The rundown (a pun, hah!):

I had grape juice about three days ago. I was feeling a little bit incontinent so I knew this would be a superb remedy.

It has to be Welch's and purple in color -- white and red grapes just aren't the same.

I crave the stuff, so I downed the half-gallon in the space of a day. The next morning, I felt that urge -- like diarrhea, but without all the stomach cramps. It came out as a chunky squirt, freely interspersed with gas; the smell strongly resembled Welch's purple grape juice.

I wiped several times easily, and looked down into the toilet. The shit was like diarrhea (with solid particles included), but was tinged a dark purple color. The toilet flushed with pride and I heavily sighed.

Maybe all of you should drink grape juice if you want to poop more. It doesn't wrangle your colon the way prune juice does. I mean, totally swig on it, drink it in large quantities, and with an empty stomach.

Fast-forward fourteen years. My son is now a senior in high school, and we still have an occasional laugh about the doctor's comment. Since we moved into our house five years ago, the kids' toilet gets clogged on a fairly regular basis. Since son #1 still seems to avoid going as long as possible, I have always suspected him as the culprit.

Recently, he had to go to the urologist, where he was eventually diagnosed with a "varicocele," which is kind of like varicose veins of the testicle. Before finalizing the diagnosis, we were sent to get our son a CAT Scan to rule out other possible problems.

Earlier this week, we took the films to the urologist's office, where he put them all up on the lighted board. After perusing them for just a few seconds, the Dr. said "G---, you need to clean out your bowels." He then showed us where he was all backed up, and told him that he's "just full of it."

Of course, I lost it again. Now we have had two different doctors, fourteen years apart, tell us that our oldest teenage son is full of shit. You can bet I'm gonna get a LOT of mileage out of this one. I hope I live long enough to be able to able to tell his grandchildren.

Serious note: Varicocele can make a male infertile. We're told he has a 50% chance of it, so maybe he won't have children or grandchildren to hear about it. We're waiting to hear back about a surgery date.

Funny note: At the first urologist visit, the doctor took one look at G--- and said "That's a very large one." G--- said, "Thanks." The doctor replied, "I was talking about the varicocele," to which my son said, "I thought you were paying me a compliment." Confidence is everything.

-- posted 3.1.02004 by Tom Turdriffic

But there was a small matter complicating things: I had just moved into my new dorm, and the toilets sucked. They wouldn't flush a hamster turd. Yup, they were P.O.S. low-flow toilets. I shared this toilet with five other guys, the most important of them being myself. If I clogged this toilet, everyone would have to leave the building just to use a restroom facility.

So I hatched a plan. The adrenaline coursed through my body in anticipation -- I was going to break into someone else's dorm and clog THEIR toilet!

I put on some decent clothes and strolled out of my dorm, attempting to walk normally despite the monster knocking on my back door. I went to a large dorm, waiting casually outside the main doors for someone who actually lived there to open it. After about thirty seconds, some people walked out, and, as the door slowly closed, I waited until they were out of sight and caught it.

Walking nonchalantly, I looked around for the bathroom. It didn't take me long. Some people gave me strange looks, since they didn't recognize me, but I quickly entered a bathroom, and locked the door. Relieved, I did my duty. It was a painful process -- one that must be similar to giving birth.

After I was done, I cast my eyes upon my creation. About two feet long and almost as thick as a fire hose, it was a true brown baby crapper log. I flushed. The beast didn't even move in the swirling waters. I flushed again. The toilet overflowed. Cursing, I got the **** out of there before the waters touched me. It was a small little bathroom. I would wipe back at my own dorm.

As I walked out of the bathroom, there was a guy standing outside who had been waiting to use the toilet. He walked in behind me. A few seconds later, I heard loud cussing. I didn't stick around to let him confront me. Running the best I could after being violated, I got the hell out of there.

And so ends the most recent tale of my adventures in the bathroom. The black wind howling and stuff at the beginning was fake, if you couldn't already tell.

Luckily, I had all that stuff -- my only real obstacle was transportation to my new job. Not having a car, I opted for my emergency transportation: an old Schwinn 10-speed bike. I hadn't ridden it in a while, and during a quick test ride around the block I noticed that the rear brakes were not working. I spent the rest of the afternoon adjusting the brakes and cleaning it up.

D-Day: Saturday Morning, 6:30am. I had finished dressing and was headed out the door when my stepfather killed my confidence by saying, "You're dressed like a biker going to traffic court, trying to get out of a speeding ticket!" What a dick! I rushed to the garage, jumped on my trusty Schwinn, and headed off.

Not wanting to be late for my first day of work, I was hauling ass. The trip was about two miles and I was almost there when I heard a noise coming from my rear tire. It sounded like the brakes were acting up again. Every time the tire would make a complete rotation, I would hear a scraping noise. While riding with one hand, I reached behind me to see if I could pry the brake pad away from the rim. I felt a lump of grease on the brake pad, which I wiped away and held up to my face for inspection. What the hell is this? I took a whiff... DOG SHIT!!!

Traveling at full speed, I somehow managed to negotiate a one-handed stop. I couldn't believe it. Dog shit! I quickly found the nearest grassy area, wiped my hand on the grass, and found a stick to clean off the rest of the mess. I hopped back onto my bike and made it to work on time.

As soon as I got into the building, I hit the restroom to wash my hands. What a mess. Even though I washed thoroughly, I couldn't get that shit smell out of my sinuses. I finished cleaning up, punched the time clock, and went out to the department where I was working. The store didn't open until 8:00, but they wanted you there at 7:00 so you could check over your department, and so the boss could make rounds to all the departments and issue assignments. A few minutes later, I spotted the boss heading in my direction, accompanied by two of the assistant managers. He welcomed me and made introductions and proceeded to give me my work assignments for the day. Near the end of the conversation, he said to me, "Tomorrow, please wear a clean shirt to work." Baffled by this statement, I reply, "This is a clean shirt."

He then says, "You have dirt all over your back."

After he left, I quickly went back to the restroom to get a look at what he was talking about. That's right... dog shit all over my back! Not only was it on the back of my shirt -- I had long hair at the time and it, too, was splattered with dog shit. I then remembered that my trusty Schwinn did not have fenders. Which meant that the rear tire was free to splatter me with whatever it wanted to.

Still, I was lucky enough to clean out my hair -- it's amazing what you can do with that pink liquid restroom soap -- and call my mom to bring me a clean shirt before the store opened. My first day of work went pretty well after that, even though I could still smell that dog shit scent.

Another friend and I start our shifts, and about four hours later my buddy took a break. He came back choking, saying, "Don't go in the bathroom! There's a huge shit shaped like a chicken wing." I dismissed his comments and continued working for another half hour.

I took my break, went to the bathroom and, as I stood at the urinal, glanced over at the bowl (our bathroom was a one-person type affair). I was so shocked! The shit, sitting by itself in the bowl, was very much shaped like a plucked chicken wing -- tapered at one end, widening to a bend and widening even more to a fat end. I left it there, afraid it might come after me if I tried to flush it. The person who had to clean the bathroom later that night wouldn't chance it either.

Finally, as my manager was doing her walkthrough, I hear "Holy Shit!" and she starts chewing on the guy who was supposed to clean the bathroom. We supported this fine gentleman and admitted there was no way we'd flush it, either. Our manager calmly walked back to the can and gave it a flush.

After nearly eight hours of soaking, it seemed the shit had been saturated to the point where it just slid right down.

We found out later that John tried to flush his creation, but the toilet paper was all that would go down, so he abandoned it to it's fate. That was the single largest piece of shit I have ever seen in my life. How John was able to pass it is beyond explanation.

I had recently returned to work following major bowel surgery myself, so I was hoping to have an easy week. The weather has picked up dramatically here, and yesterday it was in the low 70s. Around 1:00, a female colleague came by to tell me one of the stalls in the women's room downstairs was plugged up; after ten minutes of vigorous plunging, she had made no progress. I called our plumber, who comes out to the office regularly.

In the meantime, I had my opened my windows -- my office is on the ground floor -- to take in the exceptionally warm weather. Shortly thereafter, I was overwhelmed by a hideous odor from outside. Without looking, I simply closed my windows. It was really a foul stench.

Moments later, another colleague, this one male, came red-faced into my office and apologetically dragged me over to my windows to "look outside." At first he didn't say a word, and I soon realized he didn't need to. Outside my windows, which faced the front parking lot of our public office building, was a new twelve-foot pond filled with floating shit, toilet paper, and even a couple of bloody tampons!

And when I say filled with shit, I mean dozens, maybe hundreds of turds in various shapes and sizes, some of which were very long and curly; and massive quantities of toilet paper, maybe the equivalent of several rolls' worth. I was too horrified to speak. I couldn't even gag! I was frozen stiff.

Needless to say, once I composed myself, I called back the plumber to report that our situation was Code Brown, and we needed a lot more than a plunger or a snake. One poor soul was dispatched to our rescue. I watched him walk through the parking lot on this beautiful day, as his whistle and smile quickly dissipated when he saw "the problem." I didn't know yet what this plumber would charge us, but whatever it was, it was not enough!

For forty-five minutes after he fixed the main line break, he was literally shoveling shit, used toilet paper, and used tampons into plastic buckets, and putting them back into his plumbing van to take away. Can you imagine the ride back to his office with that crap in 70-degree sunshine?

When it was time for me to sign off on his paperwork, I could barely make eye contact, but he was very cool and professional. I handed the guy a cold Pepsi, gave him a $20 out of my own pocket, and told him to please, "Go gambling or drink a case of beer on me!" He modestly shrugged, thanked me and left. I hope he charges us the max!

-- posted 2.9.02004 by Mrs. Shameless Shitter.

This hilariously skittish contrivance was first discovered when my co-copywriter-in-crime, Rick, and our conspiratorial friend in the commercial art department, Sherry, compared notes one day during our forty-five minute lunch break. Sherry, who had grown up sharing a bathroom with four older brothers and was startlingly candid about her Shameless Shitting practices, was the first to broach the subject with us guys.

"By any chance, have you noticed Mr. Allen's bathroom routine yet?" she said with a sly grin on her face. Rick and I glanced at each other, and I answered. "You mean the fact that he won't go until he thinks there's no one around to observe?"

We all snickered, and I was gratified that I had not been the only observer of Mr. Allen's compulsive, stealth-shitting behavior. What we had all discovered, mostly by chance encounter in the long corridor that split the agency office down the middle, was that this man would not venture a few feet across the hall into the men's room for his morning BM until the coast was completely clear. Sherry, Rick and I had all experienced intercepting him on his short journey, causing him to turn on his heels (nearly leaving skidmarks) and slip back into his office. He'd do this retreat if anyone appeared in the hallway before he had reached the bathroom and shut the door ever so quietly behind him.

Furthermore, Sherry told us she had once rounded the corner further down the hallway at just the right moment to catch him peering out of his office doorway, head jutting forward like a turtle from beneath its shell, in imitation of some devious corporate spy -- looking first down the hallway to the right, then to the left before taking a step across the hall towards relief. When he saw her coming, he beat a hasty retreat into his office and postponed his muddy mission until she was once again safely ensconced in the art department and he was delivered from her prying and knowing eyes.

"He doesn't want us to know what he's up to," Rick concluded that day in the lunchroom. "As if we can't figure it out."

Rick and I shared an office together and regularly informed each other in shameless fashion of our intestinal intentions and results. The men's room was a one-staller with one urinal, so for the most part there was usually only one person in there at a time. We decided between us that once Mr. Allen had settled in safely on the pot, not knowing that we knew, we would not disturb him by going in to pee or blow our nose or whatever until he had finished the job and emerged refreshed.

What we did do, however, was keep deliberately trying to catch him peering out of his office right and left and trying to make it across that hallway without being seen. We knew what time of the morning he would be enacting this little jerky, puppet-on-a-string, howdy-doodie drama, so one of the three of us would make an appearance now and then just for the hell of it.

I don't think he ever caught on that we were wise to him. I think his chronic Shamefulness clouded his brain in this case. We each even caught him peering right and left down the hallway when he was ready to emerge from the men's room, too.

It's so much easier, to my way of thinking, not to have to indulge in all these machinations to conceal a basic fact and act of daily life; but hey, Mr. Allen wasn't paying us a whole helluva lot of money anyway, so we just considered messing with his head an extra little fun perk and pick-me-up that got us through what was always a tedious, long-assed workday.

One night we went to a bar called The Pub, in Lisle, Illinois. We met in the parking lot with about five others. Pat had brought us dinner in the back of his '79 Pontiac Le Mans: -- sandwiches and chips that were to expire at midnight. When he opened the trunk it smelled like vomit, but he assured us we would be okay if we ate them. We passed.

Five hours later, drunk out of our minds and starving, we planned on going to Drunken Doughnuts across the street, but we could barely walk. So we decided to crash in the parking lot until we sobered up or had to go to class, whichever came first. Luckily for me, I lived where the bar was, so I could walk home. But I was not going to leave my friends behind. I joined them in some of Amoco's finest chicken salad, turkey-flavored meat, and something that resembled beef jerky.

After our feast, I had to go to take a piss. I got into my apartment and tried to relax, but my stomach hurts like I got hit by Tyson. I was getting the hot sweats, cramps, clenching jaw -- traditional poo pain. I went to the toilet, sat down, and began to puke my brains out into my bath tub while I'm on the pot.

At my third heave, I began to piss out of my butt: hot Amoco chocolate -- 107-octane drag fuel -- is tearing my ass apart with no stopping. I don't need toilet paper, I need a fireman. My star kisser was pumping faster than John Holmes. I started to scream for Amanda, my girlfriend at the time, for help.

I could not stop shitting, and I could feel myself begin to turn inside out from the suction and pressure of the ka ka being released. I thought I ate broken glass, it hurt so bad. My crap and vomit smelled like rotten rats. It was worse than being gang raped.

Amanda never came to the rescue. I wiped my ass about thirty times before I was satisfied all of the glass was gone. I brushed my teeth three times, went into the living room, and fell asleep on the couch in all of my clothes. I knew I had vomit on my shirt but I didn't care.

The following morning, I heard screaming. I got up, telling Amanda to shut it. My head was pounding, and I remembered that I didn't run the bath water to clear out the throw-up. Don't worry, I say to her, it's just puke, and it is contained in the tub. Get over it.

I walk to the bathroom. She is going nuts. What do I see? A mob hit. Shit was everywhere; on the floor, on the walls, on the toilet, the sink, and the light switch; some even made it into the tub and rested on top of my chicken-salad-and-Sam-Adams stew. What went wrong is this: I never lifted the toilet seat.

I was in shock. Then I noticed the trail of poop to my couch where I was sleeping.

Luckily for me, Amanda was a good sport, once I promised that I would marry her. So she cleaned up the drive-by shooting.

About an hour after I finished them, I felt a strange pain in my abdomen -- like a boxer pounding on my poor stomach. The only thing that I could think was that these cheese sticks were contaminated by midget eggs!

I had been infected with the first stage of the shit midget: THE BOXING MIDGET. That little fella slammed my innards until I had a dull numb pain all over. It was awful. I wanted to go home, but I felt that if I left, I would enrage the midget and he would then turn into the DAREDEVIL MIDGET and cause me to shit my pants. So I stayed and battled this guy for at least another hour.

Then he morphed. It most of been a full moon outside because he became THE WEREMIDGET! This midget is the worst of all. The symptoms of a Weremidget (wereius shitus Midgetisus) are sharp slashing pains throughout the shitfactory.

I knew then that I was gonna have to go one on one, mano a midget with this one. So I went to the bathroom -- to my favorite stall, so I would have home field advantage. The battle began! Five minutes in, the Weremidget pulled a dirty trick and release a Fart Howl. I knew that everyone outside could hear it but I didn't care... I WAS GONNA WIN.

I pushed and pushed in retaliation, and then he pulled his next below-the-belt trick: he sent the RING OF FIRE. God it burned sooo bad but I pushed on. After about thirty-five more minutes of Howls and Burns, I was victorious. The pain went away and I was able to walk upright again.

So I warn you: don't eat foods that could contain midget eggs. There are hundred if not thousands of variations of midgets out there. So fear the midget.

(Note: no offense to any LP reading this.)

Now I must point out that this looked like a nice, homely, "go and warm yourselves by the fire, lads" type pub; but upon entry, it appeared that we'd walked into the Slaughtered Lamb from American Werewolf in London. We were quite obviously not welcome, and neither was anyone else who didn't live there -- but, being the stubborn awkward bastards we are, we decided to stay for a drink.

Halfway through our drinks, Fil announced that he was "just nipping to the loo." About five minutes later, he returned, desperately trying to hide the hysterics he was obviously in, and announced that we should all leave our drinks and go.

Now, Fil is the type of guy who, if he says, "We're going," there must be a very good reason, and it's usually his fault.

We got out onto the carpark where Fil finally released his laughter. And then the story unfolded: while he'd been having his poo, he was thinking about the stuck up pricks who owned the pub and was getting a bit annoyed by their pomposity. In the toilets there, they had those dispensers that just let out one sheet at a time; and so Fil had taken a sheet, wiped his arse, and then cracked open the unit and put the used paper on top of the new stuff. It was only a matter of time before one of the pompous tossers from in there went to go for a crap and ended up with Fil's crust clag under his fingernails.

This we obviously found extremely funny, and so we drove home and shat ourselves just for the fun of it. This is all a true story, apart from the last bit. I made that up.

Somehow we started talking about silly things we did and thought as children. (I guess New Year's is a reflective time.) So, as precursor to what is now infamously called The Poopship Destroyer Incident, I told a story about how I was afraid of the toilet until I was a teenager. The reason being is that I was told the devil lived down there (in the ground, not in the toilet). And, being a logical child who thought too much, I figured that if the pipes from the toilet went down into the ground, somehow they were connected to where the devil lived. Thus, when you actually flushed the toilet, I thought you were kind of opening a portal to the devil's domicile. This meant that every time I flushed the toilet I would run like hell out of the bathroom. I never told anyone about this fear and thus I am sure my parents thought I was crazy.

So Xuco pipes up and says the following:

"When I was a kid and I pooped my poop (Yes. He actually said -- out loud -- 'when I pooped my poop!') I would play this game that I made up called Poopship Destoyer. I would poop my poop, and then I would stand up, and..."

Knowing what Xuco was probably about to describe, Princess Strumalot squealed, put her fingers in her ears, and just watched the expression on everyone else's faces. There were details about aiming and destroying and references to Battleship.

He ended his description by saying, "Do you know that Ween has a song called Poopship Destroyer? I have always wondered if that is what it was about?"

Yes. It is what you think it is. And once the portal was open, Xuco could not stop. He told the story at least two more times that night. To think of all those poor unexpecting souls on New Year's Eve who will now never forget The Poopship Destroyer. Boys, please don't tell me this is a common thing!

It appears that the most rational cause of your food poisoning would come from the cheese you ate. Because, according to the CDC, less than 5% of food poisonings are vegetables. That eliminates 1) potatoes 2) quiche (Editor's Note: probably not. Quiche has eggs, right?) and 3) veggies. The prawns could have been the culprit, but they can be eaten raw (like in sushi), if refrigerated. You probably wouldn't have eaten them if they smelled old, or looked old; so it had to be the cheese.

The cooking temperature of the curd used to manufacture soft cheeses is lower than that of hard cheeses, and may not be sufficient to destroy Listeria, which can be present in milk used in manufacture. As soft cheeses are also less acidic and contain more moisture than hard cheeses, they are more inclined to allow the growth of such undesirable bacteria.

The crust of soft cheeses such as Camembert carries an increased risk of Listeria because, due to a decrease in the acidity level at the surface during ripening, the bacterium grows predominantly on the surface of the cheese and not in the core of the cheese.

Because your symptoms match those of Listeria ingestion, you have become sick. And because your digestive system is still in the process of detoxification, you will probably have mild (Editor's Note: Mild?!) diarrhea until about FRIDAY EVENING (perhaps around the same time it started). This of course depends on how much cheese (or whatever it was) you consumed.

Get well, and great work with the site,

-- posted 12.29.02003 by JJJ1987
P.S. No I'm not a doctor/nutritionist/chemist, etc. I am only 16, but I hope to be a doctor.

Despite the fact that I ate considerable amounts of turducken, mashed potatoes, three-bean salad, and other buffet items at a recent Festivus gathering, and despite the fact that after eating all this food I consumed nearly seven Krispy Kreme donut-like objects in about ten minutes as a Festivus Feat Of Strength, and despite the fact that I gained nearly six pounds from weigh-in to weigh-out, my fecal output on the following morning was all but nonexistent. What should have been a healthy and sizeable amount of metabolic byproduct was no bigger than a singular typical corgie dog's turd.

The composition was also distressing. Only the first two inches or so were the standard solid, cylindrical, healthy human crap. The remaining two or three inches (really, that's all there was) had an obviously less-dense consistency that tapered away to nothing. Where did all that turducken go? What about the pizza pocket I ate at seven o'clock? What happened to my lunch and breakfast from earlier in the day?

Based on my post-Krispy Kreme scat, one could postulate that I had not consumed them. There was barely any evidence that I had even eaten yesterday at all!

I will grant you: the massive rush caused by consuming so much straight sugar in one crazed ten-minute stretch provided my muscles and nervous system with stimuli not usually seen this side of a triple espresso shot. But is that enough to burn up all the other food from the day and leave my system with no waste to discard? I think not.

I again put forth my hypothesis: Krispy Kreme Donuts are not only not food, they are, in fact, anti-food. My poop -- or lack thereof -- proves it.

Folks, that all changed today.

In hindsight (*wink*), I should have seen it coming. I had a few meals of pizza with extra cheese for the last couple of days. Also, my largest meal yesterday was a HUGE bowl of chili topped with mounds of shredded cheddar. Mmmm... good! (Don't sue me, Campbell's!)

Well it seems that fiber, coupled with a binding agent, can produce some spectacular crap.

I sat down for my regularly scheduled 11:00 AM departure this morning and let fly a pretty ripping fart -- a bit unusual for me, but hey, I had chili. That's where all semblance of normality ended.

First, with some effort, I dropped a little pooplet. It was pretty dense for something that size. I even got a little splashback.

Then it began. The sphinc opened like usual and the train started moving, but man, was it taking its time getting up to speed. Oh well -- if my poop's gonna be stubborn, so will I. I took a big breath, tightened the old abs, and commenced to pushing. Whoa, Nelly, got some dilation happening here, and some movement, thank God.

Now I don't like doing the pre-emptive poo cutoff, because it usually leads to more wiping and a defeated anus, not to mention the "unfinished" feeling. I sat some more, trying to adopt a Zen-like relaxation so the ring-piece wouldn't cramp. Besides, I doubted if I could pinch this granite-like fecal obelisk.

Long story short: twenty minutes or so elapsed before I could grab the crack-Kleenex and finish up. I had to admire this one a bit before flushing because it was so unlike my normal fiber-softened ropes. I had finally delivered my version of the Mastercrap®. Whew, time to up the roughage, I guess...

For a living, Boy trades bonds on the foreign market. Hectic work, strange hours. During eight hours a day of trading, there is precious down time where the market is slow, and most take advantage to relieve themselves of their junk. Boy, being full of piss and shit himself, uses his time wisely.

As he described, on this particular day it was fairly busy in the bathroom of two stalls and five urinals -- a line four or five deep. Boy had just stepped up to the plate and, while holding his wiener, heard something from the end stall that changed his life forever.

"It started out normally, a couple of weak farts -- no biggie," Boy said, casually sipping his glass of wine. "But the farts began to accelerate and were followed by pits of shit pummeling the water. For the next fifteen seconds, thick ropey clumps of shit hurled from his anus, escorted by angry, growling farts. It ended with a five second, three-octave fart, as if the shitter were zipping up his asshole for the night."

"Everyone stood speechless in the bathroom."

Boy tells me he had his hand to his mouth trying not to laugh. Just then someone in the room could hold it no longer and the place busted out -- guys doubled over on the sink, howling. Boy lost track of time on how long this went for. "A while," he noted.

Just as the laughter began to die down, the guy in the stall next to him began to gag, and the place busted out again. He somehow managed to piss and left, still not knowing whom the shitter was.

My brother -- always in the right place at the right time.

The management put out a memo to all employees, begging us to please "Keep the restrooms presentable." But this is one angry mob. Layoffs mean added work to the ones left behind, who had to take a 5% pay cut to boot. And now the employees also have to sit on dirty pots? Fellow employees have told me of people spitting on mirrors, and somebody even puked in a sink and didn't wash it down.

Today, Monday morning, I went to the bathroom to take a piss. It reeked like shit. I pissed quickly and got out of there. This afternoon I entered again and it still stunk -- so I had to investigate. In the handicapped stall there was a turd on the floor, poop on the seat, and a smear on the wall! This was either an accident, an act of rebellion from a disgruntled employee, or The_Shitman is on tour!

You probably know the story, but to set the stage: the author (Gulliver) becomes shipwrecked on an island that is populated by 6-inch tall people called Lilliputians. The Lilliputians capture Gulliver and imprison him in an old temple. He is chained to the temple wall by a long chain that allows him to move only a couple of feet outside the temple. In the following passage, Gulliver has been imprisoned for two days.

"I had been for some hours extremely pressed by the necessities of nature; which was no wonder, it being almost two days since I had last disburthened my self. I was under great difficulties between urgency and shame. The best expedient I could think on, was to creep into my house which I accordingly did; and shutting the gate after me, I went as far as the length of my chain would suffer; and discharged my body of that uneasy load. But, this was the only time I was ever guilty of so uncleanly an action; for which I cannot but hope the candid reader will give some allowance, after he hath maturely and impartially considered my case, and the distress I was in. From this time my constant practice was, as soon as I rose, to perform that business in open air, at the full extent of my chain; and due care was taken every morning before company came, that the offensive matter should be carried off in wheel-barrows, by two servants appointed for that purpose. I would not dwelt so long upon a circumstance, that perhaps at first sight may appear not very momentous; if I had not thought it necessary to justify my character in point of cleanliness to the world; which I am told some of my malingers have been pleased, upon this and other occasions to call in question."

-- Gulliver's Travels by Jonathon Swift, Part I, Chapter II

Since I am a man of many thoughts, I thought about how the toilet has revolutionized the world. Back in the "day," you had to walk (or sometimes run) about 100-300 feet away from your house to make a deuce. Needles to say, the outhouse was a primitive, often times unsanitary, shack that was a great place to pick up a sliver or spider bite. The winter conditions of some regions could also make a dump unpleasant. Imagine baring your butt to air temps from 0-40 degrees and plopping your nice warm ass against a toilet seat that feels like it's made of ice!

To add to that, it was much harder to be a Shameful Shitter and get away with it. You see, if you had neighbors that lived very close, they could tell when you had to tinkle or shit yourself simply by timing your outhouse visit. They may even record your bowel habits in their diary!

After all of these thoughts, I realized just how nice it was to sit on a toilet. I would just like to take this time to appreciate the toilet as a great innovation. I would also like to dedicate this month as National Toilet Appreciation Month. Respect your toilet!

-- posted 11.17.02003 by Rick Cook

Just as important, however, is the urine that accompanies it. I have never left a shit without it floating in a balmy pool of enchanting golden urine. Often, the tang of my piss overpowers my shit and creates quite a pleasurable session on the pot.

I have even been known to drop my loaf, stand up, and blister it with a heady gush of yellow fluid. Sometimes, a stray peanut will try to make a get away, and I masterfully chase it around the turd like an Indy car out of control.

If I've been fortunate enough to lay down an extra ropey pile and I know my normal surge will barely make a dent, in mid stream I will strangle my wiener until I can no longer bear the sting, release it, and watch my viscous torrent hack it to pieces. Many times this will leave raw particles of shit clinging all around the bowl. A nightmare to clean.

While we pay homage to the turd, we must always remember his watery comrade: urine.

After ingesting a gondola full of food and unlimited quantities of three different wines, we walked home. It was about a ten block walk from the restaurant. About halfway home, I started to get that awful rumble that only means one thing: poop emergency!

I thought I could hang on, and almost did. We reached my apartment building and ran into the elevator. I live on the 27th floor, and it was an interminable ride. So interminable that the unthinkable happened. Poop exploded from my ass.

The worst part was that I was wearing really short shorts with thong panties underneath. As such, there was no containment.

Poop plopped right out of the bottom of my shorts, onto the carpet. My fiance was struck dumb at first by the sight and smell. Poop was piling up on the carpet when the elevator stopped at my floor.

I ran to my apartment door, spreading a poop trail down the hallway. I was so mortified, I was crying. I reached the toilet and could not believe the sight of my shitty shorts. My entire butt was smeared with poop, too.

Then I remembered something horrible. There are security cameras in the elevators -- the doorman must have seen me poop in the elevator!

Meanwhile, my fiance was riding the elevator up and down, cleaning up the poop with a roll of paper towels. He cleaned the hallway rug, too. Then, *he* remembered about the cameras. The incident was *recorded*! Aaaaarrrrrgggghhhh!

Once I stopped crying, and cleaned up, I did finally laugh about it. My fiance said, "You'd better believe how much I love you, to clean up your poop." Yup, for Better or Worse, in Sickness and in Health, I replied.

A slight stain is still visible in the elevator. We joke about it often, now that we are married and he lives here too.

At first I didn't respond, but I realized that it was a buddy that had walked in right after I did. So I responded, "Yeah, you taking a dump too?" He replied no and said he was putting some lotion on. Then he says, "Yo dude, that smell is some potent stuff."

So I'm thinking that I just got there... meaning I couldn't have produced such a repulsive aroma. Then all of a sudden I hear someone rip a long nasty fart... and I think it's my friend, and he thinks it's me. He doesn't realize that there is another guy in the far end stall. I started laughing a little bit, trying my best to hold it in (laughter, not poop)... then my friend hears me laughing and he just bursts out laughing like a hyena, realizing that the source of the odor and fart was from another guy in a different stall. Hearing him, I couldn't contain my self, and join him in laughing my butt off.

He felt so bad about laughing so hard that he had to leave the restroom, while I was still stuck on the can, trying my best to hold in the laughter. Poor dude in the other stall was dead silent.

I quickly finished my business and left the restroom as to avoid the mystery guy (and yes I washed my hands). I saw my friend again after the meeting, and we both start laughing uncontrollably with tears streaming down our eyes, trying to figure out who that mystery person in the last stall was. He was probably giving us the evil eye from a corner of the room. I feel bad for the dude because he was most likely embarrassed by the whole ordeal... maybe more like traumatized. I know I would be.

This past summer, almost religiously, I would take a shit at exactly 9:30, every single day. It was like was Pavlov's dogs, only with my ass. I'd look up at the clock radio, and it would read 9:30, and immediately I'd start to feel the gurgling of some fresh steamers brewing in my belly. Sometimes it'd come so fast I'd have to do the penguin walk all the way across the office to get to the can.

They were good shits too. Most of them came out with little or no effort, and to my surprise would be much larger than I imagined based on the ease of the expulsion of the turds. It always seems the ones you fight with the most end up being just tiny little nuggets, and the ones that come rushing out you in one quick easy blast are the size of large dildos and Cadillacs.

After I shat, I'd usually sit there enjoying the incredible feeling of having just taken a nice shit. Which is relaxing, especially since I have to go back to a cubicle. But on the john, I could sit and be content with my bare ass caressing the cool seat of the toilet as I relished in a poop well done. Most times I would wait about ten minutes before I even began the whole wiping process, as I was so immersed in my bowel movement.

The 9:30 shit became the focal point of my day. Work didn't officially begin for me in my mind until I took my 9:30 shit. The 9:30 shit was so important, I would forego masturbating in the stall until the afternoon because I would rather bask in the orgasmic pulse of a hot-fresh dump. Those were goods, and those were nice shits.

The Family Ties live taping was going well. I had never seen a taping before so I was intrigued about the process. There are times when they want the audience boisterous, and times when they want them as quiet as a mouse.

I was there alone during a business trip so I had no companion to chat with. Instead, an enormously fat woman occupied the seat next to mine. I reverted to Airline Ettiquette: give up that armrest before your arm is trampled! She seemed like a nice, but eccentric, Michael J. Fox groupie. I myself was more interested in glimpsing the quite beautiful Meredith Baxter Birney.

Trouble began with a simple fart. On the radar scale of birds it was a hummingbird. Apparently, this lady was an experienced social farter. She didn't even interrupt her description of how she had dated Frankie Avalon in her younger years when she piped out a little chirp: "So anyways, I just love the --- FARTT!!!! --- theme music they play before Michael Gross comes out." It was as if she timed the toot between words so as not to interrupt the conversation.

The lights went down and I knew I was in for a long night. Being next to someone fat in a small seat is bad enough, but if it's a serial farter, it's is like sitting through an entire episode of Regis and Kelly without a barfbag.

The little toots metamorphosed into a turbulent hurricane. But the lady was smart about it. She waited until a laugh or musical interlude to unleash the winds of death.

The audience is not allowed to get up out of their seats, so I was elated when a bathroom break was given -- but the wind beneath my sails stalled when I realized she had no intention of going. This lady had a philosophy: never interrupt a good taping when you can fart in your chair.

Finally, the last half hour commenced. By this time I had absolutely no idea what was going on on stage. This lady was the Da Vinci of serial farters. People in several rows were turning their head and looking in our direction. They must have thought I was the culprit. A wave of fart smoke hovered over the room like in a Cheech and Chong movie. I began to keep a running count. This woman could fart every forty seconds.

But the climax was still ahead. Not content to ruin the audience's night during the final ovation she unleashed two diapers worth of Donkey Kong. I sat there in total amazement. I'd gone to be entertained but had rather been shocked. Talk about stealing the show!

To think five minutes ago I was fine. There. The Porta-John. Savior? I look frantically to see if it's occupied. It isn't. I open it. I mess with my pants. Football pants are hard to get off, but I shimmy out of them. Then I bend over, not touching the rim.

It all comes out. The relief is immediate. After about five minutes of "hovering" I'm done. I go for TP and wipe. All fine. I look down. It appears my "aim" is a bit bad. I had just shit myself.

Flash to what started it all. Gutbusters. We were running sprints and someone messed up, so we had to do them as punishment. Up to then I didn't have to crap. But as soon as I started gutbusters it hit me like a ten-ton anvil square in the stomach. It was countdown. I got up and started running. I said one word. "Bathroom."

Flash forward to me with my pants down, filled with crap. I pull them up enough so that I'm not exposed and waddle out with as much dignity as I can.

I have no explanation of why this happened. Perhaps it was something I ate. All I know is that I am always wary when I do gutbusters from now on.

It was about 1:00 PM when a co-worker, "Mark", went to the restroom to unload his digestive system. About ten minutes later he came running out of the shitter, red-faced and giggling like a little girl. "This thing is so big I had to stand up to break it off, and when it did it smacked me in the balls!!!" he screamed. "Come and see it, I didn't flush it yet!"

So, being the disgusting creatures we are, we went to inspect the damage. This log was about one foot long and maybe 3.5 inches in diameter!!! Picture the forearm of a ten-year-old...

"There is now ay a human could produce a dump of that magnitude," I'm thinking, like maybe he planted it there -- there WAS a zoo nearby.

After about twenty minutes it wasn't funny anymore so he decided to say goodbye to his treasure. Then it became funny again as this turd refused to go down without a fight. Flush after flush, the log stood ground, sticking its head out of the water like the Loch Ness Monster. Finally, with a little help from a wire hanger, the Titanic snapped in half and quietly slipped into the deep. It painted a spiral on its way down, which was still visible for several days.

Thanks for the dump, Mr. Waffle house cook.

Thanks a lot for the greasy-ass cheesteak. I really needed a pick me up at four thirty the other day after drinking to the point I could barely walk. I really did. What I didn't need was the ensuing ferocious dump that shot out my ass the following morning.

Now I'm sure you're asking yourself, "how bad could it be?" Okay, let me tell you. It all started innocently enough. I sat down on a cold ring of porcelain, picked up a mag, and got to work. What followed will haunt me every time I enter the facilities. A great stream of molten feces shot forth from my ass, carrying with it a pungent wave of putrid fart gasses. Liquid quickly gave way to foam. Imagine shaking a beer and popping the top. Now make that beer human excrement as green as the day is long, then invert the can and replace it with my white ass.

Through even the many foldings of two ply paper the liquid soaked. Many flushes were flushed to suck down the wretched beast. Yet I and the throne beneath remained vigilant, steadfast, unyielding. There was no going back. My ass now burning with the fire of a thousand suns, I pushed, squinting, face red with strain, forcibly casting from my entrails the demons within. With one great "hhhhhhhhhhhhhrrrrrrrnnnnnnnnn, hhhhhhhhmmmmmmmmmuughhhgh, aaaaaaaahhhhhhhhhhhhhhh," I at last expelled that which had poisoned me, your cheesteak sandwitch.

Still wiping, both my anus and the sweat from my brow, I slowly began to reclaim my flesh from under the curtain of poop that had so thickly draped it. My hindquarters no longer drowning in a sea of brown, I jumped into the shower for a more thourough cleansing of my cock balls and ass. Exhausted, I collapsed into the loving arms of my bed where I stayed for the rest of the day. Never again will I eat your sandwitch Mr Waffle House Cook. Never again will I suffer such post-meal indignities at your hands. Never again. You asshole.