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The most horrifying thing you will ever read

The Funniest Sh*t Related Story You Will Ever Read

September 6, 2012 | 1 Comment » | Topics: Best Of, LOLs, Story

bathroom story

by _Old_Man_Jenkins_

Story time, children. Gather round.

Many years ago, when I was in high school, I worked at a movie theater. Allow me to preface the story by saying that I pride myself on my ability to accomplish tasks that I find unpleasant. My parents own several section 8 rental properties around Youngstown, and I had been roped into innumerable “This house is a mess, we’re not paying anyone to clean it, we feed you, here’s a bucket, get started” adventures in my short life. I had dealt with festering diapers left in the open air for months in summer, rotten food, spoiled milk, animal corpses, used hypodermics, anything you could imagine. Cleaning the grease trap in the concession area did not phase me. I was woefully unprepared this day.

I arrived in my polo shirt and slacks through the lobby entrance as some of the theaters were letting out. I could tell immediately something was amiss. One of the managers had put the caution tape we normally used to mark defective chairs over the door to the women’s restroom, and was standing in front of the door looking worried. When a patron would try to enter, the manager would stop them, nod apologetically, make a brief “mia culpa” gesture with her hands, and usher them away. When she saw that I had arrived, her eyes immediately brightened and she waved emphatically for me to come over.

“Jenkins,” she said, “You want to do something for me? There’s gas cards in it for you.”

This should have been my tip off. Gas cards were highly prized commodities in the theater, being given only for the most exemplary service. To receive multiple gas cards was unheard of.

“How many gas cards?” I asked.

“Three.”

“What do you want me to do?”

“There’s a mess in the first stall. I want you to clean it up.”

“Sure, no problem,” said 17 year old me, ready to earn the easiest 30 bucks in gas cards of my life. I was naive, and did not expect the horrors that awaited me.

I was allowed entry into the women’s restroom, and the first thing I noticed was the smell. It was the foulest thing I have ever smelled to this day. Imagine that a dozen homeless people are filming a scat porrn with a dead dolphin inside a sweat lodge inside a paper mill next to the Jersey River in August. That pales in comparison to the unholy aroma permeating the room; its soft pink tiles ironic in the face of such an insidious odor.

After leaving the room to get a lungful of fresh air, I held my breath and proceeded to open the stall door there. What I was to bear witness to was a travesty. What had been done to that stall could not have been done by any creature, human or animal, but rather some breed of deranged shiet demon conjured from the 8th circle of hell for the sole purpose of wreaking psychopathic excrement torture on the souls of the living.

Before me sat what I would estimate to be about two gallons of sludge-like human waste, coating the area immediately surrounding the toilet as if it had been somehow weaponized. It had caked the toilet, formed a 3 foot halo around the toilet, splattered and stuck to the back wall, caked itself onto the toilet paper dispenser, seeped into the little bin used for sanitary napkin disposal, and caked itself in a Pollock-esque pattern on the stall doors. Amongst the refuse, draped over the toilet’s handle and pump was a medium-sized woman’s cardigan that had originally been white, but appeared to have been subjected to a profane fecal tie-dye. To imagine this volume of crap being expelled from a living thing’s anus in such volume and with such velocity as to form the specific pattern of disaster in front of me was to break the natural and physical laws of the universe. To look into that first stall was to look upon the face of God, and know with certainty that he is an angry and terrible God. Beware ye who would fight monsters, for when one stares into the shiet abyss, the shiet abyss stares back.

I left the restroom to prepare for my struggle against the cesspool. I donned gauntlets of nitrile, blue and sterile as the cleanest lagoon. From a hefty bag, I fashioned a hauberk and adorned my shoes and shins with packaging from frozen pretzels, held securely in place with rubber bands. I gathered 8 rolls of paper towels, three additional hefty bags, a mop and two extra mop heads, a bucket, and two gallons of green, undiluted industrial strength disinfectant. To finish my raiment, I stole the face mask from the blood born pathogen kit and doused it in industrial air freshener so that I could smell pine groves clearly when it was extended to arms length.

The battle began and raged for two hours that passed in a blur. I lost all sense of time. I forgot my hopes and dreams. I forgot my name. In retrospect, this may have been because I had doused a face mask in aerosol air freshener and was higher than an entire Phish concert. I scrubbed. I worked. I cursed. The battle raged on, and new enemies were discovered. In addition to the cardigan, there was a pair of formerly pink ankle socks. Anything that was not held in place by bolts or mortar had to be removed and destroyed.

In the end, I was victorious. I lost a lot of good men. The mop and mop bucket died valiantly in the effort, and were given a burial with full honors in the dumpster behind the theater. Because they were not proud men, and the general manager had a fragile temperament, whenever she inquired about them afterwards I maintained that they were lost. They would have wanted it that way.

I went on to leave the theater for college later that year, but the employees still talk of it to this day. I am the shietslayer.

TL;DR: It is untrue that girls do not poop.

(via)



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  • Harvey Balls

    Very funny story – but not even close to the best ever. I challenge you to read this story without literally laughing out loud…

    Why you should not talk on your cell phone in the bathroom.

    All
    in all, it hadn’t been a good day. Bad traffic, a malfunctioning computer,
    incompetent coworkers and a sore back all made me a seething cauldron of rage.
    But more importantly for this story, it had been over forty-eight hours since
    I’d last taken a dump. I’d tried to jumpstart the process, beginning my day with
    a bowl of bowel-cleansing fiber cereal, following it with six cups of coffee at
    work, and adding a bean-laden lunch at Taco Bell. As I was returning home from
    work, my insides let me know with subtle rumbles and the emission of the
    occasional tiny fart that Big Things would be happening soon. Alas, I had to
    stop at the mall to go Christmas shopping. I completed this task, and as I was
    walking past the stores on my way back to the car, I noticed a large sale sign
    proclaiming, “Everything Must Go!” This was prophetic, for my colon informed me
    with a sudden violent cramp and a wet, squeaky fart that everything was indeed
    about to go. I hurried to the mall bathrooms. I surveyed the five stalls, which
    I have numbered 1 through 5 for your convenience:
    1.Occupied.
    2.Clean, but Bathroom Protocol forbids its use, as it’s
    next to the occupied one.
    3.Poo on seat.
    4.Poo and toilet paper in bowl, unidentifiable liquid
    splattered on seat.
    5.No
    toilet paper, no stall door, unidentifiable sticky object near base
    of
    toilet.
    Clearly, it had to be Stall #2. I trudged back, entered,
    dropped trousers and
    sat down. I’m normally a fairly Shameful Shietter. I
    wasn’t happy about being
    next to the occupied stall, but Big Things were
    afoot.
    I
    was just getting ready to bear down when all of a sudden the sweet sounds of
    Beethoven came from next door, followed by a fumbling, and then the sound of a
    voice answering the ringing phone. As usual for a cell phone conversation, the
    voice was exactly 8 dB louder than it needed to be. Out of Shameful habit, my
    sphincter slammed shut. The inane conversation went on and on. Mr. Shietter was
    blathering to Mrs. Shietter about the shietty day he had. I sat there, cramping
    and miserable, waiting for him to finish. As the loud conversation dragged on, I
    became angrier and angrier, thinking that I, too, had a crappy day, but I was
    too polite to yak about in public. My bowels let me know in no uncertain terms
    that if I didn’t get crapping soon, my day would be getting even
    crappier.
    Finally my anger reached a point that overcame
    Shamefulness. I no longer cared. I gripped the toilet paper holder with one
    hand, braced my other hand against the side of the stall, and pushed with all my
    might. I was rewarded with a fart of colossal magnitude – a cross between the
    sound of someone ripping a very wet bed sheet in half and of plywood being torn
    off a wall. The sound gradually transitioned into a heavily modulated low-RPM
    tone, not unlike someone firing up a Harley. I managed to hit the resonance
    frequency of the stall, and it shook gently.
    Once
    my *** cheeks stopped flapping in the breeze, three things became apparent:

    (1) The next-door conversation had ceased
    (2) my colon’s continued
    seizing indicated that there was more to come
    (3) the bathroom was now beset
    by a horrible, eldritch stench. It was as if a gateway to Hell had been opened.
    The foul miasma quickly made its way under the stall and began choking my
    poop-mate. This initial “herald” fart had ended his conversation in
    mid-sentence.
    “Oh
    my God,” I heard him utter, following it with suppressed sounds of choking, and
    then, “No, baby, that wasn’t me (cough, gag), you could hear that
    (gag)??”
    Now
    there was no stopping me. I pushed for all I was worth. I could swear that in
    the resulting cacophony of rips, squirts, splashes, poots, and blasts, I was
    actually lifted slightly off the pot. The amount of stuff in me was incredible.
    It sprayed against the bowl with tremendous force. Later, in surveying the
    damage, I’d see that liquid poop had actually managed to ricochet out of the
    bowl and run down the side on to the floor. But for now, all I could do was hang
    on for the ride.
    Next
    door I could hear him fumbling with the paper dispenser as he desperately tried
    to finish his task. Little snatches of conversation made themselves heard over
    my anal symphony: “Gotta go… horrible… throw up…in my mouth… not… make it… tell
    the kids… love them… oh God…” followed by more sounds of suppressed gagging and
    retching.
    Alas, it is evidently difficult to hold one’s phone and
    wipe one’s bum at the same time. Just as my high-pressure abuse of the toilet
    was winding down, I heard a plop and splash from next door, followed by string
    of swear words and gags. My poop-mate had dropped his phone into the
    toilet.
    There was a lull in my production, and the restroom
    became deathly quiet. I could envision him standing there, wondering what to do.
    A final anal announcement came trumpeting from my behind, small chunks plopping
    noisily into the water. That must have been the last straw. I heard a flush, a
    fumbling with the lock, and then the stall door was thrown open. I heard him
    running out of the bathroom, slamming the door behind him.
    After a considerable amount of paperwork, I got up and
    surveyed the damage. I felt bad for the janitor who’d be forced to deal with
    this, but I knew that flushing was not an option. No toilet in the world could
    handle that unholy mess. Flushing would only lead to a floor flooded with
    filth.
    As I
    left, I glanced into the next-door stall. Nothing remained in the bowl. Had he
    flushed his phone, or had he plucked it out and left the bathroom with nasty
    unwashed hands? The world will never know.
    I
    exited the bathroom, momentarily proud and Shameless, looking around for a face
    glaring at me. But I saw no one. I suspect that somehow my supernatural
    elimination has managed to transfer my Shamefulness to my anonymous poop-mate. I
    think it’ll be a long time before he can bring himself to poop in public — and I
    doubt he’ll ever again answer his cell phone in the loo. And this, my friends,
    is why you should never talk on your phone in the bathroom.


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