Evening, PoopReport,
How are you? Good? Excellent.
I'm not sure if this story has been featured on your fine interwebs at some point in the distant past (I checked, but couldn't find). If not, I'm hoping you would be interested in it, as it's kind of fun, and maybe you would be able to establish the veracity of the following tale.
This was told to me one dark and gloomy night at a miserable house party in Manchester, England. I'd taken quite a quantity of acid about an hour before, and the hideousness of the story just melted into me; I've never been able to forget it.
It goes something like this: a man-to-lady transsexual has just gone post-op. S/he has been out about a week or two, and is feeling distinctly unwell. One night, after a heavy night on the town, she retires to bed, feeling sicker than ever, with a red rash around the bottom of her legs/bum bum/waist area. Her kindly manfriend puts her to bed, but can't be fucked to do much else, and the next morning leaves without checking on her, assuming she's well.
The next day, the manfriend calls in on her and discovers that she seems to have flu symptoms, but is otherwise okay, except that she smells terribly of shit.
The day after, checking again, he discovers that she's sitting in a pile of her own shit. He cleans and changes her, and leaves.
The next day again, he just sticks an adult diaper on her and leaves her to drink JD & Coke, watch repeats of Seinfeld, and sit in her own poopy. Repeat for six days or so. On the sixth day, she's not moving much -- maybe a faint alcoholic groan or two. He tries to move her only to discover that her entire mangina/lower abdomen area is partially rotted away, with brown fecal matter and dermal sludge oozing over the mattress protector.
It turns out that the surgeon who fitted the bespoke "lady parts" had cut through the anal/intestinal wall and connected the new vagina to the intestinal tract, which was henceforth slowly filling with fetid, rotting excrement, like an oversoiled diaper buried within a side of beef, poisoning her blood and tissue and leaving her as half-transsexual, half-rotting-corpse-at-the-Somme. Yes, her mandung had been flowing straight into the freshly-cut velvet sweetbox, leaving it clagged up and flaking like a bag of poo in a hot window.
What do you reckon, Poomasters?
I, frankly, didn't know who else to turn to. If anyone can answer the call of the poomystery, I know it's you. It's good to know that out there somewhere is someone that really CARES about poo. D'ya think y'all can solve this one for me?
Kind regards,
Lewis
