I can't understand it- why are people ashamed to crap, fart and stink-up public bathrooms? If people are hanging out in there, putting on make-up or whatever...that's their problem- if they have a problem with funny noises and rank stenches, then maybe they shouldn't spend so much time in the john.
Shoot...when I use a public facility, I hope that I'll do some really loud and smelly farts- it'll drive the gagglers away and give me some privacy. (I just don't trust people who linger in restrooms)-
So, Snapper, as Ben Franklin would say "Fart Proudly!".
And Daphne: Why is it that many crazy people are rich or at least "comfortable"? The millionaire owner of a metal recycling plant that I used to deal with was as crazy as a loon! He had a yacht, and used to associate with crack whores. Oh...and they all seem to like convertibles! This guy had an 81 Eldorado convertible that he bought in the mid 90's...and he paid $8K for the piece o' crap!

Well done, Snapper. I work at the mall myself, and I could give you a detailed report on all the crazys that hang out there; you've got your run-of-the-mill mall rats, usually most obvious are the ones in all black or some other neo-goth color combination. Usually found at the food court (lucky me), or outside the entrance way scaring babies and old people. Then you've got your old timers, hobbling slowly at around 10:30... at least these guys are smart. They know not to get there past 12 - no one wants to run over an old man in a walker, but I've seen it happen too many times.

There are millions of subcatagories, but I won't bore you all with my mall frequenter analysis at this time... suffice it to say, after a long night of drinking, two cups of coffee to keep me awake and an hour or so of smoothie making, I've met my share of these people in the bathroom. And I've probably pooped in clear sound and smell of all of them. Point is, mall crazys, and crazys in general, are the last people on the "Who Not to Poop in the Vicinity of" ladder. If you're ever at my mall, Snapper, come find me at Frullati, and I'll point you in the direction of the most comfortable bathroom for poopage.

We had a barfly freak named "Ratman". He looked like a rat and drank draft beer from opening to closing. He was always alone and after 11:00 or so, he'd leak in his pants on the one vinyl booth seat that he always sat on. Freak leaks on the seat.

Epilogue: Ratman ran out of money and we never saw him again. It was rumored his money was inherited when his incestuous mother died.

Daphne, you have alluded to one of my favorite restaurants: Quaker Steak & Lube. In 1999 I visited some friend living in Industry/Beaver Falls, PA area. QS&L was on our "to do" list. I had a bucket of garlic wings. They were heaven I tell you. BTW, nice touch with the Sinatra jukebox. We have a piano bar in Nashville. They are in heavy rotation of Sinatra music.

I don't get the celebrity reference question. Please explain.

Nevermind. I'm dumb. I missed the "local" part of the question. Fuckin' ADD.

daphe in what style do u wipe your ass sitting or standign and y do u wipe ur ass?

katy: u r dum.

OMG LOL

Why Katy,
Of course I wipe, and I am actually a switch hitter wiper. I do both. Mostly sitting, though.

Hey Big Cheese, I have a theory that people who are affluent can afford to be nuts because they don't need anyone's approval. They have money to live. Oh, I love Eldorados, but I'm not a crack whore.
And Chuck, yes, I grew up 6 miles from the Quaker Steak. I was on their dart team one winter, and my mom was a bookkeeper there in the early 80's. I remember being able to run around the place during the afternoon if I didn't have school. I miss the wings. To eat animals again.

We should all applaud Snapper for this great story, because it's something we can all relate to, Di, with Ratman, not being able to poop, etc. Just awesome story.

I had a couple of crazies in town. One would stand on the street and give everyone the finger... All day. His hair on one side was so matted up, that it looked like a cocker spaniels ear. He was a true homeless loon. However, we had one guy that we called the ice-cream man. He was a baker / butcher or something. He always came in and sat at my bar for hours on end. He was the greazy type. He had that stuck-in-the-seventies feathered hair and he was real pasty. He had the cop mustache and the pedophile grin. He even had the big ass comb in his back pocket... he repulsed me. However, he always had gobs of money! And he tipped well. So, I always took care of the ice-cream man. There were occasions when he would get beligerant, though. I didn't want to piss off a good tipper. So, when he'd start up, I'd have to think fast. I'd have him tab out so I could "change the till". He'd always get the next one on the house and could start a new tab. But, being a smoker, I always had eye drops on me. Well, back then, there was a chemical that was in visine that would get out more than the red. A few drops in a drink and wait. Like clockwork, as soon as the beer was gone, so was the ice-cream man... In the shitter. That stuff would lube up the colon like no other! About 20 minutes later, he'd be shuffling out the door with head hung low. Until tomorrow.

Hey I took a big shit once. It felt good. Let me see. I will go take a crap right now. Any one have any reading materal!!!

Dear David,

A literary agent has been soliciting me after reading this story. He would like to publish it in his big-time magazine, so I thought I'd ask permission to use it outside PR. I'm tired of The Man (you) taking all the profit$$$ off my hard earned work and pain. I have a stomach to feed, you know!

Actually... it's a soon-to-be zine out of Vancouver. Zine #1 is still in the making, but it'll be huge!

You can check this fella, who is known as mr plow, out at
http://www.newmusiccanada.com/genres/artist.cfm?Band_Id=5621
to listen to his music.
AND you can check him out here:
http://www.geocities.com/dfelstein/been_plowed.html
His name again is MR PLOW.

I'd like to thank all my fans for their support.

I live right across the street from the homeless shelter in Santa Barbara, and I work at the neighborhood liquor store, the one that is always in the news, the evil place that sells cheap malt liquor to the homeless. I am sober now at this time but I have been known to be one of those infamous crazy people from time to time there are many here, The Western white house was here back in the 80's boy! that was crazy all the secret service running around, I flipped Ronald Reagan off at the S.B. airport back in 81, and he flipped me off back, it's funny you should mention the old fart I used to know a guy who claimmed to be his God son, I believe the guy he drives a Rolls, he's worth about a hundred mil why would he lie? I know alot of rich people, a few famous ones yet I am poor as dirt, and I'm not related to any of them, we were talking town crazies huh? I'm name droping on poop report.com must be the brain damage....Anyway this town is full of crazy sonsabitchs and I'm one of em, heh,heh,heh,heh,ha,ha,haaaaa, thank you Snapper, I will be taking my Atavin now.

The only town loon I know of is on 14TH Street NW in Washington. She's this crazy homeless woman who hangs out around CVS (near Mt. Pleasant/Columbia Hts) and sings. If you take the 52, 53, or 54 bus (14th street line) or the S1, S2, S4 (16th street line) you'll be sure to find her. She may even be on the bus

Our town crazy, back in the day, was Ron. I wrote about him in the story, The Legend of Baggers Pants. Shameless plug, I know.

Good tale Snapper. I especially liked the Super Mario reference. It was like you ran past Bowser (crazy ladies) met Toad (the toilet) and were told, "Sorry Snapper, but your shit is in another castle," (i.e. the bathroom at your house). I guess you have to be a gamer to get it.

That, Snapper, has to be one of the most erratically wonderful posts ever.

I only have this to add to your question, because I have to go to sleep soon, but I am seriously concerned about following the perfect act, and I want only to do you right.

That was fucking righteous.

My hometown crazy was a man called George.

He is now about 65 or so, if he still breathes air. When I knew him, he was in the Shenango Valley in Sharon, Pennsylvania, around 1990 to 1991 or so known as Crazy George. He drove a convertable blue big ass car. His hair was a parody of Ronald Reagan's, black, pompadored, and it was real. And, he was fucking nuts.

Around 6 pm or so, at Combines Italian Restaurant, George would come rolling in, full of some money from God knows where and on a mission from where the hell ever to wreak havoc on whatever patron was minding his or her own business. The first thing he would do would be to address Robin the bartender to get him a gin and orange juice because it was...

"Refreshing!"

Then, he would sip on it until someone would make the mistake of putting a quarter into the juke box and playing Frank Sinatra. Yes, I said it, Frank Sinatra. Three Coins in a Fountain. Whatever. As soon as you put in old blue eyes, George would come to life, half of a century full of psychosis with no one to fuck with. He would light up a cigarette, and he would regale us with his story of how Ronald Reagan was his real dad. Oh yes, it would be Ronald Reagan's Federal Goons who were trailing him from city to city, making sure he wasn't spreading the story.

"I won't shoot you today, but maybe, just maybe, I'll shoot'ya tomorrow. It depends on what I'm a feelin'."

As he would say this, he would pull an imaginary gun from his left hip pocket (he was left handed) with his right hand, drag it across the vertical line of his left hand side of his profile, then he would rest the imaginary gun on the right side of his face.

Refreshing! Just like orange juice and gin.

He would get only crazier with each Frank Sinatra song. Once, on a very busy Friday night, when ABC Sports was filming a golf classic at Tam O Shantern or whatever the hell it is, Frank got plain skippy nuts, and he decided to ask every woman in the room to dance. There I was, trying to hostess, and he was grabbing women in 400 dollar sequin, poorly-thought out blouses, to have a swing on the floor with him. He was asked to leave. this dude, Mr. Price, looked like he was about to have a heart attack.

He came back 2 weeks later, and the first thing I did was to put 4 dollars in the juke box, all Frank Sinatra. I'm just glad no one knew it was me. He went freaking nuts again. It was worth every penny.

Later on that month, Robin, one of the bartenders, and I were in the process of going to the Quaker Steak and Lube for wings (pre vegetarian, Barbecue and Suicide mix), and we had the green light. We went to go through and skidded on the breaks. There, through the light, red, came George, rolling with the might of Zeus, going about 50, with the wind in his hair, a cigarette on his lips, his arm on the seat of the passenger side, and his other hand on the wheel, forming a gun with his 2 first fingers.

I never saw him again.

This is totally true. Crazy George was a steadfast patron of bars throughout my career as a bartender and waitress in the Shenango Valley from 1990 to 1992. I often wonder, was he Ronald Reagan's son? He looked a hell of a lot like the man. But then again, who the hell am I kidding.

Anyway, that is the hometown crazy of Sharon, Pennsylvania.

I stand as witness.

Snapper, thanx for the memory. I am laughing right now.

And, damn, Snapper, way to go!!

Craptain,
The chemical is Visine is Oxytetracycline Hydrocloride, and it's been one of the most controversial practical jokes in the US. Two years ago or so, a man in the armed forces died from having his drink spiked with too much of it. It caused heart complications.

I've used it on occasion, though, and I've never put more than 1 drop in anyone's drink because I was warned. However, after reading the stuff I read on it, I've decided it would be a last resort kind of thing.

I'm thinking the guy who died had a large squirt of it placed in his beer. And, I did read this in a newspaper, so it's not one of those urban myths.

We have a local loon who spends most of his time sitting on the local railway station drinking strong lager and sweearing. When he's not swearing he plays 70's disco music at full volume on an old mono tape player, or tells everyone going by that Jesus will send them to Hell. Sometimes he pick up litter on the platform ans shouts at the station staff that they will go to Hell for being lazy.
The only problem is that this railway station is the main arrival point for one of the UK's major tourist attraction, so you get thousands of foreign visitors having to run the gauntlet of the local town drunk and evangelist every year. If you ever come to the UK and travel by train to this particular place you'll know which one I mean.

my friend wrote this poem for her site, lol thought it was brill and had to post it, oh crapslikeclockwork i'm in UK too, .... /wave

Poo on my Shoe

Ran up the lane
was making good time
when all of a sudden
I trod in dog slime.

Best shoes as well
worn just to impress
I looked for some leaves
to wipe off the mess

No leaves or grass
just one thing to do
I used my best hankie
to wipe down my shoe.

I was going to be late
and now I hadnt a clue
what to do with this hankie
all covered in poo

Put hands to my head
this just isnt fair
I`ve got poo down my nails
and poo in my hair

Finally arrived
didnt think they could tell
till somebody said
ooo what is that smell.

what made me late?
if only you knew
I just couldnt tell them
I had poo on my shoe.

Ours was called "Puke." 'Cause that's what he looked like. He'd sit in the town square alternating puffs on a cigarette with pulls from a can of Pepsi.

Our hometown had Crazy Sally. She was decked out in your basic baglady chic and could be frequently seen shuffling from one part of town to another. Rumors abounded about Crazy Sally. Supposedly, a gang rape when she was younger turned her into Crazy Sally. The most persistant rumor was that she was filthy rich; she was rich then got turned into Crazy Sally and didn't care about her money anymore. This belief turned out to be fatal. Someone or several someones broke into her trailer , killed her, and ransacked the place. It was all for nothing. She wasn't wealthy and never had been.

That's horrible!

What a stinky story!

That's why I stay away from Mexican restaurants!

Ever have a crazy guy drive a taxi for you? I had this one guy try to preach Jesus to me while he was driving. He told me it was the only way to live. When I tried to say that I believed that there may not be only one way of living he looked kinda weird. Best not breakdown someone's world framework while they're driving you. Man he was creepy...I can't believe the taxi company gave that guy keys...

Is it just me or is this layout weird?

i just crapped out a crab leg. is that normal? I've got ass abrasions

I have nothing to say here.

Very nice story from Snapper. Guess it may have launched her on a new career. But the real jewel in this thread is daphne's characterization of Crazy George. It was, well, refreshing. Thanks, d.

One time at my work, this kind of wild-looking guy was wandering through our parking lot. He approached our building, and I rather thought he was going to ask to use the bathroom. (I would have let him).

But, no. He came into the lobby and started yelling at the top of his voice, "Won't ANYBODY spare a guy a few bucks to get something to EAT?!? What is WRONG with you people?!?!"

I was the only manager up front then; I radioed all the male employees as fast as I could think of their names. "To the front! Immediately!!!"

I was sure he was going to grab someone or pull out a gun, or both. I motioned the two girls closest to me to come my direction, which they did, backing slowly. 5 female associates and at least 10 customers just stood there staring at him while he continued to yell crazy stuff.

It seemed like a long time, but I'm sure it was only a minute or less, since the boys all heard the tone in my voice. I thought it would have been cool if they could have wrested him to the ground, or something (and by the looks in the boys' eyes, they would have liked to).

But when he saw about 800 total pounds-worth of ticked off men coming his way, he ran away. The police picked him up a few minutes later.

We don't get much excitement in our place, so that was, you know, kinda fun.

There are three unverified posters up there who respond to Daphne before her post appears. I don't get it--was a Daph post deleted, or is this just a quirk of the system?

When the site got transfered over to the new super-duper system last summer, I believe the comments had to be copied and pasted manually (I missed out on this little event, but I think PR worker bees like wonderpance and AB2K were up to their ears.) In the process, and probably as a result of heavy drink, the order of many of the comments were screwed up.

Recently Friend came onto my unit as a patient (I'm a nurse). As it turns out, Pink Lady was her daughter. Friend wound up dying.