Recently, as I was talking to my daughter on the phone, she cursed in alarm. I've gotten used to that since the baby came, but this seemed worse than usual. "What happened?" I asked.

She reluctantly explained that she had grabbed the baby's pacifier from where it had landed in the high chair and stuffed it into the baby's mouth, thinking it had some spilled food on it. Nope. The pacifier had landed in poop, which was now being savored by the baby. My daughter grabbed it out of her mouth, but not soon enough to prevent a story that I will never let her live down.

This is why newborn babies are given hepatitis shots before they leave the hospital.

Now, my school has the worst janitors ever. The first stall was occupied. The second had a tampon and a huge crap in the toilet, and no TP. I ventured into the next stall, which was perfectly clean, except no TP! I mean, come on, what do our janitors get paid for! I stood outside the occupied stall for about a minute, but I started to feel the cramps slowly go away. So I thought, "only one period left!"

In the beginning of 8th, I was fine. But near the end I got that feeling again. I suppressed it, knowing my mom was going to pick me up. I made it to the car and I said, "Mom, can you hurry?!" She said OK with a half-ass smile on her face. She knew I had to shit.

With all my struggling trying to hold it, I had developed a stomachache. I thought, "Holy shit, I'm gonna puke and shit at the same time!" I held it best I could, but a little ass juice slipped out.

We finally made it home. I ran to the toilet and started puking all the greasy lunch that I had eaten. I finished up, but didn't have enough time even to flush. I stood up, pulled my pants down and, well, you've all seen Dumb and Dumber.

The puke-covered shit splashed all over my bottom region. It was a dark green and brown mush. After, I felt no relief -- my stomach and ass had both been, mistreated and were in pain. I took a shower and passed out in my bed.

I think it was the pizza from school, mixed with chocolate milk, which made me explode like that. Or maybe I had a bug or something? All I know is all of our janitors at that school need to be fired.

The timing of this event may have been overlooked, because there was a Georgia football game going on that very afternoon, and the traffic was backed up a few miles along this country road, which was an alternate route from the stadium. Without warning, an ancient wreck of a pickup truck swerved off the road and into the driveway of the home. The driver emerged first, resembling a cross between Don Knotts and Richard Simmons. He dropped a beer can, bent over, howled something that resembled a bat getting caught in the propellers of a helicopter, and vomited up a gallon of vile sauce into the perfectly manicured grounds.

A deathly silence and a smattering of dropped forks was the response of the debutantes.

The inspired performance apparently was not over. Incredibly, another swamp creature followed the other man out of the ruined hulk. This one had full muttonchops, a blond mullet, and a t-shirt with a picture of a deer with giant antlers. Suddenly, Bachelor Number Two bent over and pooped next to his other brother Darrell.

The classic music in the background lent an eerie clash to the proceedings. If an alien had landed on that plot of earth at that exact moment I cannot help but wonder what it would have concluded about the planet earth and its inhabitants.

Our host, Miss McGilicudy, summarized the afternoon by saying, "It is hard to find good entertainment, but at least the food was to your liking!"

Where to begin...? Normally, I have an iron gut. Not much can make me run to the toilet at the drop of a hat. But I cooked a new recipe for Greek Chicken, full of spices and olive oil and other rich ingredients. There was also potatoes in the mixture, and on the side, bread made with beer. It all smelled so good and everyone eating it loved it, as did I. I ate until my stomach could take no more, and then I relaxed on the couch, thinking about getting some ice cream later.

About a half hour after the meal, after the guests had left (I live with my parents because I commute to college), I decided to take a shower, my nightly ritual. As I started the water and prepared to go in, I felt the slightest urge to poop. Well, I ignored it because it wasn't that bad. I went on and continued showering. All of the sudden the cramps started. My gut was rumbling like a motorcycle, and it showed no signs of shutting off. I hurried through the rest of my shower and shut off the water as quickly as I could. When I stepped out, Captain Browneye was ready to make an appearance, and he wasn't going to wait much longer.

Stubborn as I am, I wanted to try to get my clothes on before the Main Event. But the Captain just wouldn't allow it. As soon as I bent over to pull up my undies, the brown liquid shot out, and down my legs and all over the tub. It burned like Hell and I couldn't stand to be quiet about it, so I guess I was moaning or something.

We have a spray nozzle hooked to our showerhead, and quickly I stepped back into the shower and used it to rinse off the fetid, stenching liquid that was all over the bottom half of my body. At that point my mother was knocking on the bathroom door, checking if I was all right, and I screamed over and over again that I was. As soon as I was clean again, another Diarrhea Tidal Wave hit me; I made it to the toilet this time, spraying forth the rest of my rich dinner.

After that one was over, I felt fine. I cleaned myself up again, cleaned up the bathroom (spraying the melon-scented air freshener heavily), put my clothes on, and walked out. My butthole burned for hours on; but when I woke up in the morning, I felt completely better. After I spent the whole night letting out toxic farts, of course.

Needless to say, I won't be making that chicken again any time soon. I'm sorry to deny my Greek heritage, but I'm not going through that nightmare ever again.

So one night I am so rudely awoken by a giant thud on my head. I was far too stunned to cognize just what it could've been, but one thing is for sure -- I smelled shit and I felt warmth on my head and chest. I jumped up, just trying to figure out what the hell was going on, and there was Dennis having a spastic-type seizure next to my girlfriend, who lay there with shit in her hair and face.

Apparently Dennis tried to go to the restroom next to us and fainted and had some sorta seizure. I looked at Dennis flopping on the floor with rancid diarrhea that smelled like someone ate roadkill, regurgitated it, and then digested it. He was smearing shit all over the linoleum floor like he was some type of modern art piece.

My girlfriend immediately jumped up, retching, with fear in her eyes. Torn between kicking the shit out of him in sheer disgust and the urge to immediately wash the shit out of my hair and nostrils, I chose the latter. Dennis, being the drunk that he was, recalled none of this, and denied it even happened till we showed him the masterpiece he left in the hallway as we handed him a mop and bucket.

The moral: studio apartments are way too small to share with a drug addict with diabetes.

At first I was puzzled as to why this marginal manpoop felt like an ostrich egg coming out. But then I noticed something weird about it. It was exceptionally dry and hard (I made this judgment based on its dark and crusty appearance... I didn't have courage enough to touch it). It was composed of what appeared to be many small round balls of poop squished together. I knew something must be done to inform the public about this strange pooping phenomenon.

And so, fellow shitters, I submit to you the Dry Poop Postulate:

Normal poop is soft enough to allow one's sphincter to partially close around it -- thus squishing it slightly -- as it passes through. Simply put, it yields to bungal pressure. A dry turd, however, does not have aforementioned give, and rather exerts an equal and oppositely-directed backpressure on the sphincter every time the sphincter contracts around it. This is in direct accordance with Newton's Third Law of Motion.

When we're showing, we normally leave the apartment unlocked so that we don't have to worry about keys and such. Right before noon I had shown the two bedroom, two bath to a nice couple. I like to let the people walk around by themselves and explore (mostly out of laziness, to save my breath). They hastily scurried from the rear, said their thank you's, and left. I was a bit confused because they seemed so excited just moments before.

Lunch went by, and the heat of the day became obnoxious. This being Washington State, we do not have air conditioning, and the apartments can become quite stifling. Another couple came in, eager to see the place. Yet again, they quickly ushered themselves through the front door.

Near closing time, a family of three stopped in and asked to see the apartment. We walked up the stairs and noticed a slight sweet and hearty smell. The husband said, "Mmmm, someone is cooking something tasty tonight." As we entered the "luxury" apartment, the stench was absolutely intoxicating. It was the kind of aroma that you can't force yourself to stop inhaling. A mixture of ground beef and navel sweat -- disgusting, yet it almost makes one hungry.

We rounded the hallway and were met by the couple's teenage son. He ran from the master bath into the spare bathroom, cupping his hand over his mouth, and quickly spewed hot molten vomit in the freshly cleaned toilet (which I had clean myself). The mother went to his side while the father nonchalantly entered the master bedroom. I heard, "Oh my god." Being curious, I peered in. He was standing there as if he had seen the Lord himself. He muttered something and pointed in the direction of the master bath.

I was also horrified. There were at least three foot-long turds strewn along the sparkling tile. Inside and outside the toilet was an array of shit -- everything from solid goat turds to watery flung feces. The sink was covered in grey vomit that had cubes of what looked like some sort of meat and sinew. In the tub was a wardrobe of shit- and vomit- stained clothing that someone had apparently used to sop up the excess mess from themselves.

Needless to say, they didn't rent it. I ended up paying a kid to hook up a hose to clean the place down. For the life of me I can't think of which idiot from the day had left me this nightmare. And to this day I cannot cook ground beef without at least gagging and thinking back to that horrible bathroom.

I managed to disguise my nuclear stomach rumble with an extremely slow, courteous walk. Underneath my black bagger's pants, my cheek muscles felt like the world's smallest vise grip trying, against all odds, to seal a leak in the Hoover Dam.

Once I pushed the door to the men's open, I made a desperate sprint to the last stall -- the only one that worked. As I unfastened my belt, I prayed to God. I slammed the door and fastened the lock with my pants at my knees, pulled down my underwear, and let out what could be considered half sonic boom and half brown drizzle. The sonic boom half was followed a Dolby Surround-quality echo amplified by the acoustics of a five-gallon crapper, the cheap stall doors, and nearly 360 degrees of brick walls. The brown drizzle half was just setting my ass on fire.

The pressure in my stomach felt like a core breach at Springfield Nuclear, and I evacuated a brown snake with the width of a worm and the length of an anaconda. Finally, my bowels depressurized back to their normal shape.

The foul stench of a blue portable crapper was rising to my nostrils, which were desperate for breath after such a cruel ordeal. My entire crack was brown from the Sodom and Gomorrah incident. I turned to get some toilet paper, because I felt like Mount Vesuvius just after the disaster at Pompeii -- but, unfortunately, no paper, no TP, no news rag, no magazine, nothing of value; not even the brown roll was there for me.

I pulled up my pants and left the stall with a major pain in the ass known as extra jalapenos. By the infinite grace of God, I was able to sneak into the ladies and wipe my ass in there.

I restocked the TP in all bathrooms, because I literally needed to save everyone's ass. Still sore, I drove home, sitting on one ass cheek to alleviate the burn. Finally, at Mom's house, I jumped in the shower and used shampoo on my butt fuzz, which thankfully stopped the burning of my crack. I also cleaned the skids off my underwear. Then I proceeded to boot up my Dreamcast and try to forget the whole nightmare.

One night very late we were aroused by the Resident Director (an older student assigned to keep a bunch of idiot freshmen from getting too out of control) on our floor. He rounded us all up and herded us into the bathroom. He was pissed.

What set him off was that someone had taken a big shit on the floor of the open area by the showers, plugged up the floor drain, and filled it with water. Someone, possibly another student but obviously with a maritime interest, had floated a tiny paper boat upon the crappy seas. We were urged to rat on the responsible party.

The dumper was never exposed, but I knew who it was -- the guy who lived next door to me. It had to be him, because first of all this was his style; but second, another guy and I had found him a couple of hours earlier, shitfaced and completely naked, running around the circle on the floor and holding his pecker.

I knew that I needed to go, and I needed to go NOW! I had about ten seconds before I made a mess in the pant department, and possibly even in the bed. I scrambled from the warmth of the duvet and sprinted to the toilet.

I didn't even have time to lock the door or fully get my pants down before the wave hit. A flash flood from the brown lagoon rained heavily from my backside. My guts felt as though they were being wrung like a cheap dime store sponge.

After five long episodes of gut heaving, I was able to relax, knowing that there was nothing left inside to come out. Then, just as I was about to reach for the comforting toilet paper, my stomach cramped up again.

Only this was not going to be a bowel explosion. Oh no, this was a full-on Technicolor burp of horrific proportions. All I could do was slide off the toilet, pants still around my ankles, the poo still clinging to my unwiped butt cheeks, and try to aim for the bowl.

I spewed a mouthful of orange sticky fluid. It was followed by a sharp gasp of air -- the sort of gasp that a newborn baby makes when the doctor smacks his bum.

BIG MISTAKE. The mess already infecting the toilet, still warm, had festered enough to release a smell hitherto unknown to man. And I had just gulped down a lungful of the foul-smelling stench.

No one could withstand such an assault on their senses. My body simply surrendered, and I spewed at least five more times. The smell increased with each heave, and each time I was forced to gasp more of the horribly polluted air.

Half an hour passed and all I could do was lay very still on the floor, puke dribbling from my chin, butt cheeks still covered in plop. I just thank God that the floor was tiled and all I had to do was wipe myself and clean up the rest with a handy mop.

No real surprise that I skipped breakfast that morning. Or that the mop is now never placed too far away.

Across the hall from her classroom was the faculty bathroom. She would often emerge from the bathroom late to class. Once we timed her and she was TEN minutes late to class.

One day my friends and I decided we would go knock on the bathroom door as loud as we could. After doing so we scurried back to our seats as fast as possible, laughing so hard we were crying. A few minutes later that bitch-for-a-teacher emerged and started teaching class. My friends and I were pissed -- we were trying to piss off the teacher and she was totally composed. We knew she heard us since the bathroom was small (it only held one person).

My friends and I knew what we had to do. For the next month or so we continued to harass the pied plopper on a regular basis. One day, though, things took a turn for the worse. My friend went to knock on the bathroom door only to have the bathroom door swing open mid knock. There stood our teacher, looking like a red hippopotamus. She burst into our classroom and screamed at us for what seemed an eternity. She said that for the last few weeks she was unable to -- and I quote -- "take a crap without one of you snotnosed punks disturbing me."

I couldn't take it anymore. I burst out laughing. So did a few of my friends. This made the hippopotamus become a raging bull. She sent me, my friends, and the kid who got caught to the office, and we were all given three days of in-school suspension.

I hit the stall, turned and let fire with a most unsavory broth of butt mush that covered the tank and about three feet of wall. I cleaned myself as quick as I could and got the hell out of there! This was when I saw the little Asian guy heading back towards the can for his hourly mop job. I'm thinking, "Did he notice I was the only guy leaving the porcelain convenience?"

Just as I got back to our table, I heard the screeching of one pissed off mop boy -- the whole restaurant could hear!

I told my buddies I will give them money later but I really had to leave NOW! And as I headed for the nearest exit, "Little Dragon" the mop boy spotted me and ran after me with the mop through the buffet! I was mortified and sprang like a gazelle chased by a cheetah -- I didn't know if he had shit on the mop and wanted some payback, or what. I didn't stop running for probably 400 yards outside.

I met up with my friends later that night, and they said, "What the hell did you shit all over the place for? We had to give the manager a $20 dollar bill for clean up!"

I explained about mixing lots of beer and buffet food. They understood and forgave me. But as for the Little Dragon, I'm not taking any chances -- he never caught me, and I never went back!

By the time I got there, I was pretty much frantic. I was about to ask to use the toilet when I had to go in. I asked the photographed how long it would take and he said about one hour, maybe longer. I knew I would never make it that long. I just tried to clench as I posed and he took the pictures.

I had to go so bad that I was gritting my teeth. Then I had to do this one pose where I was bending over to the front. I told him there was no way I could possibly bend, but he didn't know my predicament and he told me to do what he said, and so I bent down, knowing what would happen.

And the force was too powerful... everything just exploded out of me.

I started crying, I was so embarrassed. He told me to go clean up, so I went to the bathroom and pulled down my pants. It was disgusting. I wiped myself as best I could, stuck my underwear in my purse, and put on my stained pants.

Let's just say I never modeled for that photographer again.

Alt.Coffee, Avenue A, NYC. At the bottom -- "It was very hard to write this."

One day I went to one of the stalls to take a load off. What I discovered in there was amazing. There, inside the white porcelain bowl, was a turd the size of a brick.

I am not kidding. This thing was about seven or eight inches long, and four or five inches thick. But that's not the worst of it... the ends were square. Yes, SQUARE!

Talk about shitting a brick! I ran to get some of my buddies to take a look at this thing. The putrid, sun-dried skunk carcass odor had started to dissipate, so everyone ran in. All the guys gasped in amazement.

We all wondered the same thing. Who's ass could such a thing come out of? We suspected the big chunky guy down at the end of the hall that kept to his self.

This turd almost took on a life of it's own. We had to go to class, but we all went back into the restroom after class to check on the goliath gullet nugget. The turd had grown to an even more monstrous mass as it soaked up the water during the day. The ends were now rising up out of the water line, and it was still very square.

One of the more creative students decided to honor and commemorate the titanic turd by erecting a colorful sign with the words "Amazing Turd" written on it. There was an arrow pointing down to the bountiful bowel beast. The most hilarious part was a rubber glove taped to the wall, another sign that said "Free Examination Glove," and a small flag stuck in the continental crap. I guess he wanted to claim this new anal island for America.

We all cracked up laughing and someone remembered that old joke: "Why is shit tapered? ....So your asshole doesn't slam shut!" My friend said, "dude, this guys asshole slammed shut!"

It started sometime around 2:00 am. I awoke in a cold sweat. My stomach was churning furiously. I lay in bed. Desparate to take my mind off of my nausea, stared at the ceiling trying to find animals in the cracks of the hotel ceiling. It worsened. It felt like I had an atomic watermelon ticking away in my stomach.

Finally I gave in and rushed to the bathroom, where I sat myself on the cold toilet and proceeded to unleash a most vile smelling torrent of diarrhea. Unfortunately it didnt help. I wrapped my arm around my stomach and leaned over on the toilet as the liquid shit continued to burn out of my ass. This seemed to go on for hours, to no avail. It finally slacked off and I stumbled wretchedly back to bed, where I fell asleep for maybe 5 minutes.

I woke up, sat bold upright in bed and belched. With the belch gushed forth everything I had eaten in the past 3 days. This was REAL projectile. When the stream died down, I realized the warm puddle I had made in my boxers. Clutching my belly I stumbled again to the bathroom, ripping off my shorts on the way, and knelt before the white goddess, expecting another projectile. Instead I farted and more burning diarrhea shot out of my bare butt onto the opposite wall. So I turned 180 degrees to let the flow continue into the toilet. Covered in vomit and yellowish assjuice, I fell into bed. I slept all day with a bowl under the covers and a bucket on the nightstand to catch both my anal and oral waterfalls. This went on for three days. I thought I had died.

I thought that this sounded very unbelievable, yet very cool at the same time. Imagine being able to squirt water out of your butt! (But then again, who would want to?) Anyways, I decided I would have to put this to the test.

Three nights later I was having a bath when I remembered the offending article. This was the time to put theory into action. I squatted in the bath so that my rusty sheriff's badge was submerged under water. I then tried to "suck" the water up, stood, and tried to push the water out. Not only was I not able to suck any up, I couldn't squirt any out because there was nothing to squirt out in the first place.

After my fifth attempt, boredom had set in. This was impossible! That said, I decided to give it one last try. I squatted, sucked, stood up and tried to squirt. I heard a splash. YES!!! I had done it!

Or so I thought.

I looked down and, to my complete horror, discovered that I had launched my very own brown sailing boat. All that contracting and pushing had caused me to follow through into my own bath water. I leapt out of the tub, leaving behind the contaminated water and the shameless floater. Oh well, it can't get any worse.

Famous last words. Once I had pulled the plug I soon realized this brown trout was not going to be swimming down the plug hole. There was no choice but to tickle the turd out of the tub using a wad of tissue, which was then unceremoniously flushed away down the toilet.

That's the last time I try any experiments that involve my delicate bumfluffed bottom. I've learned my lesson... the hard way. I'll leave the Fun with Feces to the experts!

Well, I got the urge to shit.

Of course, at near midnight, you can't ask to use the restroom, and of course it was a long drive to any facilities, so I shut off the lights, walked out in front of the truck, dropped my pants, and took a good dump. I always carry toilet paper for these rare occasions.

I finished my business and then thought I would do this guy a special favor, you know, so his wife and kids or even his family labrador retriever didn't discover this pile of human dung in his driveway. I backed the truck up a little, dropped the plow, and pushed the turd pile into the snow pile next to his garage. Then I backed out of his driveway, feeling like I had done the right thing, only to discover I had created a long brown streak the entire length of his driveway.

1. Someone pulled a "Caddyshack" twice at the resort pool. Two times in one day while in the pool (which was big enough to hold 300 people), everyone had to get out due to the fact that a report was made that somebody shit in the pool. To my knowledge nothing was found, not even a Baby Ruth.

2. We went to a different high class resort for dinner one night and I had to take a piss in the lobby men's room. I walked in to find a man in his 30's totally naked, dick swinging, trying to wiggle into a pair of tighty-whiteys. He was with two teenage boys and the whole bathroom floor was covered with towels and clothing... I guess they were using the bathroom as a locker room. I just stepped over the clothes and went to the urinal. It stunk like shit and B.O. in there!!

3. At a rest stop on the way home I, for the first time ever, saw a turd in a urinal. I know this has been brought up on PoopReport, but it was MY first experience with it.

Our pissed-off co-worker came in every morning to clean the bathrooms. I happened to be working the next morning, and arrived before him. I immediately mixed chocolate syrup and flour into a thick paste and coated the fake doo-doo with it. I then went into the women's bathroom, placed it in the sink, and splattered the chocolate paste all over the sink and counter. It was so real looking and disgusting I couldn't believe my eyes!

But it was missing something... ah ha! I placed a single square of TP on top, and then waited.

This guy was furious! He came running to the back of the restaurant saying, "We really have some sick customers that come in here! Some sick lady s**t in the sink!! I'm not cleaning that up!! No way!!"

Barely keeping a straight face, we all followed him into the bathroom because we claimed we didn't believe him. When everyone saw my handiwork it was a real riot! I told him to have fun cleaning that up! He said he would quit first.

Then my friend did something I didn't expect. He said to the guy, "You'll like cleaning it up! See?" He picked up the fake doo-doo and took a bite!!

Everyone laughed for days and days about that one!! It was the funniest prank I have ever pulled. Everyone who was there for it laughed their ass off, including our pissed-off co-worker.

While this is going on, the kid, who is about two or three, is wandering around the shelves opposite the game case. I watch him for a minute as the mom makes up her mind what game to buy. The kid stops for a minute, squats a bit, makes a strange face, and continues wandering.

Suddenly, the smell hits, and the woman starts yelling: "CONNER!!! DID YOU MAKE POOPIES???!!! DID YOU????!!!!! DID YOU MAKE POOPIES??!!" And then she grabs the kid under the armpits, asks where the boy's section is and where the restrooms are, and then high-tails it to fetch new training pants while yelling "Make way! Stinky kid!" as she runs down the aisle.

She didn't even buy the game. I feel bad for the other kid -- Conner's poopies ruined his birthday.

After about three pitchers of beer we finally ordered a round of them. It was slimy, but the lemon, hot sauce and vodka made a really interesting flavor combination. Needless to say, we both had about ten.

We went home, had our usual drunken love fest, and went to bed.

I was rudely awakened at about seven AM with searing heartburn and intestinal pain like I have never felt in my life. It was like someone had their hands in my bowels and was twisting as hard as they could. I got up to run to the bathroom, but in my still half-drunk state, fell backwards and landed on the bed again. I got back up hard, and at that moment the gas and pain finally had their way with me. Still naked, as I struggled to rise, hot liquid poop sprayed out of my ass, all over the bed, down my legs, the back of my nuts, and the carpet.

I ran to the bathroom and jumped in the shower, where I started to puke. I could hear my wife yelling things like "you nasty bitch!" and "I hope you don't think I'm cleaning that shit up!"

I sobered up not too long after that -- because when you're crapping-your-pants drunk, then it's time to stop.

These are all absolutely true, and I have any number of people who will attest to that.

I am the Yam Master. You'll see.

-- Dale

From Maximum Suziki:

When I was in my late teens, I got this really, really nasty intestinal disease called Crohns. Believe me, nobody wants this stuff. I was down to 115 lbs. I went through five major operations which consisted of cutting parts out, waiting for the disease to come back, cutting some more out. Finally, it subsided after a few years, but since your intestines remove a lot of the bad things that should never reach the air, I was left with a devastating ability. I can kill a plant at 20 yards.

I think I hold the record for distance and lethality. Top this:

It was in the summer, three years ago, and I was in my pick-up heading home from a part-time job. I had the windows down (no air) and pulled up alone in the center lane of a three lane road at a red light. An old Datsun, with a young guy driving sitting next to his girlfriend, pulled to a stop in the right lane next to me. It was time, so I let 'er rip. About 10 seconds later, the girl in the car starting hitting the guy and yelling, "You pig!" He kept saying, "It wasn't me, it wasn't me!" I was laughing so hard, I had my head down on the steering wheel in convulsions when the light turned green. The car had to be twenty feet away. I believe I hold the record for distance in open air. Also, you might want to ride in front of me, not behind.

Don't even ask about my relationship with the wife....

There's more: http://www.maximum-suzuki.com/

Jason again, with babes and cars, outside Nascar Cafe @ Universal City Walk, Orlando. I think the shirt got him the girls.

Jason at the Mardi Gras celebration @ Universal. The Village People have just performed, and KC & The Sunshine Band are coming up next. I don't think Jason cares. He still has one of the girls.

Jason has something on his face. His friend wants a poop shirt, too.

Last night, as I was getting ready for work, I heard my six-year-old nephew talking in the bathroom, so I knocked on the door and asked what he was doing, adding that if he was just playing around he ought to go into his bedroom. "I'm not playing," he replied, "I'm pooping, and that's serious business!" I started to walk away when I heard him say something else, so I paused outside the door.

"That was a big one!"

A muffled fart, followed by giggles and "Noisy one!"

"Aww, just a little one!"

He went on in the same manner for the next few minutes, then flushed and washed his hands. I was still laughing to myself when he opened the door and said "Your turn, but watch out 'cuz it stinks!"

I realized quickly that the use of this thing was not as self-explanatory as I'd imagined. Thank goodness I was alone! "Three knobs?" I thought to myself. I decided I'd attack this booty-beast the same way I handle most awkward situations: trial and error.

I tried the middle knob first. It began to fill the bowl. I noticed the stopper at the back, and pushed it. "Ah!" I said to myself triumphantly. "It's like a butt bath!" I paused. "...but what do you do with your wet bum?" I guessed you're supposed to have a towel on hand.

The butt bath didn't quench my curiosity. I figured the other knobs must control the "spritzer-jet-thingy," as it is probably officially called. I mused over whether I was supposed to sit first, and then turn the knobs, or vice-versa. Taking my chances, I sat down and turned the knob to my right.

"OUCH!!" I exclaimed aloud, nearly frying my poor sphincter, leaping in a panic from the bowl. OK. So you must adjust the temperature first, and then sit down.

After figuring all of that out, I sat there for a moment, taking in the strange sensation of the gentle stream lapping at my bung. "How odd," I thought to myself, "that this is what civilized people do."

And that's it. I got the hang of it, and enjoyed it. In the end (pun intended), I found the bidet to be a pleasurable and functional tool. I highly recommend it!

Now, for any of you unfamiliar with Chinese buffets, the idea is to eat as much grub as you can before you realize how shitty it is. So, honoring the age-old tradition, I slopped down plates until I couldn't bear anymore.

Around 7:30, my friend and I decided to part ways. I was on my way home when the first wave of Chinese torture invaded my stomach. "Should I stop?" I thought. "...no, only ten more minutes to my house."

That's the kind of statement you wish you had never made. My stomach was really dancing the tango, but every so often I lightly let out a fart that relieved some of the insistent pressure. "I'm gonna make it," I kept telling myself. "I'm gonna make it."

The time was upon me. I had pulled in front of my house. The only task I had now was to make it in, get to the think pot, and unleash hell. But the second I stood up, my sphincter showed just how angry he was with me for forcing him to hold this ungodly being in its clutches for the last 20 minutes. So now I'm running to my front stoop... and fumbling through my keys... my body shuts down...

The fight was over. I lost. All down my left leg was the day old shrimp lo-mein, hastily digested only a half hour before. So what do I do now? I opened the door to see if the coast was clear, and heard my sister and her fiancé clammering in the living room -- a room I'd need to pass in order to get to the bathroom. "Oh shit," I think, "this is going to be tough."

So I run for it, and make it, but all I hear is my sister say, "I think you stepped in shit!"

"I'll be out in a minute," I replied. Yeah right, I had about a good half hour of ass and clothes cleaning before the bathroom door even came remotely close to opening. I jumped in the shower, cleaned myself off, got out and grabbed a towel to wrap my shitty clothes up in. I wrapped another towel around myself and headed for my room. All the while, my sister was yelling, "Are you going to help me with this?" She was cleaning my poo off of the hallway rug.

"I'll be right down!" I changed and went downstairs to help clean the shit off the rug. The next day, I threw my shit-ridden suit in a dumpster up the block. Now, every time I see my sister in the hallway, I let out a little chuckle. I mean, it's not funny that she was cleaning my shit up, but it kinda is...

My roommate woke me up the next morning, asking me where our friend went. Her car and shoes were still there but she was nowhere to be found. Our living room was torn apart. First of all, there was this huge pile of puke next to the couch and the couch was also completely covered. Everything from the coffee table had been pushed onto the floor and was on top of the puke pile. Then there was three huge shit stains. They were like completely ground into the carpet. There was an actual turd smeared on the kitchen wall and in the garage there was yet another pile of shit. It was everywhere -- on the doorhandle, the shower curtain, in the bathroom etc. Then we heard from our neighbor that he spotted a blonde run out of our house in just a towel at 5 am. My roommate had to leave for work, so I was stuck with the shit.

While cleaning it, I called the friend to find out what the hell happened. She claimed she couldn't remember, and then had the nerve to tell me, "it sucks to be you right now," and didn't even offer to come assist with the clean up.

We actually had to get our front room recarpeted. There was no way to get it out we called a professional carpet cleaning company and they said there was no hope in saving it because it was ground in too deep and the smell had already soaked into the carpet pad. We actually had to stay at a friend's house for two days because the smell was so rancid!!!!

One day I went pee and the toilet got clogged -- just from pissing and wiping. I left it. So of course my dad decided to go take a major beefy shit.

My dad is a Shameful Shitter and cannot tolerate the smell of his own shit. I woke up from a nap and found him gagging over the sink. I didn't know what the hell to think. He said the toilet would not flush, and he couldn't find the plunger. I think he used that as an excuse -- so someone would go up there and plunge for him, so he wouldn't have to have a barfing session.

My mom, Queen of Clean, can handle just about anything. After all, she changed my diapers and shit-stained encopresis underwear as a child. So although we thought she was ready for any disaster, she was not in for what happened.

She goes into the bathroom with the plunger like a soldier with a gun, ready for fight, and gasps at the huge pile in shock-- probably wondering how one person create this much shit. Looking at the long piles of logs, filled to the rim, she begins plunging. Even my mom, that strong little woman, cannot tolerate the heavy smell. She bends over the bathtub and throws up.

Coming down stairs with tears in her eyes, she begins yelling at my dad, who then blames me for using too much toilet paper. Hey, what can I say, I keep myself clean -- I am not related to the Queen of Clean for nothing. Then I get a lecture about how much toilet paper I should use. Four squares is enough, my mom claims.

I did not witness the shit part, my ma just told me about it. The only thing that bothered me was the smell that lingered. I could not go upstairs for awhile.

On Friday nights I was left in charge of the store in management's absence. This meant I was de facto manager, customer service rep, and security guard all rolled into one.

We had bathrooms reserved for employees upstairs by our lounge and a single, unisex bathroom on the ground floor for customers. This bathroom was routinely vandalized, flooded, or bombed out. Some customers knew of the bathrooms upstairs and would help themselves to plopping their nasty asses on one of our very own bowls.

One Friday night I had to take my evening poop. I went upstairs to the employee bathrooms. Upon walking in the men's room, the stench of a freshly dropped deuce almost knocked me over. I opened the first stall, and lo and behold is the biggest mound of shit I've ever laid my eyes upon.

The seat was up. Poop was up the side of the bowl, so thick and lumpy that it had absorbed all the water from within the bowl! It looked as though someone had pooped out the son of blob. This was by far the biggest mound of poop I've ever laid my watering eyes on. Upon further inspection, I saw that there was no paper -- thesick bastard that left this colon calling card was so proud of it that he departed without wiping his ass!

But the real kicker was a small piece of paper left on top of this steaming pile of shit. It read: "Beat this!"

Too afraid to even attempt flushing the toilet, I promptly ran out and commandeered the ladies room. Employees get shat on enough. We should not have to share our throne with the public.

But at the outset of the 21st Century, it seems these prediction have gone down the toilet. So why has print media survived against the new competition from the Internet? It's simple...you can't crap and read the Internet.

What is better than reading a good Dave Barry column while veins pop out of your forehead? How about a People Magazine feature on Brittany Spears while forcing a nutty log out of your rectum and in to the awaiting body of water? Can you imagine a warm steamy load slithering out of you anus without an Abe Lincoln biography in hand?

Most bathrooms are not equipped with the phone line needed to plug in a line and hook up your laptop to read the online New York Times while dropping the atomic stinkbomb. Not to mention, sometimes you just don't have the time to do all of the setting up it takes to bring up a site on the web before the dookie explodes out of your rump.

How about how hard it would have been for society to adjust to someone slyly walking a computer in to the closest restroom, then shutting the door and poo pooing away? It's a great deal more difficult to imagine than watching someone pick up a USA Today and heading back to the john.

"Reading on the toilet is a great way to take your mind off the strain that your body is going through," said Jerry DeCarrio, head of the Hartford, Connecticut based institute for media/restroom research. "Many have found that using the Internet is more difficult than squeezing out a number two."

However, technology experts have predicted that a newly surfaced device may make paper and pooper folks change their streaks. The LAN wireless makes it easy for readers to access their favorite online sites and shit at the same time. On top of that, they're getting cheaper and easier to use everyday.

"We needed to make it easy for people to access any paper they want while dropping the deuce," said Andrea Donat a LAN developer for a local computer company. "With the new LAN wireless, you have very little hassle. You can hold the 'net in your hands with ease while crouching on the crapper."

The future may play a different tune for the methods of dumping and reading. As for now, I'd suggest you find the print version of this article to read while you squat and bomb away.

On this web site, we all enjoy a good laugh after reading stories where the pooper leaves a mess (accidentally or otherwise) for someone else to deal with. I, unfortunately, have to deal with cleaning up after my own ass. In the division of household labor, I get bathroom duty -- because believe it or not, I prefer it to dusting and vacuuming. I generally don't even mind: just smoke up beforehand and whistle while you work.

An ass such as mine generates great backsplash, i.e. fecal matter staining/sticking to the underside of the toilet seat. I also create the kind of sticky poo that doesn't get washed down with the flush water, and has to be manually scraped off the bowl. And Heaven forbid I don't get that right away -- the missus will bitch me out something fierce. It's a job that requires constant vigilance.

I'm not sure what the point of this story is, but I guess I wanted to remind the poopsters of the downside of doody. Valentine's Day is coming -- you might want to consider a special gesture for that special someone who keeps your shitter clean.

And therein lay the problem: for Jason, this was TOO much fun to consider anything except the fun that he was having. Everything else took a back seat.

Well, you can see where this is going. Jason shit himself and continued on with the play marathon. Over time, most of the kids tried to steer clear of him as he was getting quite ripe; but the backyard was big and Jason was still having such a great time that he didn't seem to care.

Then, on one of his many trips running past my dad, he was snagged by the drawers. After a deep, decisive whiff, my father whipped Jason's trousers down to the ground in front of God and everybody and uttered the now-immortal phrase: "Shit! I knew it!"

To this day, people who don't even know us tell this tale; it has spread to at least four other states. They still debate on the actual meaning of the line -- whether "Shit!" was intended as exclamatory or descriptive, or both. No one knows for sure. As for my dad, he doesn't even remember it. But it naturally lives on for me as one of my fondest childhood memories.

I faked like I had to crap, made a beeline to the bathroom, and carefully placed it high on the soap tray in his shower. I knew he wouldn't be taking a shower anytime soon, and if he did take one, I thought it would be pretty hilarious for him to reach up for some soap and end up grasping a turd.

Surprisingly, the feces didn't even begin fouling up the house for three more days. But from then on, the stench just became progressively worse. Finally, the stench had become so disgusting that it was impossible to avoid, no matter what part of the house you were in. It had been six days since the hiding of the dook.

I came over to use his computer. As I sat, typing and holding my nose, Bill unexpectedly attacked me and dragged me feet-first to the bathroom, ordering me to remove the dook.

"I can't believe you hid a dook... I know it was you!", he screamed.

"Didn't you see my note!?" I replied. Then I lifted the real bar of soap in the other soap tray (which hadn't been touched), revealing my note: " I HID A DOOK".

I don't know what is sicker... the dook, or the fact I proved without a doubt that the boy never showered.