hi dave. i know you probly get tons of letters from fans of your website and mine is no differnet from all of theres. i let a friend of mine borrow my laptop for a while and found aletter she typed out, addressed to you. i think it's only right i share this with its rightful addressee.

p.s., her registered screen name on your website is "Moly".

Dear Dave,

A long-time fan of PoopReport.com and an even longer-time Shameful Shitter, I'm writing you this e-mail moreso as a journal entry to be later hand-written into my secret diary. I suppose it's no longer a secret should this ever be accidently sent, intentionally sent, or in any way seen by my adorable boyfriend who is still in the dark about my caca chronicles. We'll hope the little woodland fairy book never surfaces, or at least until after I rid myself of this horrid plague of shamefulness.

I initially discovered PoopReport.com by perhaps the best accident of my life. Being the typical out of school teenager I spent my nights online and my days in bed and kept myself from going crasy with cabin fever by associating with fellow teenage cyber pals. At the time my bowel strength was, at least to me, amasing. I had the time down to a ten minute differential whenever I'd have my weekly field trip to "the potty". I'd been accustomed to running downstairs to go number one and saving my junkfood for my sister's bathroom. Every Tuesday morning at the ripe ol' hour of two AM, or more specifically two-fifteen..ish, I'd bless my darling asshole of a sister with a gift from my own asshole.

My friends thought it was amazing that I could contain my meals for a full seven days before shitting, and I'll admit I omitted a few emergencies where I had to get rid of some Doritos on a Thursday or something. The jokes of my junk were often the main topic of the night. One particular night I was (or at least according to that little woodland fairy book) desperately trying to beat the final level on my ROM while chatting with my peers and holding in the previous nights Ramen. My friends asked why I didn't just give in and go, and believe me I wanted to. My dilemma? There was no Kleenex Cottonelle to be found and I wasn't desperate enough yet to make my shit-chute suffer with the likes of Angel Soft of Charmin. In a last-ditch effort to make me get off my, at the time, very large ass my friends started naming off all the potential worse things I could be using to wipe my bum. After they named off silly things like sand paper, leaves, and newspaper, I typed out the words "corn cob" and was bombarded with a bunch of "WTF" and "LOL"s. Nobody apparently listened in history class when the teacher talked about how those genius Native Americans and early settlers would keep dried corn cobs handy. I opened up my Internet Explorer and typed out "corn cob toilet paper". The first website that showed was none other than PoopReport.com with a story by The Big Wiper on Wiping B.C. (Before Charmin).

I, of course, had to share this with my friends and laughed myself silly at the report. To this day that continues to be one of my favourite stories and kudos to "TBW" for taking on such a challenge and writing it out so well. I have to admit though, PatrioticPooper won my colon with The Heartbroken Windbreaker as that to this day is the only story to make me laugh so hard I shit myself. Not that you needed to know that.

Anyway, that was how I discovered the magnificent website I still enjoy thoroughly on a daily basis, whether I'm reading new stories or looking through past favourites and expanding my vocabulary. The doctors said a lot of my smarts wouldn't come back after that car accident (I guess stories of the immobilizer would be fine for a little giggle in the forums) but I feel I have an adequate adolescent vocabulary thanks to poop reporters and their use of words. I'm sorry to say my shamefulness kept me from joining the website for several years. It was only a few months ago that I managed to finally come up with an alias (my own name, what a way to keep my identity confidential!) and subscribed to my long time secret e-home. I have yet to make more than a few comments and would never dare submit my own story. Nothing I have within my little woodland fairy book can even compete with the tales of turds I've seen published on PoopReport.com.

One of my favourite kind of stories are those good ol' hangover shits. I never thought I'd be able to relate to any of them as I was a good kid who stayed away from drugs and alcohol. It almost makes me proud to say my ass is parked on the potty and my stomach is churning with that not-so-familiar feeling of a hangover. I am determined to not give in and pray to this porcelain god, but rather show it who's boss and birth this beast of bowels. The constant nausea isn't the worst thing on my mind though, it's the fact that so far this shit is nothing like the boozey bowel movements I've read about.

I have only been wasted beyond belief twice in my nineteen years of existance. The first time I was just getting over being sick and hadn't eaten in quite some time and only pissed out the remains of my Jager Bombs. The second time, last night, I had a small mashed potato dinner as earlier I'd been treated to Wendy's for an out-of-town lunch and was still pretty full from that chicken sandwich and fries. I'm still new to alcohol and am not quite sure of my limitations yet. I assumed since four generous shots of Peppermint Schnapps only had me feeling very happy I could handle a few more swigs of that and some sips of straight Jager. I'm not fond of the licorice taste, or the peppermint for that matter but our purchase at the adult toy store was lying on the bed and I figured I'd get as drunk as possible before I let that damned thing near me. Yeah, yeah, I'm immature and hesitant about some new experiences.

Before long my alcohol consumption caught up to me and I fell off the bed. Boyfriend did the smart thing by taking the bottles away and the foreplay began. We'll pretend I was too drunk to remember what happened next so I won't be tempted to get off topic here. Anyway, all was fun and fine for a while until I had to go number one. I was too drunk to even sit on my own and was not about to ask the boy to carry me to the bathroom and help me tinkle. I decided to hold it until I felt my kidneys were about to burst before mentioning something. Incontinence is not only embarassing but new to me as I only recently learned those constant twitching episodes were seizures caused by epilepsy and it's not an easy thing to contain yourself (or your human waste) when you're lying on the ground convulsing. Damned you body for making me go into a seizure right as I was en route to the bathroom. I woke up in a puddle of my own piss moments later and will continue to pretend I don't remember that either from this moment on.

I'm pretty sure that was the most embarassing thing about last night. It bothers me slightly that I have laughed myself literally shitless but I have yet to poo my pants because of epilepsy. I intend to eventually send a letter to Motherload to see if maybe I do have some subconscious control of my bowels when I'm unconscious and convulsing or if I'm tempting fate by wanting this experience to happen already just so I can know what happens.

Back to the drunken shit, shall we? I don't know if maybe it's just a majority of the stories that you've published or if everyone who has the hangover toilet tales swear they are releasing the diarrhetic demon that's been beating on the gates of hell all morning, but as I sit here I only have that mild cramp in my stomach and a twitch in my left leg. I'm trying not to strain myself too badly for I'd hate to have something happen where I really do need to seek Motherload's guidance, but I'm also getting impatient. I want to experience the shit of my life, damn it! I want to feel the beads of sweat dribble down my face and pool onto my thighs as I feel the intestinal battle slowly but surely press forward to take the field. I want to swear I'm shitting razors or say my sphincter will never be the same after laying that cable line, or however the expression goes.

Why, Dave, oh why am I sitting here occassionally glancing over at the empty coffee mug and pink striped socks by my sink and actually being able to focus on them rather than nearly passing out from the exhaustion of pushing forth my loaf and pinching it? Maybe I still am slightly drunk or maybe I'm not drinking the right kind of alcohol to have one of those poops that so many poop reporters have talked about. If memory serves me correct they all drank beer, which kind of sucks 'cause I can't stand the taste of most beers. I tolerate Budweiser at hockey games, mostly because that's what the boyfriend buys and after a sip or two it really isn't that bad. Anything else is just nauseating.

I think I may have to end this letter and admit defeat. I was so looking forward to being able to have my own shit story to some day share when I'm not ashamed. I even weighed myself on the bathroom scale before seating myself on the throne to see if I could have one of those one-pounders my mom often mentioned she had. She works at a clinic and has always gotten a good laugh out of weighing herself before and after pooing to see if she loses any weight, and she always calls me either while on the toilet or after getting back to her desk to let me know. Could you really ask for a better mom? Her public shitting gives me so many stories I could possibly begin to share with poop reporters but I still want one of my very own.

... ... HAH! I felt that. If you could've seen me I'm sure you would've been proud. I threw this silly computer aside, propped my feet up on the bathroom scale for leverage, and prepared to poo. It was a little uncomfortable but the twitch in my leg ceased and the cramp on my gut subsided as I felt a firm fecal friend come out of hiding to play with me. It tried to retreat back inside but with a gentle coaxing I managed to get what felt like a full two inches out before having to stop for a breather. I never thought I'd understand that awkward feeling of having something partially hanging out of my ass, and it's not necessarily a good feeling to me so I did strain myself a little to get it out. Three, four, five whole inches it felt like before my tooter tightened again and I knew my hungover baby was born. I suppose all that's left to do now is to reach for the Cottonelle, clean up, and admire my very first drinkers shit.

Oh, what the hell. There's ain't shit in there except ass wipe?

... Wow, that's like a kick in the knees. :-(