Another high brow post on TBP.
We are having torrential rains in Phila today. This meant my horrific commute had the potential to be epic. I’ve made this commute for 3 years and I thought I’d experienced every possible scenario. I hadn’t. As I sat in traffic on the Schuykill moving 5 mph, it happened. I was struck. You all know what I mean. Spasms of pain reverberated through my body. Sweat was forming on my brow. There were no good options. I was just going to have to gut it out. The thought crossed my mind – what if?
This couldn’t be happening to me. Everything was conspiring against me. Sheets of rain poured down. Just when it looked like traffic would move, we’d come to a grinding halt. When I got into West Philly I got stuck behind a trolley making all the stops. Pedestrians strolled across the street blocking my path. Lights turned red every time I approached. Deep breathing exercises weren’t cutting it. I think I now know what labor feels like. As I floored it into my parking garage a violent spasm struck. I fought it off with everything I had. I set a land speed record from my parking garage to my building.
The story has a happy ending for me, not for the dude who goes into that stall after me. I will not blame the meal prepared by Avalon last night. Maybe it was the same person trying to bring my site down.
I now open it up to everyone. We’ll call this:
HOW I ALMOST SHIT MYSELF
The best story gets a bottle of Pepto Bismol.
Ut Oh!!!!!!!!!!!! – Round 2
Some things should remain private.
Robmu1
You must have a good story. Please share.
I think I saw you. I took a picture for proof.
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I was scanning comments on Zero Hedge the other day. A reader had posted a photo of a white male in the midst of running a marathon. He was oblivious to the fact that his legs and waist were covered in wet shit. Apparently he had an attack of diarrhea and had no idea he had shit himself. It fucking grossed ME out, and that is saying something.
OK, I’ll bite:
At 19, I (foolishly) entered a shot-for-shot tequila drinking contest with a man, much older than me, and a military officer to boot. To this day, I have no idea why I accepted his challenge.
Conclusion? Not pretty. Shit everywhere.
That happens to me everytime I look at my 401k, or what’s left of it.
It gives new meaning to the concept of the shit hitting the fan!
So, I’m standing at the urinal in the men’s room of the 100+ yr old building in which I work, wearing suit pants, shirt & tie, when I feel a fart coming on. Following my usual inclination, I let it rip – only to immediately discover that it was not in fact harmless gas but instead a load of near diarrhetic crap resulting from some suspicious Singapore rice stick I’d eaten about an hour earlier. Fortunately, I was wearing briefs – you boxer morons would have immediately ruined your suit – and I sprung into action, shuffling around a barrier into the lone stall where I sat and carefully lowered the pants to shoe top level, leaving the load precariously swaying at just below knee height. This is where the 100+ age of the building comes into play. This stall, which I had been in numerous times before is very constrictive. The door is on the left side with solid walls everywhere else – walls that were too close to allow for removal of the pants without dislodging the impediment. Although the trusty briefs were holding their own, I knew it was only a matter of seconds before the viscous nature of the problem would win out, ruining the pants and marooning me in the john, indefinitely. Fortunately, being a man, I had my faithful Barlow pocket knife in my pants. I whipped it out and quickly cut the long suffering briefs away, removing the problem and ultimately placing it, and them, far down to the bottom of the trash container. The only minor drawback of the whole episode was that I spent the rest of the day Commando – which was strangely empowering.
Hucklebuck
You are far in the lead for the bottle of pepto.
I can’t compete with huckle’s chuckle but I will tell you about my first time long distance kayaking. I was in the Queen Charlottes in Hecate Straight paddling away about 2 miles from shore in any direction. I had drank from a stream the day before because I ran out of iodine. This is when I learned the power of beaver fever. The options were clear 1. Bail out in the 40 degree water & do what needs to be done. 2. Paddle for another hour in my own filth. I paddled. By the time I hit shore I had a shit rash from my dick all the way up my ass crack.
Ten bucks Avalon is saying “Ewww, Jim, how could you?” to this post. At a MINIMUM, she is shaking her head. Be honest, Admin, which is it?
SSS
You win the bet. She did both things. Plus she claims that it wasn’t her cooking.
Well Hucklebuck gave me a great belly laugh this morning as I prepare for another challenging Friday. It brought to mind one of a few Shit stories I had over the years.
One lovely sunny Summer morning about a decade ago I awoke to my daily routine of going to the local golf course to walk the back nine for the price of $9 (now on Long Island that course charges $75 for a round) Everything was going well, there was dew on the greens so the golf ball tracked beautifully to the hole. I got to the 16th tee and a strange rumble started in my belly. Giving it no particuliar notice I pushed on down the fairway. All of a sudden I had this strong urge to fart, I pinched my cheeks together thinking I could delay the enivitable till I reached the clubhouse-NO CHANCE! Out it came in all its discusting glory filling my drawers with putrid slimey shit. The only living creature around was a curious deer probably smelling my situation-Thank God. Well self preservation took over and I grabbed my nice new golf towel off my bag and bolted into the woods kicking off my shoes on the way and exiting my shorts as well. by this time the shit was running down my legs and I flung of my shit laden briefs and stood there naked from the waist down. With my trusty new golf towel I was able to clean up well enough to continue on. I flung my nice new towel into the woods, redressed and finished my round.
Hucklebuck’s story takes it, sorry guys, with some kick ass Macguyver moves. Your story couldn’t have been better if you had made a new pair of undergrundies out of duct tape.