"as if a school of angry bottlenose dolphins was up my ass, trying in unison to shove their schnozzes through my sphincter."

Oh my God. Funniest mental image ever.

Dave, bravo for posting stories super early on Monday morning when I'm the only one stupid enough to be online at this hour. I feel like I'm special or something.

And I think you should get Mr. Stench back. Maybe recruit a few of your colleagues to crap together right before his crap hour. Surely the stench of the many can outweigh the stench of the one.

Or maybe just get some liquid ass or something. And a fart machine. No revenge is complete without a fart machine.

I too, loved the Dolphin imagery. I can imagine exactly how you felt.

I used to work on a campus as well. The advantage was that there were hundreds of bathrooms in the immediate vicinity, a few of which were so obscure and hidden that even those who turn them into "tea rooms" (gay cruise toilets) hadn't found them. I spent a leisurely 2 hours in such a remote toilet once, located in a secured boiler room in a sub-basement away from civilization on a sunday morning. Best shit I ever took.

The description of his odor and the contents of his bowels, was incredible. I am still laughing. Good show.

SamDamnit!
Rectum Rector
of
The Church of Poop
http://www.myspace.com/saintcarnivean

The contents of his arse is somthing else. Thinking of it all about got my upchicking machine going, but the peaceful serene dolphins calmed me down.

I would say to get revenge before you leave the office as well. It's only the fair and right thing to do!!

Have a Crappy Day!! Poop Shooter!

You may get lucky and be rid of Mr. Big Stench. We got rid of ours a few years ago and so far he hasn't been replaced. The only thing that has come close over the years is when they clean out the septic tanks, and you figure that's a combined effort of about 80 people over 4 months!

They can now look for Mr.Bad Stench instead of Mr.Goodwrench.MR.Bad Stench took how many shits this year? That can't be right! Where does he s(h)it?Just follow your nose.Oh my God!

My poops do not smell.I am a Super(Toilet)Bowl winner.I am in The Hall of Shameless.I am a regular guy even though I played tight end.

Poop Shooter--I'm gonna have to give you a hard time and ask you about that upchicking machine of yours. Uh, exactly how far up do your chicks go? Or is it down?

Sorry. Couldn't resist.

Daaayyyummm!! What an awful stew of stink!

I used to be famous back in college for my rotten ass, too. The combo of lots of beer and pot, college cafeteria food, and whatever we made in chef lab that day along with my natural talent made for some horrible farts! Not to mention the death sludge, and/or water ass... Folks used to swear they saw nasty green radio active clouds after I farted. We referred to the lingering power of my shit stench in terms of half-lives.

I used to enjoy ripping a huge sbd outside someone's room then pounding on the door and getting the hell out of dodge. The looks on their faces upon opening the door or the howls of disgust were priceless! Serves ya right for the " dumping icewater on the guy in the shower" trick...

Wow, good imagery with the dolphins. But did you have to use dolphins? why not Anteaters or somthing?

TBW,
Well, when it's up, it's way far up, and there is usually a cute chick near by. I have never downchicked, that's just silly. Although I may try it someday. So, upchIcking it is.

Generally done after eating lots of K of C chicken (which was another thread if I'm correct) and drinking way too much alcholic beverages (which I do on rare occasions). The combination of the two is rather upchickingly beautiful!!

ok, TBW, so I can't type fer shat!

Have a Crappy Day Anyway!! Poop Shooter!

Fresh bird droppings do not smell. The only time the ammonia odor would be detected is if the cage is not cleaned and disinfected regularly. If you actually had a cockatiel, you would know this.

Extraordinary smell description. Wish you luck; may you rise to the challenge of the alpha (stink) male in your future surroundings.

juiop: a juicy poop

Yeah, we all need the ole spellchicker from time to time, eh?

It sounds like we have an evil Sith Lord on our hands. Better alert the Jedi Council... this one is dangerous. The Force is strong in him.

SDP, when I was a kid we had a young man in our church choir very talented in the production of SBD's - the smell was horrendous. I wouldn't have wanted to be anywhere near the toilets when he downloaded whatever toxic stew was brewing in his colon. Perhaps this is that young man - all grow'd up as it were... Mr. Big Stench finally come into his own.

I was going to say "Couldn't you just light a match?" but then I thought of the risks surrounding that.

Me. Always so safety concious...

SDP, many of us have been unfortunate enough to know a Mr. Big Stench (I even had the bad luck to be married to Mrs. Big Stench for many years). Thus, your story rings true, with only one exception. You write:

"I have even thought to sneak a porta-potty in there for personal use. (I've used one near me office on occasion, but found it inadequate to contain my manly dump volumes; in addition, an entire can of Glade air freshener was found to be insufficient to revitalize the poop-ruined air, especially in such an enclosed space)."

Please clarify. Surely you just *thought* about sneaking a porta-potty into your office? I cannot imagine, given the apparently small confines of your office space (15 feet to the Men's Room), plus the well-known nosiness of campus folks, that such a feat wouldn't be a Poop Story in itself.

At the risk of sounding repetitious, I too enjoyed the dolphin metaphor. I noticed several marine life-related references in this story. Are you a marine biologist or something?

I liked the dolphin analogy as well. Very descriptive, felt like I was there.

SDP here; first, it’s been fart-warming, er, heartwarming, to read all your postings following my humble dump in the "poop at the office" category. Yes, those normally docile dolphins can be onery! And thanks for pointing out the detail regarding fresh bird droppings not having a smell; which prompts my question... HOW do YOU know? Not sticking our beaks right down on top of the avian vent slime, are we? What kind of an example is that to the CHILDREN? Anyway, I think all that I commented on was the cockatiel poop texture, not the smell...

anyway, the other comment about a MRS. Big Stench took me totally off guard - whatever happened to the delicate, "fairer sex" myth? Are we to believe that there are rotting brontosaurus-defecating ladies out there? Perish the thought! And to Mr Dumpster: I snuck the porta-potty in, and I made some chocolate pudding, thinking the Glade would do the trick: WRONG! Agree - that would almost qualify for a separate story... please give my regards to, er, Mrs. Dumpster...

No Poo Zombie, I am not a marine biologist, I am just "something", but thanks for asking. And now, if you all would kindly excuse me, I need to make a "deposit", after which I will be slightly LESS than something! Luvyercomments -SDP

SDP, I will let you contact the ex-Mrs. Dumpster yourself. Her number is 1-555-EAT-SHIT.

As for your interest in the ongoing debate over whether/how the "fairer sex" does its business, the classic post is The Brown Line of Silence. Two more recent ones are How you feel women should shit/fart in front of significant others, and The Secret Battle. (The last one will also show you how badly a thread can get derailed here sometimes!)

Anyway, thanks again for a great story, and I would sure like to hear how the porta-potty REALLY fit in!

Holy clap man, I am ROTFLMAO!!!! Dude, rotten cabbage, blood sausage, a week-old chalupa, deviled ham, sour cream, and sea bass! Spot on.

Anyway, I feel for you man. We have a couple Dr. Dooms of Fetal Death here. Except, they are down right evil. Instead of using the bathroom in their area or floor, they come down and use my bathroom! Frickn donkey lovers! Oh well, I am all jacked up on coffee today and I went up to the 2nd floor and dropped off the Mexican buffet I ate last night and purposely forgot to flush. Let them smell my bowel burgers!

... A few years back, after a long night of drinking scotch, I show up for work at the office early in the morning. I had just finished a bacon egg and cheese, and slammed down a Starbucks vanilla store bought iced coffee, when I felt some pretty wicked poop pains. The office I worked at was very small, less than 1000 sf, and the bathroom had no fan, and no vent. I then proceded to have the most violent, gassy, loud, and explosive diareha I've ever had in my entire life. After each speradic loud, juicy, gassy, explosive pockets of dung being violenltly released from my body, I could hear my co workers, just on the other side of the door, making comments like "oh my god, he's is he ok?" and "jesus, I can smell it through the door!".

Long story short, after I had finished and went back to my desk, the boss came out of his office from the other side of the room and sent everyone home for the day, because it smelled that bad.

I wish I could get sent home for letting smelly farts and stinky pooping. Wait.....I work from home. Damn.... missed out again!

_______
Regional POWER POOPING CHAMPION 1988-2006
Poop Shooter!

The description that made me laugh the most was the crate of rotten apples pouring out of your ass. I know exactly the sound you are talking about.

We used to have a Mr. Big Stench at my house. Since Dad has gone to the giant toilet in the sky I no longer have to smell his stench of rotten pumpkins. Or wipe his skidmarks and ass jelly off the seat.

I worked with a Mr. Big Stench and he was one of the funniest guys I've ever worked with. He'd drop a bomb everyday at roughly the same time and the girls in the purchasing department whose office was directly across from the washrooms would always close the door when they saw Ron go into the can. After Ron was done he'd always open the purchasing offices door and say "good morning ladies, which one of you dears is wearing that intoxicating perfume?" or something similar along those lines and then go back to his office.

Every day at lunch time he'd come by my office and pretend to pee in my coffee cup, EVERYDAY for 3 solid years, there would be days where I was on the phone with someone and I'd have my mug in my hand and he'd wouldn't leave unless I moved the mug over towards him so he could do his fake pee. His job title was "Director of Quality Systems".

Bunga, I wasn't pretending. Why do you think your coffee always tasted so strange?

PART 1: Well, fellow poopers, I'm going to try to cram a new story in here since Dave is "backed up" for regular submissions. This time, I am somewhat ashamed to say that I have a dream, make that a nightmare, about poop to share. What would Freud say? But I can do so because the entire affair is still vivid in my mind. The sad thing is I have to invoke the dreaded “C” word in this self-essay - that’s right: Constipation!

Yes, its true. Normally, I am a man whose bowels function like clockwork. In fact, they often work around the clock. “Plop, plot, fizz, fizz” is no mere commercial jingle in my universe! Most days, I take two or more good, healthy dumps. But not too long ago, my internal plumbing somehow became “plugged”. I suspect it was related to a touch of the flu I suffered through for several days. But no matter. Whatever its origin, it made me into one unhappy camper. Owing to my typically regimented “calls to stool”, I knew something was up almost immediately. Literally up; up my ass, refusing to take the elevator down to the ground floor!

PART 2: All the while, I continued to graze and feed as usual. A burger and fries here, a pizza there, beer, a salad every now and then, selected veggies and fruits, beer, whole grain breakfast cereal, eggs, bacon, milk, beer, dinner rolls, cheese, beer – you get the idea. I even recall scarfing down a chalupa and Moo Goo Gai Pan.

But despite the healthy appetite, I had this general malaise for about 8 days, and for those eight days, there was no “poop report” to report! You bet this had me worried. I could feel my abdomen swell and become distended with each passing day. It was as if I went from “Mr. Normal Physique” to “Mr. Tub-of-Shit” almost overnight! Having studied a little human metabolism and physiology in school, I knew that the food was in there fermenting, being broken down by my body’s enzymes, but also by the “gut flora” – those bacteria that reside within and love to feast on our culinary indulgences. Well, it must have been a regular bacterial sludge factory after a week! Each day, I weighed myself out of curiosity – and noticed with some degree of alarm that I had gained a pound per day due to the unexpelled, growing conglomeration of internal swillage – and realized to my horror, if this kept up, in two weeks I would be classified as clinically obese!

But then, it happened. Oh joy of joys. On day nine, I was to undergo finally the experience of a lifetime. Think of Mount St. Helens, Mount Vesuvius, and Krakatoa erupting, all in one - although this time, it would be MY “crackatoa” that blew its top! Looking back, it all started quite innocently. I was reading the newspaper at the time. At first, I felt only slight sensations, sort of a tickling in my butt, that made me wonder out loud, “Is that a mouse scurrying up my ass?” This was followed by nothing. Absolutely nothing. About 15 minutes later, I had a vague sense of lower GI motility. It was as if gentle ocean waves were undulating rhythmically within my lower abdomen. But after several minutes of this, the seas became angry indeed. An acute, sharp pain seized my gut, and fear of the consequences gripped my psyche: “she’s gonna blow!” Yes, that pain was like a crosscut saw slicing my guts in half, with an occasional impression that the Abdominal Snowman was standing over me, hell-bent on stuffing a wildly thrashing 9-foot alligator into my colon. I headed to the bathroom.

PART 3: I turned on the video camera (yes, of course I had the presence of mind to bring it in the bathroom with me to record the event) and the initial report was unimpressive: a single loud, raspy fart (sounding like it could be a low B-flat “grunted” by a baritone saxophone), followed by a blast of brown butt brulee. At this I even chuckled, but my good humor was short-lived. Suddenly, fifteen (count ‘em) distinct “meatballs” jumped out from my ass in rapid succession, as if they were Olympic divers jumping from their perches, and splashed into the commode, each one providing a slight sense of relief to me as they were expelled. They were small, but stinky! What came next was totally uncontrollable. It was a prolonged, involuntary stream of slushy ca-ca that I can only say ripped up my guts and made my eyes weep as it flew out. This was high-velocity crapping, diarrhea-style, and it made my crack damn sore afterward. By now, the commode needed flushing, because I could feel there was a lot more to come – but wouldn’t you know it, it wouldn’t flush! First my bowels were plugged, now the toilet! So there I was with my drawers down, the toilet full, and a foul stench beginning to permeate the air, without any Liquid Plumber or Drain-O in sight! I frantically hopped to the kitchen (fortunately the wife was out shopping) and found a small plunger under the sink.

Happily, for a moment my bowels ceased their gyrations – the ass guns were silent, allowing me the window of opportunity to locate the plunging device (“Eureka!”), but the internal rumblings soon began anew. By now, I was sweating profusely - I just had to make it back in time to unclog the toilet and flush it so that I could resume my dump-fest! And I almost made it. About five paces from the bathroom, what felt like a hairy, half-grown goat slipped out of my ass, and dropped to the floor with a thud. To this day, I could swear I heard it groan… “No time to worry about that, I must use this plunger before my wife gets home, and CLEAN UP THIS MESS!”, I shouted at myself, in a wild panic. Well, wouldn’t you know, in my haste, and with my pants and belt down at my ankles, I slipped on some of the overflow butt sludge that I hadn’t realized I’d crapped onto the bathroom floor, and next thing I knew, was flat on my back looking up at the ceiling. Meanwhile, the plunger went flying through the air, and as if it was a shit-seeking missile, slammed right into the toilet, which splashed up about a bucket-load of crap onto my chest, all the way up to my chin.

PART 4: “SHIT!” I yelled, “This is like some absurd cartoon – what happens next, Bugs Bunny comes in and asks ‘What’s up, doc?’!!!”. All I could do was stick my hand in that gross toilet of terror, to grasp and pump that plunger with quick, short strokes. It was difficult to do, because both the plunger and my hand were covered with slippery crap. Thinking back, I don’t know how I avoided puking my guts at that moment, but I was focused on pumping and flushing, before… Oops. Too late.

An internal colonic heave suddenly made me drop the plunger before I could actually flush the commode, and it sent me rocking back on my heels. I slipped once more and fell like a drunkard onto the floor. For the first time, I realized the seriousness of my predicament: I was locked in some sort of physiological mortal combat with my excretory system – in the next few minutes, I could literally shit myself to death, and be found dead here, lying in a “garden” of my own filth!!! The very thought was too unpleasant to contemplate.

It was at this moment that the majority of the eight days of food made its unwelcome entrance into my home. And it did so not into any porcelain fixture, but onto a once clean and shiny linoleum floor. On viewing the video tape, it seems that at this point I sort of blacked out. When the shit emerged, it was like an angry, snarling reticulated python that had been yanked from its hiding place against its will. It was a semi-solid, 38-inch long turd that was putridly packed with the majority of last week’s food. The funny thing was, a lot of it appeared to be undigested. I could make out strands of cheese, bits of corn and ground beef, apple skins - all molded into a brown, cylindrical mass. This shit was horribly slimy, smelly, and bumpy on the surface – and the sheer volume (about six pounds of shit!) elevated my body off the floor an inch or two upon its evacuation. Not that it emerged in a quick and clean event. No sir; it took its time, like a skanky old snake that is slowly shedding its skin for the last time before it dies, only this “serpent” was several inches thicker than my butt hole. As a result, I experienced the next worst pain to childbirth and passing kidney stones when it deliberately forced its way out, inch by excruciating inch, slithering slowly onto the floor, and finally laying there motionless.

PART 5: Speaking of motionless, as I regained consciousness, I looked up and saw my wife standing in the doorway, gagging. “What happened to you?” she gasped. “Oh, I’ve had a bad day,” I exclaimed, “but at least I am no longer constipated.” She was now staring at me with a combined look of bewilderment and urgency. Then I saw her eyes bulge; and at that moment, we both lunged for the sink, and enjoyed just a wonderful Kodak moment of communal, marital vomiting. For the better part of 30 seconds, her steady stream of mostly clear, yellowish puke cascaded into the sink, while the path of mine, which was more brown and chunky, intersected with hers in spurts, making for an interesting mixed fountain of upchuck. We collapsed into each other’s arms for a moment before wiping our foreheads (and mouths). Then, we took a deep breath, sighed profoundly, and reached for the bucket, mop, and a large stack of cleaning rags.

Thanks for reading!
-Sooper Dooper Pooper

Somebody should have called 9-1-1, man!

WOW, so much to take in. I'm not sure if I should cry for you or not. Your story is upchuckingly beautiful. Who measured the turd on thye floor, you or your wife? I mean, 38" is quite long.

_______
Regional POWER POOPING CHAMPION 1988-2006
Poop Shooter!

It certainly sounds apocryphal.

Or apocalyptic. Maybe they verified this from the video camera, but the part about "collaps[ing] into each other’s arms for a moment before wiping our foreheads (and mouths)," when he professed to be smeared with shit seems a bit over the top.

Now Dumpster, what good is a poop story if it's not embellished a wee bit?? Ok, this one was maybe over-embellished, but still a nice visualization of pain, agony, celebration, defeat, love, understanding, compassion, ummmmmmmmm.....that's a lot of shit for one shit story isn't it?

_______
Regional POWER POOPING CHAMPION 1988-2006
Poop Shooter!

I think SDP needs to make the video available.

I'm not sure I want to see the video. My visulation skills are working just fine. A little beer or gin helps thing out, but I'm good!

_______
Regional POWER POOPING CHAMPION 1988-2006
Poop Shooter!

Damn! I've been waiting FOREVER for someone to "talk of gin and beer" on this site, so I could explain the etiology (there's that word again, Bunga), of the moniker of one of our great PoopReporters, the Hon. Bunga Din:

You may talk o' gin an' beer
When you're quartered safe out 'ere,
An' you're sent to penny-fights an' Aldershot it;
But if it comes to slaughter
You will do your work on water,
An' you'll lick the bloomin' boots of 'im that's got it.
Now in Injia's sunny clime,
Where I used to spend my time
A-servin' of 'Er Majesty the Queen,
Of all them black-faced crew
The finest man I knew
Was our regimental bhisti, Gunga Din.

It was "Din! Din! Din!
You limping lump o' brick-dust, Gunga Din!
Hi! slippy hitherao!
Water, get it! Panee lao!
You squidgy-nosed old idol, Gunga Din!"

The uniform 'e wore
Was nothin' much before,
An' rather less than 'arf o' that be'ind,
For a twisty piece o' rag
An' a goatskin water-bag
Was all the field-equipment 'e could find.
When the sweatin' troop-train lay
In a sidin' through the day,
Where the 'eat would make your bloomin' eyebrows crawl,
We shouted "Harry By!"
Till our throats were bricky-dry,
Then we wopped 'im 'cause 'e couldn't serve us all.

It was "Din! Din! Din!
You 'eathen, where the mischief 'ave you been?
You put some juldee in it,
Or I'll marrow you this minute,
If you don't fill up my helmet, Gunga Din!"

'E would dot an' carry one
Till the longest day was done,
An' 'e didn't seem to know the use o' fear.
If we charged or broke or cut,
You could bet your bloomin' nut,
'E'd be waitin' fifty paces right flank rear.
With 'is mussick on 'is back,
'E would skip with our attack,
An' watch us till the bugles made "Retire."
An' for all 'is dirty 'ide,
'E was white, clear white, inside
When 'e went to tend the wounded under fire!

It was "Din! Din! Din!"
With the bullets kickin' dust-spots on the green.
When the cartridges ran out,
You could 'ear the front-files shout:
"Hi! ammunition-mules an' Gunga Din!"

I sha'n't forgit the night
When I dropped be'ind the fight
With a bullet where my belt-plate should 'a' been.
I was chokin' mad with thirst,
An' the man that spied me first
Was our good old grinnin', gruntin' Gunga Din.

'E lifted up my 'ead,
An' 'e plugged me where I bled,
An' 'e guv me 'arf-a-pint o' water—green;
It was crawlin' an' it stunk,
But of all the drinks I've drunk,
I'm gratefullest to one from Gunga Din.

It was "Din! Din! Din!
'Ere's a beggar with a bullet through 'is spleen;
'E's chawin' up the ground an' 'e's kickin' all around:
For Gawd's sake, git the water, Gunga Din!"

'E carried me away
To where a dooli lay,
An' a bullet come an' drilled the beggar clean.
'E put me safe inside,
An' just before 'e died:
"I 'ope you liked your drink," sez Gunga Din.
So I'll meet 'im later on
In the place where 'e is gone—
Where it's always double drill and no canteen;
'E'll be squattin' on the coals
Givin' drink to pore damned souls,
An' I'll get a swig in Hell from Gunga Din!

Din! Din! Din!
You Lazarushian-leather Gunga Din!
Tho' I've belted you an' flayed you,
By the livin' Gawd that made you,
You're a better man than I am, Gunga Din!

I need to go finish the 2nd half of my bottle of gin and come back and read this one over again.

_______
Regional POWER POOPING CHAMPION 1988-2006
Poop Shooter!

Good grief, Dumpster! That was a LOT of dialect to type! How long did that take?

Good story/stories, SDP! 38" of poop is quite impressive; my second-born child isn't even 38", yet. You pooped taller than a toddler! Wow.

I didn't type it, GGG, Rudyard Kipling did.

But Bunga asserts that he has never Kipled. No, not once!

Holy crap, I'm so drunk. SDP, you need to learn some patience and submit your story to Dave so it can be rightfully published as it should be, 'cause man, that was some wicked shit. It's too much to believe. I think I'm gonna have to do some more shots after reading it.

Jeez, Dumpster. I may not be erudite, I'm not THAT uneducated. I just passingly wondered if you keyed it in yourself or cut-n-copied it. I myself have Kipled and Donned and Browninged and Tennysoned...

GottaGoGirl, Dumpster meant no insult to you. When he first joined and saw my name as Bunga Din he asked if I'd derived it from Kipling, my reply was "I've never Kipled, but if it's like felching, thanks but no thanks".

Thanks, Bunga. And sorry, Dumpster. After I posted it, I felt bad for whining. Forgive me? :)

GGG, you can DOO no wrong in Dumpster's book!

Just one question, though: Have you ever Dickinsoned? (Or been Dickinsoned?)

Why...Dumpster. Yes. Yes, I have.

I dunno. I Just wondered about that the other night when I was Shakespeareing.

Comedy, Tragedy, or Sonnet?

These days, whenever Dumpster attempts to Shake his Speare, the results are either Comedy, Tragedy, or both.

Is someone moved to write a Sonnet about this?

Dumpster, don't be so hard on yourself. We all love you and will help you through the comedy, tragedy or both!

_______
Regional POWER POOPING CHAMPION 1988-2006
Poop Shooter!

Dumpie, I'll get right on that sonnet! I'll have to go dust off my iambic pentameter.

Okay, I submitted an Elizabethan sonnet to Dave. While it doesn't address Dumpster's, uh, problem, it IS about Poop being our Muse.

It'll take me a while longer to arrange one just for Dumpster. I'll get back to ya.

Dumpster is waiting on both with 'bated, er, breath.

Just GREAT... now I gotta go look up and see how to write a sonnet just to make you happier Dumpster. Gimme a couple days please and I'll write an up-chuckingly beautiful sonnet for y'all.

_______
Regional POWER POOPING CHAMPION 1988-2006
Poop Shooter!

I sit upon the throne of death
I clench my cheeks in utter despair
I breathe a breath of mighty fresh air
Although I struggle for the one mighty breath
My stench below I must bequeth
My hole is burning beyone belief
I hope to pass my load and get relief
I grunt and groan, my face turns blue
I pray to the almighty that poo will pass soon
The turtle is preceded by a bit of butt goo
Great things to come as the turtle creeps out
The smell is so bad it's flaring up my gout
A mercy flush to relieve my grief
Finally, my turd is born and I feel relief

Ok, 5 minutes researching sonnets and this is the best I can come up with. I may not be a pooet, but I did once play one on tv.

_______
Regional POWER POOPING CHAMPION 1988-2006
Poop Shooter!

PS, as you yourself said, this is just, well, "up-chucking."

_______
"Say, has anybody seen my sweet Gypsy Rose Volcano?"

Poop Shooter-- Honestly, you just Poop-Shooted me right outta the water. I didn't make mine up; I just rearranged Shakespeare. I am humbled in your pooetic presence. Teach me.

He must consume allot of bad alchohol with his food or he has some serious health issues. Shit that smells that bad is a sign something is wrong.
_______
Shit happens and shit is funny!

That Mr.Big Stench probably had special chemicals or something in his stomach to make that kind of terrible smelling poop!