MAIN SECTIONS
MAIN SECTIONS
Stories About Poop Intellectual Crap Consumer Reports Fun with Feces Poop at the Office Techniques Travel Logs The Captain's Log Academic Poop Home  
RESOURCES The PoopReport Gift Pack Poop Culture: The Book The PoopReport Store The Skatole Shirt PoopReport FAQ Best Of PoopReport Press Room Advertise! PoopReport on Myspace PoopReport on Facebook NEWS AND ADVICE The BM News Wire Ask PoopReport Ask a Poodiatrist Eternal Debates FEATURES Special Reports Movie Poop Archive Toilet Paper Survey Pooetry Comics Poop Contests MOVEMENTS I Poop and I Vote!  Shameless Shitting Poop For Peace The Summer Stoolstice DISCUSSIONS Shit Of My Career Childbirth Poop Book Of The Shameless First Memory of Poop More... REPORT POOP Poop Forums PoopReport Chat Submit 
NavigationPoop Comics Our BuddiesLower left rotating ad most recent poll -- formattedPoop at the Movies |
 Blame The Blue MoonPosted 04.11.2005 by Pill Pooper (451)
I'm not particularly fond of sushi. I'll eat it, but not all that often. But a good buddy of mine has been on a sushi kick over the last few weeks, so I've been eating much more then normal. What I have found out about sushi is that it really doesn't fuck my stomach up like, say, Pizza Hut or Boston Market. I can consume as much sushi as I want without the fear of having to drop a bomb behind enemy lines.
Or so I thought. We headed down to a local restaurant called the Office Lounge. Nice little place that's pretty close to my house and serves sushi as well as normal, everyday American food. The great thing about the O Lounge is that you can get a spicy tuna roll as an appetizer and follow it up with a nice greasy cheesesteak. You're getting the taste of the Orient but closing the deal the American way. They also have about every type of beer you can think of. Some of the beers are those weird-ass micro brews that only yuppies drink, and the other is that weird-ass stuff that you only drink because your buddy says, "Try this, it tastes like shit." I hadn't eaten at all this particular day so I ordered up a meal fit for Emperor Hirohito himself. One spicy tuna roll, one spicy salmon roll, one order of the fried crab things, and, to finish the deal, that nice greasy cheesesteak. If you're gonna go off your diet, you mide as well do it the right fucken way! To start the night off right, we ordered up a big pitcher of Killian's and also a pitcher of this slop called Blue Moon Ale. If you haven't had Blue Moon Ale, save yourself the four bucks and drink some dirty pond water instead. Blue Moon is a light ale, similar in color to Coors Light but much more cloudy; and they drop a single slice of orange in the glass. I later found out the orange is thrown in to totally mask the horrifying taste of this shit they call Blue Moon. I hammered down a Killian's to get the palate ready and then took my first sip of Blue Moon. Even before you decide to imbibe this gruel, your nose will foreworn you. It smells like perfume -- not sure which one, but definitely perfume. If you don't believe me, smell it. Anyway, as I consumed my first pint of Blue Moon, I could feel the chunder bomb growing within my bowels. Bear in mind I was yet to even sample my dinner. So I whacked down my two beers and then the sushi showed up. The train was now stopped at the Brownsville station. No passengers needed to disembark as of yet, but the crowd within was growing antsy. I hammered down the sushi as if I was a starving Armenian and washed it all down with one more pint of Killian's. All was sitting pretty well at the time (again, or so I thought); and then the cheesesteak showed up. As I stuffed the last piece of wasabi-slathered spicy tuna down into my gullet, a minute globule of grease fell to the table. I watched as it hit the table and retained its shape as a perfectly round mass. In hindsight, that was rather symbolic. I grabbed hold of the cheesesteak and beat it up as if it had cursed my mother. It was gone in mere minutes and followed down the chute by the only thing left on the table: a pint of Blue Moon Ale. I sat back in my chair and admired my destruction. I'm not a huge guy, but what I had just consumed would have fed all those starving kids Sally Strothers is always bitching about. It was impressive, to say the least. I leaned back and felt that last piece of cheesesteak slide down into my stomach, making a mighty splash into the river of Killian's and Blue Moon. The train was about to leave the Brownsville station, and head south to Sphinctertown. We sat there for about forty minutes or so, talking about old times and such, and having a few more beers until we decided it was late enough and we had work early tomorrow. Just as I stepped out in the cold winter air, the train arrived at its destination. "Oh shit... I gotta get home ASAP." My buddy, in his state of slight euphoria, just laughed. But it definitely wasn't a joke. The cacophony within my stomach was beginning to churn. We were only about five minutes from my house, but I feared that was about four minutes and 51 seconds too far. We hopped in his truck and off we sped. Every turn was like a knife in my intestines. Every pothole was like a kick in the nuts. I was minutes from total destruction, and then we pulled into my driveway. I jumped out of the moving truck, gave my buddy a behind-the-back wave, and RAN into my house. I bounded up the stairs like an Olympic hurdler only to see my faithful dog waiting for me at the top of the steps. I had to make the last step in one enormous bound in order to clear the pooch and not fall down the stairs. This would be my undoing. Just as I stretched out to clear my beloved dog, my pooper opened barely enough to let out the smallest amount of butt mustard. And as any Dutch boy knows, once the damn has broken, head for the hills. Once the first droplet of doo crested my clenched ass cheeks, sphincter integrity was lost. I cleared my dog and landed face-first in the hallway. Just as I landed, the floodgates opened and shit spewed forth into my boxers. There was no stopping this onslaught -- the only course of action was to wait out the initial firestorm and then run for cover while the enemy was reloading. So I knelt there in my hallway, praying for the shitting to stop so I could crawl into my bathroom and set fire to my spoiled underwear. When the initial wave of molten lava ceased, I crawled to my bathroom to remove my now-debauched boxers. I hurled myself into the shower, removed my shit-filled pants and underwear, and sat there to reenact the Crying Game shower scene. I turned the cold water on and proceeded to blast out some more putrid shit. The walls and the shower curtain looked like a chocolate grenade had gone off. I sat there in my own release, watching it go down the drain, trying to catch my breath. My butthole was puckering and pulsing -- gasping for air, I would imagine. But the war was over. There were mass casualties -- namely my pants, my underwear, my shower curtain, and my bathroom mat. I cleaned myself up as best I could, put the ruined items in a big, black garbage bag, and carried them downstairs. I contemplated throwing them into the fireplace but I figured they would burn for days. I returned to my bedroom and tried to get some sleep. My stomach continued to belch and churn for hours. The demons within were not happy with my choice of liquor and food. I would later find out that it's not the smartest thing to drink beer while consuming sushi. From what I heard, since sushi has higher mercury levels, it will fuck your ass up something fierce if you drink certain alcohol with it. I guess Blue Moon Ale is one of those drinks. I also think that the cheesesteak and sushi decided to reenact the battle of Wake Island within my colon. So the lesson here, my fellow PoopReporters, is this: stay away from sushi and shitty beer. Your underwear will thank you. -- Pill Pooper Post new comment
|
Ad 1
Ad 2
Text Ads
Recent comments
Who's onlineThere are currently 3 users and 315 guests online.
Online users:Thong ad Highest Users
Browse content by author View some statistics Learn more about userpoints |
