So it's come to this -- Doniker and Dave sharing blood-in-the-stool stories? Have we started down the slippery slope? In 30 years, will we (well, "you" -- I'll be dead) be reading doniker's reflections on the humiliation of shitting in a bedpan, written from his nursing home bed?

I liked the story -- and of course it was going to rattle CEP who, for the benefit of the new folks here, we had to beg to stop droning on about how hot women don't shit. That's why he couldn't read it -- didn't want to risk shattering his fragile world view.

What I didn't care for was the author's decontruction. I don't think authors should provide an analysis of their own work -- that is the reader's/viewer's task. Furthermore, I don't think authors are in the best position to explain what they create, much of the "meaning" coming from beneath the conscious level.

Thanks, Snowpea, for something different and thought-provoking.

I was never good at pick-up lines so please don't use any of these, Bilge, without running them by a pro. But...

-I don't mean to alarm you, but if something suddenly comes out from between my legs -- furry, about 10 inches long -- you're more than welcome to pet it.

-I'm taking a chance here, but .... do you like kittens?

-I really shouldn't have anymore to drink. The little sweety living inside me just can't tolerate much. (Every woman wants a man who can truly empathize with the pregnancy thing.)

-I promise. Rub right here and I'll purr.

Once she's seen it, you can tell her: "It was the runt of the litter; now it's the grunt in the shitter" which maybe she'll think is kinda cute.

I consider the years I spent married to my first wife a "worm experience" but can't bring myself to describe them in detail.

PD, welcome to Gilligan's Island.

The limerick was made for this site.
Its cadence brings poopers delight.
So while we all moan and grunt
to drop the next Allen Funt,
give the poet in us the green light.

In Shoff limericks, corn is now so cliché
you’d think it’s in shit everyday.
But look careful, you’ll find that,
it’s the husk of the peanut
that rounds out the toilet soufflé.

Oh world of poetry,
masquerading as art.
You’ll never surpass the profundity
or fecundity of a single,
crisp
ppppppffart.

And doniker, don't let those 8/15 who didn't mention your post get to you, man. You know damn well that they were thinking of you, too, and simply refused to mention you because they know you're right and they're just jealous. Screw 'em.

That would have been a great ending to this story. In LJ’s dreams, Daphne was always the playful imp he first met in Fiji.

But as from his dreams, Logjam returned to consciousness this day to the world as it was before he “dozed off,” dozed off thanks to a crack in the head from a shovel administered by one of the terrified accomplices of the Kintner boy.

Fearing the what-for was still in the locker, LJ coaxed the two furries outside and stood guard while they scurried for safety, heads tucked under their arms and little tails fluttering to and fro.

Just as they dissappeared over the hill, LJ heard the what-for’s distinctive squeal. He turned to spot the little hellion as it started its nose-dive from about 200 feet above the house. Logjam began hollering phrases, searching among Daphne’s numerous pet sayings for the one that would abort the attack.

“EAT BETTY’S ICING … uh, uh, GROPE CAROT TOP’S BOTTOM … um, um, DRINK ELIJAH CRAIG … oh fuck, WHIP ROGER CLEMENS.”

At hearing the last phrase, the what-for pulled back into a hover just 4 feet above LJ’s head. It was clearly concentrating on the computation of Roger’s ratio, and pleased to be of help, when LJ walloped it with the shovel he’d been holding at the ready. Blood, teeth, and bones arced upwards like the Challenger explosion, parts large and small following unique, but ultimately determined, paths as gravity took over where life had left off.

Exhausted, LJ was nearly at the back door when he heard another sound coming up from behind him, the blood-chilling screech growing louder with alarming speed. He didn’t even bother turning around -- just shook his head. Of course there would be another one, he thought. Daphne would never leave an animal without company.

The what-for dove down LJ’s shirt through the neck, and circled his abdomen two or three times before getting down to business. Like the mark of a carving ski on snow, the initial gouge was executed with patience and artistry such that in one second, LJ experienced every sensation between gentle tickle and excruciating pain. He now finally could perceive them as a continuum of the same sensation.

Had there been someone there to observe the happenings of the next 5 seconds, the events would have been incomprehensible. Nothing seems magical about an oak tree being fed into a large chipper and coming out the other end as sawdust: one big thing can quickly become numerous small things. But our minds cannot grasp that same simple principle when applied to ourselves.

However, an observer would have been even more clueless about what LJ actually experienced in those last moments. Because no sooner had his nerves registered the pain, than the pain fell away entirely. And with the pain, any sense of horror or of time.

The night sky was clear, and the stars particularly bright. As he looked up towards the Milky Way, he marveled at the idea of his own consciousness. Somehow, the universe had brought forth a special configuration that could gain enough distance and independence to finally observe and reflect on itself. The stars were looking at themselves! How could that even be? And from that realization, LJ saw all the events and people of his life as of a piece, with no particular purpose and, for that very reason, profoundly beautiful.

These were his thoughts as the universe took its tail in its mouth and transformed Logjam into a pile of shit. A beautiful pile of shit.

From my ass to your nose

The door to the meat locker was ajar, which wasn’t that unusual. A neighborhood furry gang conducted frequent raids, making off with pawfuls of Daphne beef jerky. (LJ called it “Daphne jerky” because the special marinade he used was made entirely with organically-grown vegetable products.)

He eased the door open. Like jigsaw pieces dumped from the box, the scene was a jumble requiring effort to mentally piece together. Daphne’s package lay ripped apart on the floor. Beside it was a still-expanding pool of blood at the center of which stood a pair of laced-up Nikes. Off to the other side, a limp and befouled chipmunk suit. And plastered on one wall was 30 kilos of shit. “God,” he thought when he finally understood. “I hope it wasn’t that little Kintner boy.”

Sensing that the what-for had fled the locker, LJ yanked the door shut and engaged the deadbolt. The stench of shit mixed with the raw essence of frozen meat and blood hit him with a thud. Knees weak, he leaned back against a side of beef and began talking to himself, rehearsing all he knew about what-fors.

It had been six years since he encountered his last one. Part moth, part piranha, Daphne had raised them in their house of bottles. At peak production, each bottle had been home to half a dozen little what-fors. A remarkable creation, they went through male human flesh like a chain saw, spewing out a rooster-tail of feces behind them. They could transform a grown man into a pile of shit in seconds, which is why Daphne had been drawn to them. The only thing that would keep them off male flesh? Pesto. For the moment, LJ’s feet up to his ankles were safe.

He dug his cell out of his pocket and scrolled to her number. His thumb hovered for several seconds, till finally he reasoned that he had little to loose.

Ring. Ring. Click.

“Hello? . . . Daphne?”

The package had scared him, yes, but also got him to missing daphne, at least the daphne he had met in what seemed now a different lifetime.

Alone in his den, he turned to the first page of their photo album. It had been a tough day at work, and his feet were only now starting to relax, bathing as they were in the fresh pot of pesto. Hopefully, it would still be warm when he got around to dinner.

This was his favorite picture of them, together in Fiji where they first met. Young, both of them, each with a bottle in hand, raising it high overhead. They had both been collectors as children. He’d gone through a typical male progression of stamps, rocks, baseball cards, Nazi war paraphernalia, and pornography; and she’d followed a typical female trajectory: stamps, coins (pennies really) commemorative spoons, Barbies, Starsky and Hutch posters.

So it seemed like destiny that they would happen upon one another in Fiji. He was walking down a back road, both arms laced around a shovel he was wearing like a yoke, when he saw her. Waist deep in the hole she’d dug, muddy sweat dripping down her face and off the end of her nose. He’d never seen anything more beautiful. So they dug together for awhile, sharing their knowledge of antique bottles. A passing stranger agreed to take this photo of them, holding aloft samples from that day’s booty.

They decided to join forces, traveling together through another six counties, searching out abandoned dumps and digging them out for the treasures they contained. By the end, they had planned out the house they would build together, entirely out of bottles they had dug.

Hearing something outside, LJ put the album aside and walked to the back door. The trail of pesto prints he’d have to deal with later.

LJ set the package just inside the door and ran back up the stairs to the full toilet he had abandoned. Dropping his pants, he finished wiping himself and flushed. Then it was through the house with the shitrag to wipe all the doorknobs between the bathroom and the front door. Keeping a clean house was something he’d learned from his mother.

The package had been a surprise. Daphne had not returned a call or answered a letter ever since the incident with the flashlight and pesto. Perhaps she’d put that behind her once her hair had grown back, just as LJ had promised it would.

Though the package said that it contained a what-for, he couldn’t be certain; daphne was known for her little deceptions and mind games. And the icing somehow looked atypical, forced. To be safe, he took it out to the garage and put it in the large meat locker. Then it was off to the kitchen to make up a new batch of pesto while he thought things over. Life had certainly gotten complicated since he’d steamed the wallpaper off the dining room walls.

Nicely told, Thunderbox. Beautiful writing. Ironic that the first to "gather" round your telling of the story here were the two baboons of PR.

and furthermore, Thunderous, I see from your profile that you live in New Jersey. Like we're going to trust YOUR sense of smell.

Book Report
Mrs Gilden’s English 2nd period
Logjam

Gasputin’s Brownout Drunk is a humorous tale about a guy traveling in a van with his buddies. His buddies play in a band. Gasputin just drinks beer.

I think the beer is a symbol of all the things in life that aren’t important, really. Like how much money you have in the bank, or how much alcohol you can chug down in 10 minutes. Who really cares about those things? My evidence for this is when Gasputin said, “I gave it a good tilt and soldiered on. People who lead ugly lives always do.” Gasputin feels trapped in his “ugly” life, but doesn’t see a way out. I think this points to a larger thing, though, to the human condition. We’re sort of stuck with ourselves.

My favorite part was when he went to the bathroom and got more than he was bargaining for. The mess that he made I think is a symbol of the idea of reaping what you sow. I think Gasputin is warning us that if we put bad things in our bodies or minds, then bad things will result. I think he’s providing the answer to Paul Simon’s question, “How long you think that you can run that body down?” Gasputin answers, “Not long,” but he doesn’t come right out and say it. He leaves it for us to figure out, like all good literature does, usually anyway.

I agree with him. I think we should take care of ourselves better. And each other. Because in the end we really have only each other. And then finally not even that. We soldier on.

I liked Gasputin’s other stories, too. He’s my favorite author, in case you couldn’t guess. I like his imaginary and all the new words I learn. Like ululating.

As some of you may have noticed – Dave’s back. When he learned of the PR stag bus tour we’d put together, he went absolutely donikers and put the kibosh on it -- claims that it would compete for attention with plans for his upcoming book tour (well, no shit). So I’m sorry to say that all your efforts, team, were for naught. If anything is going to come from this, it will have to be arranged through “EMAIL,” as Charmingly suggests.

You’re a mean, self-centered, small-minded man, Dave.

Up-Date

While waiting to hear back from Kelly and Strut, we’ve gotten a huge number of requests in the mail, and so….. This is our first announcement of the six city “Bunga, Bilge, Dodge” PR bus tour. We will be posting the schedule soon. Let us apologize in advance, ladies, for not being able to accommodate all your requests. And unfortunately, Kelly and Strut, NYC is not in the cards this time around.

But to not leave you stranded, we are putting together a second team who will travel on scooters (cash-flow problems). We’ll wait to announce who these are, because currently they’re strung out, overweight, jobless and lacking social graces (OK, insiders, you now can ID them, but please hush up). But after they’ve gone through the PR boot camp and charm school (got this idea from you, Strut), we're confident they will measure up to your standards. Shall we say May?

First thing that gets attention in the shower is my dick. The last thing is my asshole. If I let it have its way, my dick would be the only thing lathered up and "scrubbed" during a shower, (and that has happened a time or two.) But my poor asshole makes no demands and waits patiently for whatever it can get -- whatever's left, basically. It takes all the shit I can give it and just keeps asking for more. What a friend.

Discussed it? We got National Science Foundation funding and conducted 3 years of study on this question in Bidge's basement. As you know, shit particles that make up a turd are constantly in random motion. But what's the probability that they all at the same exact moment travel in the same direction upward from the toilet and, say, right into a face that is looking down admiring it all. We kept Bidge for 2 years looking over a piece of his work, and it was half way through the 2nd year that he walked out pissed as could be with a shit-covered face. We wrote it up and published it in the journal Science. Science requires you to keep the raw data from a published article for 10 years. This explains why Bidge doesn't get out much anymore.

How about a Larry Craig foot hammer?

Ladies, as should be clear, we have our team together and ready for the road trip. Just to let you know, I checked out Dodger's references, and they are impeccable. Really, it was hard to decide among them.

The basic problem now is calendaring. Knowing that both Bunga and Dodger are resourceful fellows, I'll bet they can get out of work about anytime they want. So perhaps you two could put your sweet little heads together and suggest an arrival date and one back-up date. From there this can probably go off-line.

And Bilge, I feel your pain. Always the bridesmaid.... However, remember that it wasn't you who was able to recall a little detail so as to win the hearts of these fair maidens. Bunga and Dodger cram their heads with little details about women they encounter and only about .0001% of it ever pays off. So they pay a huge price for success. (Also, by the sounds of it, you've already taken things into your own hands and milked this little rite of spring for all it may be worth anyway.)

Nicely done, struttinghip. A very interesting angle, and one that we haven't seen before.

I do have a couple questions and a suggestion. First, how did Kelly know this guy was single? And did it even matter to her?

The story ended with the double entendre: "He had not left his number." But with regard to his phone number, why did he need to leave it? She has it, right? Suggest to Kelly that she call the place back and insist they send over the same plumber as called on her before. When he lifts the lid on the toilet this time, he finds it filled with ice, a bottle of champaign, and a thank you card. If Kelly is the babe I think she is, this plumber will quickly figure out that his plumber's snake is, again, the wrong tool for the job.

DungDaddy claimed that many of our students "can't find Idaho or Europe on the map." I know where Idaho is, but I'm looking at my little pocket map of the US and can't find Europe. Is it the little dohicky to the right of Connecticut? And DD, I assume from your snide labeling of us all as public schoolers that you were, um, home schooled?

Gees. After all these years, I finally get a "poor, sweet Logjam" out of daphne, and it turns out to be a case of mistaken identity.

Bilge -- I made the same mistake when I saw today's story on the front page. I thought, Hey, Dave's finally gotten around to publishing one of those stories I sent that he didn't think made the grade. (He must have 60 of them from me, some good stuff, too.) Figured he was feeling sorry for me, what with daphne giving me the what for and then Bunga administering the granddaddy of all backhanded compliments. Ouch.

But then in the story's first sentence I got to the phrase "my fiancé." Well, I knew something was wrong, because I could never bring myself to say "my fiancé" even when, long ago, I had a fiancé. It would have meant, for one thing, going out to purchase an expensive diamond, money out the window even had we stayed married.

Anyway, this is a first for me: getting a compliment on a story I didn't write. And after reading your take of it, I wish I HAD penned it, down to the last cliché. (My memory is that TBW already did a spoof along these lines.)

Not to imply that Bunga needs any help solving this conundrum, but perhaps this is a new phase of the Southern strategy, foreseen by Kevin Phillips. The first step was to scare southern whites into voting Republican. Phase 2 was to relocate a resurrected Strom to the Maine sewers and scare northern whites into moving south.

PS. Don't get all upset by the insult, CEP. I was just trying to earn a quick, easy +1 from the moderators.

doggy -- I actually considered that. And while it would help me win the party game, it wouldn't be the thing to do in the real-life application. You gotta be worried here about break-through, and a big wet spot on each pressure point would nearly guarantee it. And if you're willing to allow direct contact, then go ahead and pinch with actual fingers and use (yes) a single sheet to clean them off. (Or, you could just hand them, like frosting-covered beaters, to CEP to lick clean.)

Being the protective father of two young children in a world populated with way too many perverts and weirdos, what in God's name prompted you to take on the name "Sickman?"

Prarie -- you nailed it with the Cat-in-the-Hat connection. And I was struggling till then trying to figure out where I'd seen the shape before. How appropriate that the shape is associated with a prankster.

Hey, here's another idea if you're a male have trouble hitting the toilet peeing while standing. Sit the fuck down.

Hey Richard, you want to make something useful, make a little disposable seat that I can attach to a urinal so I can more comfortably shit in it.

Rant warning.

First, this is not a “portable urinal.” The trunk of my car better fits the definition of a portable urinal because at least I can move it rather easily to different locations. Try moving that smoke stack around. And, of course, without a toilet it’s just a fun-slide segment. More accurately, this is a “urinal attachment” or, better, a “penis extender.”

This “invention” is one of the most asinine things I've ever seen. Can you imagine sending guests into your urinal-equipped bathroom with no warning? The little demo movie on the company site shows the thing rising up off the toilet and being set into its little lid on the floor. What don’t they show? The hands that would need to grab the gray smoke stack to move it. And who the fuck has that kind of space in the bathroom to store the thing in its lid?

I’m with DungDaddy. Seeing things like this makes me want to slap someone. Gees, if you can’t hit the toilet, then go pee in the tub or the sink, which are even easier to “rinse off after each use.” After all, “It’s all pipes.”

I would have to agree with one product claim -- this would be an ideal thing to puke in (and it comes in three ugly colors).

CEPoop begged to call it quits
hoping the T-shirt o'er his belly would fit.
But in his hysterical dither
he forgot to consider
it ain’t over till the fat lady shits.

Nope. If you want to be certified, you have to register and then go through a brief trial period.

Your description of being trapped in the truck had me squirming. The fear of this now happening -- getting stuck for hours in mixed company in the back of a truck on a bumpy road while needing to shit – is so palpable that it screams out for a name of its own. Perhaps, agoracrapinthefordaphobia?

And with that single line, Bilgepump was thereafter known as Bilgepump, The Great. But he still died a poor man.

Since daphne has gone and admitted
she was plastered when she wrote and submitted
her epic Shoff limerick
We now learn her gimmick
-- A six pack grows a woman a dick.

Great story. Had me on the edge of my seat the whole while -- not wanting to hear anymore about your shitty brother, by the way, but impatient for you to get back to the vixen on the sofa. You're the fucking tease.

Regarding the veracity of the story, is it possible that the shit was methane enriched and thus ignited? It's at times like these I really miss Chris Rockwell and his Daily Download podcast. He would have done this experiment and posted the results for us all to hear. (Chris, you still there and still crazy after all these years?) If I recall correctly, Chris did hook up one of his turds, fished fresh from the bowl, to electrodes and managed to fry the thing.

OK -- off to secure some eggnog and then head for home.

My word, Dumpster. Nothing related to this story or this site could be that important. Get a grip.

This will undoubtedly lead to another rush of prospectors anxious to strike it rich bed-panning for gold.

Rehab, Dumpster. Rehab. And I haven't been discharged yet, but successfully pleaded with the big boys with the keys to let me out for a brief moment because I got all worked up that no one on the site who could see value in this new turn by Poopa Donna was speaking up. (And then they let me out again to say hi to you, Bunga, Di, daphne, AB2K, DD, and all my other good friends).

Yeah, OK, I'm logging off. Put the Taser down.

Poopa Donna. This is among the best things posted in a long time. You knew what you were doing, as indicated by the inclusion of "confessions" in the title. Clearly, you don't say you enjoy the way you are -- just telling us about how the battle looks and feels from were you sit. How brave of you to post this on a site where most readers are pushing hard in the other direction. Please do more exploring and write about it. Fuck the doltheads who can't appreciate interesting contrasts, who clamor always for more poop candy.

WTF. You have no idea how many of us here needed, and wanted, to hear your tough-love message. Unfortunately, we're in such desparate shape by now (Dave's a real bastard and grand manipulator, TBW grows like a fungus on you, daphne's such a tease), that we need therapy and can't afford it. You will find on the front page a way of making a generous contribution, much of which will go to help people like me. Please care enough to give, will you?

Read it a couple more times. It would be easy to be blinded by the dazzle of Bunga’s language, and his ear for it –- in the bathroom episode alone, there are five alliterative triplets, mixed in with couplets and even a mind-boggling quartet, which deftly mimic the staccato reports of his “borborygmus blasts.” But what swept me away (and obviously the sweet woman as well) was his world view. As he put it at the end, “once again the human spirit is invigorated by chance.”

And there is no way I can see that he could have communicated the magic of it without staging it as a play in the third person. It is a paradox, for sure, that to get to the truth of the most important things, you can't use the approach of the courtroom or science lab.

Holy shit. Dumpster, circle the wagons. I'm on my way. (No time to get swatches).

"just remember to bring those darling little wallpaper swatches..." Hey, of course. Like I said, I'm a liberal.

The question is not whether doniker NOW works for the post office, but whether he did until recently. But I didn't really think doniker would go bonkers on us -- I just said that in the hopes of pissing him off. More likely it will be somebody of whom we would say "he just struck me as a regular guy." Someone like, oh, Bilgepump, or TBW's partner, Will.

Dumpster, I'm surprised. Not that you have a cashe of firearms, mind you, but that you'd be willing to share them with us. I didn't think gun owners were into sharing. In fact, I would have thought the main reason you have so many is to protect yourself from having to share. In any case, thanks for clearing that up and for being there if and when I (we) need you. My guess is that one day we're going to really piss someone off (doniker, say), and that that person will start trying to track us down. Sounds like we should plan on circling the wagons at your place. (And, we could help you redecorate that bathroom of yours.)

All right woman. You've had your laughs. Now get on back to the kitchen and fetch us some more beer. Can't you see we're nearly out?

GGGirl. If football is your metaphor here, there is only one 50 yard line. There is an umpire in football but he wouldn't be reviewing the tape, and there are certainly no gentlemen.

My favorite part of Big Wiper stories are his reactions to his critics. These usual come in the first wave. But if this goes as usual, then during the next few hours, various posters will rally to his defense, and then he and they will stroke each other till the sun sets. If variety is the spice of life, then consistency is its heart beat. How I love to hear the heart beat.

Davie, you poor thing. It IS a cold, cruel world out there, and if a fuzzy toilet seat and beach towel makes it for the moment seem all bearable, then by all means don't let us make you feel silly, childish, or effeminate with our disparaging, cynical comments.

I've commented before that when I go into the stacks of libraries, I no sooner have a book in hand than I get the overpowering urge to shit. I believe it is the unique, musty smell in the stacks that brings this on. But whatever the trigger, this seems a clear case of Pavlovian anus. A possible explanation: My dad used to read the newspaper in our bathroom, and mixed with his shit this produced an overpowering aroma. The newspaper could be there in the bathroom laying undisturbed, and it would not produce the smell; the air had to be fanned with the paper while shitting. I don't think today's newspapers do this, which has made me wonder whether they changed the paper or ink since the late 50s.

Not only did GGG win this in a stunning show of sleuthing, but, as she points out, she also was the least predictable. No one pegged her for the Spartan little shitter topped by a unique piece of terry art. Who was most predictable? Dave. Six of the 12 guessers spotted his plunger. Cyano, AB2K, and myself were outed by 4 of the 12 guessers, and The Dumpster (for whom exists so much personal information on the site it apparently is of little use), got correctly IDed by 3 of us.

People were pretty good at nailing the gender of the bathroom. Again, the only surprise was GGG’s perch, which was assigned to a male 5 times and to a female 6 times. Cyano’s was paired with a female 10 times and only once to a male (by me, the dimwit, who thought it was due to Dave’s new wife laying down the law).

Gees, CEP. How is it you know so goddamn much about what turns doniker on? Furthermore, why in hell would you want to prompt him to tell us when you know he can't help himself? You're what we liberals call an enabler.

Dumpster. After double checking with our HR office, I am sorry to inform you that you have not been on PoopReport long enough yet to merit any vacation time. We can't dock your pay, but I will look to recruit another moderator willing to slog through all your posts and change them to a -1. Sorry, but we can't let this sort of thing slide. Next thing you know, Double Flush will want to be let out of the room we've locked him in.

To be clear, I'm not claiming that jamesinger should have cleaned up these godawful messes, but rather that he should have walked off the job when it became clear that this was part of what was expected of him and that he wasn't willing to do it. Instead, he'd say he'd do it, then sneak off and leave it to some other shmuck.

Next time after you return home, but before you fart, take a steamy shower then put on clean clothes. Now let her rip and see what you think. I'm guessing the smell is in your clothes and gets mixed in with the escaping gases.

But if not -- if farts indeed carry traces of odors from where a person has recently been -- then what we have here is a powerful new forensics technique: the fart print.

I use the term "carpet sweeper" to refer to the thing you push that has brushes but no motor, "electric broom" for the small thing that has motor but no brushes (like a big dustbuster), and "vacuum cleaner" for things that have both motor and brushes. And what blows my mind now is that daphne knew why you asked that. Well, off to bed (flat surface, no motor, no brushes, occasionally shakes).

And thar she blows, mates! The Dumpster's 2000th point. Addressed to me. I wish I could have you sign it. I propose a 20-toilet salute. Sail on, oh shit of state. Mount the great Volcano.

AB2K. Nice report. I downloaded the data you pointed to, and combined them with data I located on the number of passengers these airports deal with. I was quickly able to generate some graphs that compared the number of units (toilets + urinals) available per person per hour. The results? If you have to go bad, you want to be in Honolulu where there are only 1.3 people per hour at a unit, and where they clean them every hour. On average, you've always got spanking clean porcelain. At Chicago's O'Hare, there are over 12 people per hour using a unit and the airport is pretty vague (we can guess why) about how often they clean them. Of the busiest airports, Boston's Logan airport is among the best, with about 3.75 people per hour per unit, and a cleaning frequency of about once an hour. Of course I agree with you, that what I really want is for them to get me in and out of an airport so fast, I haven't time to use a restroom.

Ms Pink Button. First let me congratulate you on grossing out doniker; you have succeeded where so many of us have failed. Second, I found this and your blog both informative and touching. Please come back with more stories. Best of luck figuring out how to make the best of this. All of us, and especially doniker, have issues to overcome.

Oh, and AB2K. You mention above that Mr. Blaster has a "well-endowed penis." Wow. His penis has a penis?

The Battle of the Little Bighorn

I marched into the bathroom with absolute confidence that victory would be swift. As I knocked down the enemy, I was singing….

One little, two little, three little stoolies.

I was feeling great as I peeled off a long row of my white troops, got them into formation, and sent them in to clean up the mess. But when I went to stand, I sensed it wasn’t over. I hunkered back down and counted off,

Four little, five little, six little dipshits.

I dispatched another row of troops, and just when I was ready to sound the victory flush, I was hit with yet another wave.

Seven little, eight little, nine little poobrains.

Worried now, I start rationing my troops. But the enemy just kept pouring out of the prairie. Any hint of playfulness had left my voice as I counted them off,

Forty-one goddamn, forty-two goddamn, forty-three goddamn shitmen.

One by one my troops dwindled, until I was down to my Last Strand. I thought of waving it in surrender, but then tossed it defiantly into the gruesome mix spread out below me. It was a crushing defeat for the white team, and a lesson about the perils of overconfidence.

I just can't help myself:

War in Iraq

I’m sitting on the pot tending to important business when my son bangs on the door demanding I clear out fast. He claims we’re facing a WMD – Wicked Massive Dump.

I quickly finish business and turn the theater over to him. He’s in there only a few minutes and comes out dancing, arms pumping the air and fingers flashing the Nixon-victory Vs. I go in and find no evidence of a Wicked Massive Dump. There’s no lingering noxious gas. The toilet brush is bone dry, yet there are no telltale skid marks. When I confront him, he blames his intelligence. I can’t really argue with him.

Well thanks a lot, Dumplestiltskin -- I can't get war stories out of my mind.

The Battle of the Alamo

After a night eating my fill at a native Mexican restaurant I had no business in, I end up in an old church restroom, which is light on provisions. Soon, there are more logs buzzing around than I’ve seen in my life. When I try to flush them away, they don’t go down; they start rising up towards me! My fate seems clear, but I am not one to give up hope. I grab the plunger, Old Betsy, and try to blast my way through the jamb. Failing that, I use it to dip water out of the toilet and into the sink. But this, too, only delays the inevitable. Finally, the boys come storming over the toilet’s rim. As a last symbolic gesture, I raise the plunger over my head and start swinging at the advancing turds. It’s a day I’ll never forget. I sell the movie rights to Disney.

Hell indeed. I loved this. Couldn't help trying to extend your idea:

The Civil War
This occurs after a long build-up of tensions. I’ve been getting sicker and sicker as the days go by, but trying to deny it. My lower colon resents the attempts of my upper cortex to force it back into line. Finally hostilities break out, and bodies lie all over the porcelain battlefield in numbers unimaginable. The lower colon finally looses, but I’ve got hemorrhoids that really never go away.

Dear Ms Pance. Let me be the first to congratulate you on passing this milestone.

And welcome to PoopReport, Supercloged. You may not have to do this at school, but on PoopReport, you need to take care to express yourself clearly so that good spellers, like wonderpance, will understand you. I think what you meant to say was "We should have pooping contests where the winners of 1st, 2nd, and 3rd place each are awarded 100 user points." I figured this out only after looking at your bio, and noting there that you have "pooping compos" with your dad. I'm not sure what kind of pooping competition you mean, but I am sure you shouldn't be doing them with your dad. He should be helping you to grow up and become a responsible adult (and good speller) so that you can get a high-paying job with no boss looking over your shoulder. That way, when you are an adult and are at work earning your keep, you can spend hours on PoopReport writing to 15 year olds in other countries about pooping. Now that's something to work for, isn't it?

Forgive me wonderpance and others, but I just can't keep myself from responding to DF's call for assistance. The phenomenon that you and others above describe is not restricted to race. Any group (including, by the way, PoopReporters) hear and respond differently to criticism by members within the group than they do to criticism by people outside the group. This makes perfect sense. If a stranger says to me “Fuck you, asshole” I take it quite differently than if the same thing is said to me by a poker buddy. So of course “nigger” or “cracker” are interpreted very differently depending on who says it to whom. There is no evidence I know of that Blacks in this country are more sensitive than other groups to being called names by outsiders. But even if they were, it would be understandable given their treatment historically and the continued discrimination they face.

To your specific example, the next time a black calls you a damn cracker, tell him or her that you find it offensive. You don’t have to "grin and bear it" (unless you’re a weak-kneed, chicken shit, damn cracker.) But be honest. Has this ever happened to you?

Pinworm -- Your argument reads like a treatise from Bin Laden. You even put innocents in quotes to justify the inhumane way you treated them. You were out for revenge, pure and simple. Don't dress it up to make it seem as if you where trying to bring about a better world. By the way, by the logic of others on this thread, had you been caught doing this, you would have been rolled in your own shit. And DF, don't blame the system for your sorry job. Get to work and make something of yourself.

Dumpster. Re the points thing, my comment was directed at the two examples you mention on the thread in question, where I regarded the focus on points as inane. I do find interesting, however, your analysis of how assignment of negative points worked to bring KOC into line, given that it was his lust for user points that generated the problem in the first place.

More generally I believe that people with something to say get rewarded by saying it, and we, in turn, all benefit. Now having said that, I will also admit to liking my placement on the points tote board, directly on top of the great daphne. I only wish Poonurse was on top of me. I will guard my position jealously.

Shrinkage is what this episode III is suffering from. You've got talent, but you're apparently getting some bad advice from your agent/editor. I too recommend that the next one be I-V and out.

When the compliment is finally given (unqualified or not),I receive it reluctantly and with diffidence, only to retire to a dark corner where I take it out, inspect it carefully, and devour it, every crumb, several times.

Thank you, sir.

To earn me a name of renown,
I deigned once to shit upside down.
But my denial of gravity,
left a scene of depravity,
and lacquered my blue eye brown.

I live in Massachusetts, Dumpster, so you can parse all you want. Hell, we could get married, but I'd first insist on meeting your parents. Even if they're still alive. Forgive me, but your "ain't bad" characterization of my limerick has got me hearing bells -- Like The King saying I can carry a tune. I'm blushing, and giddy.

To Dumpster I give this advice
‘fore speaking tis best to think twice
Cause here in this verse
advice I’ve dispersed
and it can’t be both bad and all right.

If speaking in limericks is hard,
you should try downing some lard.
It’ll tickle your innards,
and pickle your stinkers ,
and snatch you on your own petard.

You've got this pretty well diagnosed. Don’t despair; this sort of problem is fairly easily treated. Find a therapist who specializes in behavioral therapy. He or she will design a program that over a few sessions will get you past this in steps.

However, let me suggest that it would also help to describe for us in detail the “multiple incidents” which you think led to this phobia. This may not by itself help you get past it, but it wouldn’t hurt and you’d have an appreciative audience. Milking unfortunate incidences is a great way to see them in a new light – as an opportunity to entertain. Also, write up a brief account for PoopReport of how you got past this.

Best of luck, pal.

Dumpster asked, I sensed with some trepidation, "Does that equally apply to dumpsters?" Recognizing this as no ordinary question, I have packed the car for a trip (I pray not an odyssey) to visit the Oracle of the Mountain of Shameless Shitting where I intend to submit this question and return with a reply. So adieu, fellow sojouners, and wish me well.

Nice try, TBW, trying to take credit for him. He belongs to us all.

Can you tell us when it would have been appropriate to pull the switch on the Niagara Valve? I was in the Chatbox last night, and I was wishing for something like the Niagara Value. And this I know, that you deserved that commendation for coolness. Keep up the good work.

Has PR ever before seen the likes of The Dumpster? He's been on the site about 2 weeks and already is ranked 6th for the last year in number of posts. This posting rate makes The Shit Volcano look like the shy girl in the back of the class. He's sent enough material to Dave that Dave has begged him to hold off. At this rate, he'll have a point total in the 4000s this time next year. If anyone can ever catch Dave, this is our hope. What we've got on our hands here is a fucking PR prodigy.

Wonderful poll. Timely idea, perfect wording of options. And don't either of you pay any mind to that Nattering Nabob of Negativety --TBW. He just likes to cause trouble.

Dumpster. To be clear, I don't agree with doniker that the criteria for postable comments on this site should be retired or revised or that they are somehow un-American. PoopReport does not have a constitution guaranteeing such rights. But I don't really understand why he or anyone else feels that their ability to express themselves on issues they care about are being curtailed by the rules of this site when, if they felt strongly enough, they could form the sort of environment they want; they wouldn’t even need to form a totally alternative site. That is, they could create a web site that was a reaction to this one, without having to duplicate the content here, but merely react to it. I wouldn't think it would be too hard to set up or maintain. (Then they could deal with all the creeps and kids with nothing more to say than lol.)

doniker. Have you considered hosting an alternative site "Banned on PoopReport" for those who, like you, feel frustrated that they can't say absolutely anything the wish to on this site? You could track each story that appears on PoopReport, and have folks like you and the Holy Shitter go off on it. I'll bet people on this site couldn't help but go look there to see what you all were saying. In other words, make a world to your liking the way Dave and cohorts have.

Fuck off, Dave. (Opps, that's a typo. I meant Thank you, Dave.)

Funny story. But on the possibility that this problem could someday end up on the AP physics exam, I should point out some problems with your analysis. I'm no expert, but I think the dynamics are more like this: When the napkin was tossed from the window of the leading car, it was going the same speed and direction as that car. But as soon as it left, it started to slow, both because it was no longer being powered by the car and also due to the wind resistance. And really, both your cars ran into it, rather than it coming flying at you. It was still headed forward, not back. So, the relative speeds do matter, and here you are somewhat correct I think, that by the time it hit the second car, it there was a bigger difference between its velocity and that of the car. The difference in splatter, however, is more likely due to the difference between striking a smooth, slopped windshield and a rough, vertical grid.

Dumpster, with an s. Forgive me, for I have sinned.

Dumpter. You don't think that if God could strike bunga dead, that he couldn't also take the time to hit the Post button so as to let his handiwork be known? Oh, ye of little faith. Here, thrust your hands in my shit and see if I am not real.

We're your neighbors, honey, and we're here to help.

KeepOnCrappin. Working with the numbers you've given us, you sometimes wipe up to 50 times, doing in a roll and a third of paper. So many questions to ask. Are you waiting until you're finished to wipe, or are you trying to clean-as-you-go? I don't think I'd have an asshole left if I wiped that many times in a sitting. How do you hold up down there? When you go shopping, how many rolls do you buy at a time?

TSV, you just never give us quite enough details.

Amazing.
1. Peanut butter, Jelly.
2. Peanut butter, Jelly;
3. Peanut butter AND Jelly.
This is the sort of inquisitive, can-do spirit that makes America great.

Reading this, I found myself translating the story into the Twelve Days of Christmas.

7 people puking
6 beds a bouncing
5 cocaine vials ...

Dear anonymous001. Poonurse hasn't been around to answer these questions for awhile now, but I'm sure if she were here, she'd encourage you to go see a doctor about this.

"it would be sad if you never got to see it again." Indeed. Having watched your own turd grow to maturity, it is no easy thing to watch it go off to live its own life. But what are you going to do -- erect a protective wall around it and never let it go?

Poonurse and Dr. Adams! My god! How can you let all these questions go unanswered? Oh, the inhumanity of it, the needless suffering. Is there a doctor in the house? Medic, medic?

"And no i dont drink my own urine. "

Whose urine do you drink?

I'd never read this thread before, and now I wish I never had. What a bunch of sick fucks.

This might be analagous to the difference between experiencing a little tail pipe smoke after the engine of your car backfires, and what comes out the tail pipe when you're driving along and throw a rod.

(In light of above post). Just in case anyone was wonderin, it obviously still ain't safe to go tooling 'round the Ozarks.

So let me get this straight, Poopeater, assuming you're not just pulling our leg. You don't really like the taste and consistency of shit by itself. But by mixing it in with other compatible foods, you're able to tame it so that it "really doesn't taste that bad." I can understand, sort of, people eating shit because they like the taste of it. But why eat it at all if you don't like the taste? Is your budget that tight?

Hedge clippers.

I'm beginning to think that the biggest problem facing America today is that so many of us have the sort of open minds that wonderingrose advocates. "If you don't understand, don't comment," is the best formula for disaster I can possibly imagine.

Pretty Pooper, you have accomplished something which no PoopReporter before you has managed--you have become well known (and even adored) without having posted a single story or comment. You have done this by giving each of us who labor here hope, and a dream. Hope that our influence is broader than the comment counts would indicate. And a dream that someday someone will walk up to us and ask for an autograph. To you, and to Crapola, thank you, Dear.

Whew. I'd noticed that, and I was about to stop my participation in PR, because after just a few days of this new system, I find that my only motivation now for commenting is to rack up User Points.

You might consider, Dave, looking into the research B.F. Skinner and the Behaviorist school did on the effects different reinforcement schedules have on behavior (of both rats and humans). It turns out that you get the highest frequency of bar pressing (with rats) when you deliver reinforcements intermittently. So, for example, suppose you rigged it so that a comment got 10 points with probability .1. Most often, you'd get nothing, but then every once in a while you'd hit the jackpot with 10 fucking points. Even though in the long run we'd get the same reward total, we'd be posting comments at a ferocious rate compared to the predictable system you currently have us on. Just an idea...

Nothing wrong if it is a single room with a lockable door. But there are many good reasons to segregate genders when you're talking multi-porcelain facilities. Can you imagine, for example, what would happen if boxers went to the same corner between rounds?

Bleeding Ass. Based on what you've reported, I don't think it supports the idea that your father molested you. Apparently, your ass hurt after shitting even when you were little, and your father was kind enough to put Vasoline on it. You even started requesting it, which you wouldn't likely have done had you been being molested as part of that activity. Parents must, of necessity, handle the privates of their infants, and ordinarily there is nothing sexual going on.

And certainly that you butt bleeds now would have nothing to do with early trauma. Have you considered seeing a doctor about this?

Good luck.

Just got back from the blackjack tables in Vegas where I split 3 Ace's and got 10s flipped on all 3. I'd guess I felt 1,000 times as lucky as you did when you saw the water level dropping that Thanksgiving day. Me? I got reamed by the royal masterfucker when the dealer made 21 himself -- working from a goddamn 6. You? I'd guess you felt about 1,000,000 times worse as I did when the plunger dropped your load on the kitchen floor.

Thanks for reminding me what really bad luck is.

"I served in two wars to defend it."

Hey, there's an idea. A war to DEFEND the constitution. Been awhile since we had one of those.

Dear World

As you can see, 9/11 and the war in Iraq has made many of us Americans very touchy, and you can't say anything anymore that even remotely questions our authority or superiority without risking us kidnapping and torturing you or your family. By force, we aim to make the world an even better place to live in. We ask for your patience.

dicktracy. No, I don't believe that everyone (including me) who criticizes the US�s current "smoke-em-out-and-kill-em� policies are in immediate danger of themselves being kidnapped and tortured, unless perhaps if they are unluckey enough, as Khaled el-Masri was, to happen to have a name that resembles somewhat the name of one of the terrorists on the government�s current hit list. So I exaggerated a little, but not "absurdly."

Yes, I do love crap. And I visit this site not to express my political opinions nor to read the political opinions of others. I�m here to read about the shit I love. However, I can no longer sit in silence as fellow Americans say ignorant things or, worse, do horrible things. I don�t believe that the shit should be beaten out of people, even suspected terrorists, nor flung on people for speaking their mind or trying to be a little funny. The hatred expressed above to our fellow poop reporter, Terje, to all his countrymen and fellow Europeans, scares the hell out of me. Doesn�t it scare you?

Point taken, Capper. I'll log off and get some work done. Enjoy your Fox news.

To The Pooper, Shit Reaper, and Ontheshitter: Could you please direct us to the stories you all have submitted so that we can see how it's done? God, how we want to figure out how to entertain you.