DAD
My dad is legendary shitter. He's had some superb dumps in his sixty-seven years. My favorite shit story of his is definitely his masterpiece. My dad used to be a big hunter, and he and his hunting buddies used to drink a lot at the time. One early morning, my dad and brother were duck hunting. As they were walking to the duck blind, Dad had to relieve himself. According to my brother, Dad dropped trou and started spraying this reddish-brown shit on a tree. My bro he compared the color to a Krackel candy bar. It was so foul, my brother told me, that it probably could have knocked down any ducks flying overhead without a single shot.
They walked about a hundred yards to the duck blind. After about ten minutes, they ended up going back to the campsite because the ever-so-slight breeze still carried the stink over to the blind -- and they just couldn't tolerate the smell. Yes, it was that bad.
The clincher? The land where they went duck hunting belonged to one of my dad's hunting buddies. They went there frequently just to hang out and drink when they weren't hunting. I wouldn't believe this next part of the story if it hadn't been confirmed by my brother, my dad, three of my cousins, and at least three other people who were on that trip: apparently, when they went back two weeks later, the tree Dad shit on was dead. Yes, he killed the tree.
MY BROTHER
We'll call him "Bob" to protect the guilty from embarrassment. On another hunting trip (elk or deer, I believe), my brother went with my dad. As always, this trip involved my dad's usual hunting buddies, which included several of our cousins. Our cousin Dave (again, name changed to protect the guilty) was a prankster, and also a vile human being. Dave decided to make some chili, but he loaded that chili with laxatives. My dad warned Bob not to trust anything made by Dave, but my brother didn't heed this advice -- to his own detriment. He even had a second serving of this chili.
The next morning, my brother and father started walking from the campsite, to the main hunting area. As they started walking, Bob told my dad that he had to shit -- right now. Dad said to him, "What do you want me to about it? Just shit and get it over with." So Bob had to unzip his bright orange jumpsuit and start crapping. He would finish, and then five minutes later he'd have to do the same thing all over again. This went on for several hours; and he accomplished no meaningful hunting. In fact, his stench probably kept the deer far, far away.
MOM
My mother told me of an instance when she was out shopping. While she was at the store, she had an immediate gut pain and made a mad dash for the bathroom. Mom is just like me, and absolutely, positively will not allow her cheeks to make contact with a public crapper, not even if the stall comes equipped with ass gaskets to cover the seat. She was feeling the pain and as soon as she got her pants down just far enough to make room for her spray, she started splattering the back wall of the stall with shit. According to her, "crap went everywhere." She tried to use toilet paper to clean off the walls when she was done, but all it would do was smear. She felt guilty, but her attempts to clean it were in vain. So she left the store immediately.
She said she'd gone back a couple of weeks later, and again went to the restroom. To her surprise, her shit smears on the back wall were still there.
MY SISTER
This isn't a poop story, but a fart story. My sister (who we will call "Susan") was dating this guy in college (who we will call "Gary"). She and Gary have been happily married for over ten years now, but at the time they were just dating. The first time she met Gary's parents, she was a little nervous. Gary's mom was a bit uptight, and a little on the bitchy side. They didn't fart around their house the way we did at our house. They weren't uncouth like my family.
Susan and Gary ate dinner with his parents, and after dinner they sat and talked for a little while. Susan accidentally slipped out a loud fart at the table, and immediately worried what Gary's parents would think about her. Apparently there were mixed reactions all around the table. My sister was mortified. Gary smiled as he looked down, trying not to laugh out loud. Gary's mom didn't appear too happy. Fortunately, Gary's dad made light of the situation. He said to her, "Was that you? I just wanted to make sure it wasn't me! I can't tell very well anymore..."
ME
I attend a major university that has a powerhouse football program. Since I had a commuter parking permit, I had to use the commuter parking lots, and there is one such lot in the stadium's parking garage. On this day, I parked in the garage and took the elevator down to ground level. As soon as I walked out of the doors toward my class, I felt an emergency poop coming on. I thought to myself, "Hold it until you get to the building." Unfortunately, the shit snake wanted to come out now. And I mean NOW.
I wasn't sure if I could go back into the stadium to use one of their many facilities. But then, out of the corner of my eye, I saw a bright green porta-potty right by the stadium.
I thought to myself, "What is this porta-potty doing there?" It was next to a big semi truck that was being unloaded. As I walked to the front door of the porta-potty, I saw a sign on the front door that read "FOR USE BY ABC BROADCAST TV CREW ONLY."
I try to avoid portable shitters at all cost because they usually smell like hell. But this one looked brand new -- no scratches or anything. When I went inside, I was impressed by the lack of smell. Apparently this thing really was brand new and had rarely, if ever, been used. It didn't have any toilet paper, but I carry a pack of flushable wipes with me because I like to be prepared (and because public toilet paper is usually like sandpaper, assuming no one has decided to saturate it with their piss). So I did my usual hovering technique and dropped a huge load in the portable shitter.
When I was finished, it no longer had that pristine, unused smell anymore. It smelled like a typical porta-potty, as if a corpse were decomposing in there.
If memory serves, the ABC broadcast crew for that Saturday's game consisted of three people: Jamal Anderson, Bob Davie, and Terry Bowden. I can't stand Terry Bowden, so I like to imagine him walking in there and getting pissed because someone dared to use and stink up his pristine crapper.