time was a piece of masking tape along the bottom of the jar, upon which, written in my mother's hand, was "Chest Rub." This was a strong brew that she'd learn to make from her mother, and she'd recruited an old Vaseline jar to keep it in.

This was about twenty years ago. Still, each time I visit my parents, I look at the jar, shake my head, and get that airy feeling in my ass.

-- posted 10.11.02004 by Logjam

POOPREPORT OF THE WEEK -- 10.4.02004

If you really want to have some fun with poop, you can try these products.

Wheat Chex
Be sure and get the ones that are all wheat -- not wheat mixed in with anything else. Eat about two bowlfuls of these, but be sure you do it on a day when you have nothing planned, because you will be tied up in the bathroom for a long time. If you enjoy the feel of endless poop that just keeps on coming like the Energizer Bunny, this is the cereal for you.

Orange Metamucil in powder form
OK. You're constipated and you hate using enemas. What's the solution? Mix up a glass full of this concoction and down it as quickly as possible. Then just sit and wait. You won't have to wait long. It might be a bit painful, but Met gets it out quickly and efficiently, like a well-oiled machine.

Sugar-free ice cream
I've found that all of these, to some degree, turn your butt into a lethal poop-shooting machine gun. Chocolate mixed with fudge brownies is the best. It's the same effect as the wheat cereal, only with a lot more noise.

Fresh fruit like pineapples. (Not for the squeamish)
Eat enough of these in fresh cut cubes and eventually you will poop out results that would kill Pepé le Pew. Better bring in a gas mask if you ever try this one.

Honorable mention
This may not be for everyone, but here's a good trick to play if you have just brought home a new pup that's still housebreaking. Go down to your local bakery and buy a box of frosted chocolate doughnut holes. When you are alone, randomly spread them around your mom's spotless carpet, and when they get home act like poor Fido just had an accident.

If you really want to play this out to it's full effect, pick one of the doughnut holes and eat them while your family watches on in horror. Then let them in on the gag. It's only fair.

-- posted 10.4.02004 by Chocolate and Vanilla on the Mind

POOPREPORT OF THE WEEK -- 10.4.02004

I just found this website and I am so happy! So much of my life has revolved around poop and gas, and I have so many stories to tell that I don't know where to begin.

I will start with a nostalgic tale of one Christmas when I was a child. My father decided to use the guest bathroom near the living room to take a big dump. The smell was terrible and very strong and just at that time our neighbor from across the street came knocking on the door to deliver a plate of Christmas cookies. I was closest to the front door, so I opened it.

She handed the plate of cookies to me, and then smiled and said, "What are you cooking? It smells so wonderful!"

My mother was standing behind me at this point. I turned and saw that she was embarrassed beyond belief. I could not keep a straight face, so I went running into my bedroom and buried my face in the pillow, laughing. Needless to say, my father was later chastised for his use of the guest bathroom!

-- posted 10.4.02004 by Rick P.

NICE.

Thanks, TurdTV!

POOPREPORT OF THE WEEK -- 9.27.02004

When we were 18 or 19 and sleeping about six or seven fellas in a three-bedroom house in Austin, my pal Dave was kinda seeing these two girls who were roommates. Now, these girls had moved up from Houston and were pretty well-to-do -- they had amenities such as laundry, cars, air-conditioning, and their own bedrooms that us poor beer-swilling slobs couldn't afford; so it was only natural that Dave would spend as much time as possible down at their place.

I must add at this point that Dave was what we called a "Midnight Sailor." That is, in a state of habitual drunkeness, he was liable to pee on just about anything -- his bed, his clothes, his dog, one time even this guy Donnie Ray on the couch -- all without even the faintest idea he was doing it.

One morning over at the girls' place, he awakened to one of them screaming that he'd puked all over her closet (and her six hundred pairs of shoes). He, of course, denied all culpability, but as the accusations mounted he went to investigate.

Much to his horror, he found it not to be vomit at all but rather the highly viscous remnants of a night of Natural Light and bean burritos. Fortunately for him, she had gone out to run some errands, so he scoured the kitchen for cleaning supplies and went to town in hopes that his true deed would go unknown.

After a good twenty minutes spent wiping hours-old feces from walls and clothing, he finally finished, and was quite relieved that he would be able carry on without the shame of playing blast furnace in her closet. He sat down against the wall and wiped the sweat from his brow just as the roommate was getting up.

"Gawddammit, Dave! You puked all over my bathroom!"

-- posted 9.27.02004 by Ed

POOPREPORT OF THE WEEK -- 9.20.02004

Working on a road crew outside of Phoenix is not for the faint of heart. Let me list the hazards: getting hit by a brain-dead Dr. Phil robot soccer mom driving a minivan full of Pampers; getting envenomated by a diamondback trying to dodge steam rollers; and the wonderful "dry heat" of 130 Fahrenheit. Stick Oprah out here for nine minutes and her face looks like a basket of moldy papayas.

One afternoon, Homer excreted a steaming halibut before the dinner bell, and the next morning it was still there. The extreme heat had deflated all the moisture, and what was left was like a diseased rhinocerospizzle after a thirty-five minute microwaving.

A member of the paving team named Jimpie, a parolee with a tattoo of a muskrat on his bicep, took the squidgy and plopped the thing in front of the roller at mile marker 84. Work stopped as the entire clan came over to see how a paved pooter might come out.

Somehow a chemical process unknown to modern man occurred; the scientific community will be surprised to find out that homo-whipp results in very good hardener. Apparently some mixture of Vienna sausages, beets, and Captain Crunch is the perfect diet, and then the overnight petrification in the July desert vulcanizes the poot to the right preparation. We have contacted the patent office in the desire to protect our discovery and create an inter-national expressway made of donkey kong.

Don't speed in construction areas.

-- posted 9.20.02004 by Sits On Bowl

POOPREPORT OF THE WEEK -- 9.13.02004

I was going through a box of stuff from my teenage years that my Mom dumped (no pun) on me during her last visit, and I found this god-awful notebook of poems I wrote between the ages of 13 and 16. Most of them should never be seen again, but I found this poem I wrote about the dirty restroom at my school, which was rather amusing.

-- Sarah

Life...is Like a Toilet
(dated 4/22/93--age 16)

In this reeking blue cesspit
  of the school lavatory
I search vainly trying to find
  a clean toilet amongst the
  others--
Some stained by an anonymous person's
  fecal matter
Some clogged by an inconsiderate female's
  used maxi-pad which she neglected
  to actually throw away, the water
  already a sickly pink (I hope these
  people use garbage cans at home...)
Finally finding a comparatively clean stall
I shut the door (which has a tendency to stick)
  and gingerly seat myself on the slightly
  wet toilet seat (Hasn't anyone ever
  taught them that if you sprinkle while
  you tinkle, be a sweetie and wipe the seatie?)
I relax in the blue dungeon of the stall
  the peace of the moment marred only
By the strange puddle at my feet, spreading
  to the next stall, which I hope is
  water but maybe someone couldn't
  control herself
By the voices intruding on my reverie
  as I sit reading the graffiti on
  the wall: "Fuck you bitch"
  "I love Carlos" "Eastside Riva"
  "Viva la Raza" "Johnny is mine"
As I sit thankfully expelling the contents
  of my taut bladder into the pristine
  porcelain depths
I hear feminine voices squealing and
  complaining, conversing and teasing
And realize that from the confines of my cubicle
  (seeing nothing of the outside world) the
  voices have no skin color attached to them
  (everyone being the same)
I cannot tell if these are black, white, brown, yellow,
  polkadotted, plaid, puke green--
I ponder the implications of this as I assault
  my genital region with abrasive, unabsorbent paper
Pulling up my pants, flushing the toilet, watching the
  former contents of my own body go swirling down
  the toilet like a dubious abortion
Finally leaving this haven for meditative travelers
  in need of a specific form of physical release
It occurs to me to wonder if everyone has these
  enlightening insights on a dirty latrine
Or is it just me?

-- posted 9.13.02004 by Sarah

BONUS POOPREPORT OF THE WEEK -- 9.13.02004

It was a normal day. I was playing video games. I had been constipated for a few days, letting out only little capsule-sized pebbles. But I'd been shrugging it off, thinking that I just wasn't eating enough to make huge Lincoln logs.

Suddenly a strong heated bubble erupted within my bowels, making its way through my tunnels until it reached my anus. I put the game on pause and walked to the bathroom, holding my stomach until I got there, fumbling to get my pants down so I could release the dogs from hell.

I sat down, grabbed a magazine, and let my anus go, feeling one fire hot puppy come out one after another. The minutes passed by and sweat started to form on my face. I could feel my cheeks growing red from the pressure on my shitpipe. Once I was done, I had to hold my nose while wiping, grabbing one portion of toilet paper after another. The shit didn't seem to want to part from its home, all smeared on my ass as it was.

After my hiney was raw from wiping , I stood up, held my breath, and zipped my jeans. I looked down to see what had caused me to leave the precious vicinity of my room. What I saw made me want to gasp (but the horrible smell stopped me). I looked down and saw a little city of turds in the toilet. I counted. There were a total of seventeen big ones; the rest were small, or hiding under the pile of toilet paper in the middle.

I did feel better, though. I bid my puppies goodbye, and flushed.

-- posted 9.13.02004 by Smells Like Shit

POOPREPORT OF THE WEEK -- 9.7.02004

I enjoy taking long walks at night. I also, unfortunately, must take a medication that gives me constant diarrhea. To say the least, these two things are not very compatible.

I was out one night after swimming earlier that day, wearing swim trunks with no underwear -- just that weird netting inside them. I was about three blocks from home and my bowels were moving like square dancers on speed. I tried to reason with my sphincter, but he would have none of it. He lets loose the floodgates when he wants, whether I like it or not.

I figured I was playing off the load in my pants pretty well, until I was a block away from my apartment. I looked down and there was a huge brown stain around my crotch. And of course every stinking person seemed to be driving in and out of my neighboring apartments that night. If they weren't driving, they were sitting in parked cars, or else just loitering about.

I did a good job of avoiding or waiting out just about all of them, until I got to the last row of apartments. A guy came out dangerously close to me -- at least close enough to get a nice whiff. I'll never know if he knew for sure, but he gave out a couple of good hearty coughs.

By then I was at the home stretch. I bolted up the stairs to my apartment. The damage, you ask? It looked as though my lower extremities were covered in the kind of frosting you would put on a German chocolate cake.

-- posted 9.7.02004 by Anal Explosive

POOPREPORT OF THE WEEK -- 8.30.02004

I watched in horror, praying that it was simply a Baby Ruth, someone's harmless prank based on that classic scene from Caddyshack. Nope, it was too small, and deteriorating too fast. To my dismay as the sole lifeguard at a local pool, a toddler had just released a toddler-sized turd from underneath her turtle inner tube. Small poop, but a big problem for me.

During training, I had asked what to do if someone were to have an accident in the pool (being a true poop fanatic, this was a natural question to ask). The answer was: just fish the poop out. Apparently residual fecal matter in a pool is not harmful to other patrons.

I blew my whistle and ordered the pool cleared. I was coming to the rescue like one of those big-busted lifeguards from Baywatch. I grabbed the net and got that poop right out. But I could feel the swimmers' eyes still on me. In their minds, something still had to be done -- the pool had to be cleansed. Not knowing what to do, I went into the guardhouse, grabbed a bucket and filled it with tap water, hauled it out and dumped it in the pool. I told everyone to wait a few moments to let it disperse into the water. And five minutes later, the pool was filled with people again.

-- posted 8.30.02004 by Corny Moments

BONUS POOPREPORT OF THE WEEK -- 8.30.02004

It was six AM. I knew before we headed for the deep water that I'd better hit the head. But there I was, ten minutes from shore, with that ever-familiar two-minute warning in my gut. We were catching bass after bass when I apologized to my partner and requested a quick drive to the docks, where a glorious port-a-potty awaited.

Well, the water was a bit choppy, and that was sure not helping my situation. Finally we hit the dock. I wiggled up the boat ramp as quickly as one can in such a situation. I could feel the liquid reaching its bursting pressure and, sure enough, just twenty goddamn feet from the potty, it exploded with vengeance. Holy shit!

I jumped inside and finished down the stink hole. There I sat, assessing my situation. I swallowed my pride, called my wife on the cell (thank God for cell phones) and told her, "I got sea sick and 'puked' all over myself" and "please, bring clothes." Then I phoned my buddy and told him to go fishing alone for a half hour, and not to ask any questions.

My clothing showed up, minus new underwear. I tossed the old down the smelly canyon and returned to fishing.

Of course, now I have to keep my fishing buddy and my wife separated so that the subject doesn't come up, lest the truth be told.

-- posted 8.30.02004 by Mighty Sea Pooper

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