The Most Epic Taking A Dump Story Ever Told
May 13, 2013 | No Comments » | Topics: LOLs, Writing |
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 Sh1tter. 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. Sh1tter was blathering to Mrs. Sh1tter about the sh1tty 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.
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Every Guy’s Worst Nightmare: Guy Gets Sack Stuck In-between His Zipper, Lives To Tell About It
May 2, 2013 | No Comments » | Topics: LOLs, Story |
by Youre_No_Daisy
So I began freaking out because the pain was just unbearable. I thought I had to go to the emergency room because I just couldn’t figure out a way to take it out that wouldn’t hurt. So I did the next best thing: went on Google for answers. The best thing I found was putting baby oil to make the release easier but that didn’t help. I don’t think any of the links had to do with foreskin stuck in the slider. I couldn’t zip down because the skin was there and the zipper was zipped at the bottom and zipping up was just making it worse. So I had to do the most embarrassing thing, but I didn’t care at the moment, I went to tell my father. I took the picture before going to tell him. I thought it would be less embarrassing to show him the picture, even though the real thing would be in front of him. I buttoned my pants and went to their room. I showed him and he asked the same question all of you asked. He told me to show him so I did. He tried doing the same thing I had tried, zipping up and down. I yelled, my face was red, I felt hot and my heart was beating quickly. The pain was intense. My dad gets frustrated very easily and after trying with no avail and me squirming with pain he said he couldn’t do anything with me moving around and that I might just had to go the emergency room, which was the one thing I didn’t want to hear. After a while he had a bright idea. He left the room and came back with a razor blade. My first reaction was to yell, “What are you going to do with that?” He told me to hold the zipper and he cut around the area were the slider was. So now the section that was attached to the slider and my foreskin was free from my jeans. He then pulled the slider down and it came off the zipper. I then pulled my foreskin out of the slider and that was it, it was free. I had minor cuts but it did bruise and teeth markings (from the zipper) were visible. I hope that made sense of how he did it.
Check out the very NSFW pictures here >>
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Only Adding To The Mystifying Awesomeness Of Bruce Lee…The Boeing Story
March 30, 2013 | No Comments » | Topics: Awesomeness |
by StillLifeWithDog
He became the topic of conversation in the lunch room between a bunch of Engineers down at Boeing, Seattle’s big Aerospace Center. These guys were bright, interesting, curious guys and one of them had fashioned a fun little set-up .. probably using Boeing materials.
So .. imagine this – quite simple really: On the wall there an attached, round, black rubber diaphragm, maybe 6 or 8 inches across. It is hooked to a timer — not digital as it would be now, but clock-face like with only the equivalent of a second hand .. in other words one single ‘sweep’ hand. On the face is marked off maybe 10 seconds .. that would be one full sweep around from top (’12′ position) to top again. Just UNDER the black diaphragm is a small red light. all of this is properly wired in to itself. So, this was, apparently, set up in the lunch room and was just ‘there’ for guys to play with — to test their reaction time. And the way it worked was that you would stand behind the tape line that they had placed on the floor some 6 feet away from the wall, hands at your side, looking at the light. When you saw the light turn on, you would step forward, hit the diaphragm, and step back. The timer, above, would show you how long between the ‘on’ of the red light, and the timer, and your hand against the diaphragm. Couldn’t be simpler .. right?
So, word gets around Seattle about this little hot-shot with reputedly fantastic form and reflexes, and there starts to be the "Man I’d love to get that guy down here to try our thing out" conversation sprinkling into the lunchtime banter. Finally, and I don’t know how, one of them knows someone who knows someone or something and word gets passed on to Bruce that they’d love to have him come down to the Engineers lunchroom down south of town any afternoon that he might be able to, to try out their ‘reflex tester’ that they’ve put together.
Well Bruce was a STRONG self-promoter, and I’m sure this was like catnip to him. So, of course, one day there’s a knock on the outer door and one of them comes walking this lean, smiley little guy back into the lunchroom full of a bunch of thick engineers with their mouths full of sandwiches. Very informal, pre-fame, no cameras and no big deal — if you just happened to be there digging into your lunch at that moment you were about to gain one of the stories of your life — if you had decided to step out to a restaurant that day .. you’d only be hearing the story for years to come. So, Bruce is brought in and they all greet him and laugh a bit with him and tell him how they had heard that he was in great physical shape and that it might be fun for him to try their set-up.
They show him what the deal is and how it works, ( I have NOdoubt that within 3 seconds of entering the room he had seen it and understood exactly what the deal was), and he says ‘sure!’ .. he’d be HAPPY to give that a try! So, they all sit back, out of his way, and he stands at the line, takes a breath and exhales and rotates his head back and forth a bit (Bruce had a palpable sense of focused relaxation which, once achieved, made him look like he may NEVER move a muscle again). He’s standing there, moment .. after moment, with his hands hanging loosely at his side .. gazing as if casually at the wall … then he suddenly FLIES forward and SMACKS the diaphragm and is INSTANTLY back behind the line, relaxed again. Whereupon there is this OUTcry from the entire room of Engineers saying "NO! no .. you have to WAIT for the Red Light to go on BEFORE smacking the diaphragm! Get it?! You hit is AFTER!!!" And, of course, he stands there smiling back at them. And one by one there’s this growing little chorus of "Ohhhh my GOD!" .. and "Wait a minute! My GOD .. I don’t BELIEVE it!!!" as they one by one come forwards towards the timer to confirm what they think they’re seeing but can’t believe.
What had just taken place, of course, was that Bruce had perceived the micro-instant of illumination, and had stepped forward to instantaneously douse it, and not a single other soul in the room, with nothing else to do but watch the light and the timer, had been aware of its even having come on. The story goes that when they got up to the timer and looked closely at it they saw that it had, indeed, BAAAARELY moved from top center. Unfortunately, I cannot now recall preciselywhat the actual numbers were, but it was SOMETHING like "Most of the guys turned that light off in, at BEST, a second or so. When we looked at the timer needle with Bruce, it was registering 8/100′s of a second .. barely even see-able on the dial, and not even long enough for the rest of us to see the light".
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We Can All Learn A Thing Or Two From Kyle’s Story
January 16, 2013 | 5 Comments » | Topics: Life, Story |
One day, when I was a freshman in high school, I saw a kid from my class was walking home from school. His name was Kyle. It looked like he was carrying all of his books. I thought to myself, “Why would anyone bring home all his books on a Friday? He must really be a nerd.” I had quite a weekend planned (parties and a football game with my friend tomorrow afternoon), so I shrugged my shoulders and went on. As I was walking, I saw a bunch of kids running toward him. They ran at him, knocking all his books out of his arms and tripping him so he landed in the dirt. His glasses went flying, and I saw them land in the grass about ten feet from him. He looked up and I saw this terrible sadness in his eyes. My heart went out to him. So, I jogged over to him and as he crawled around looking for his glasses, and I saw a tear in his eye.
As I handed him his glasses, I said, “Those guys are jerks. They really should get lives.” He looked at me and said, “Hey thanks!” There was a big smile on his face. It was one of those smiles that showed real gratitude.
I helped him pick up his books, and asked him where he lived. As it turned out, he lived near me, so I asked him why I had never seen him before. He said he had gone to private school before now. I would have never hung out with a private school kid before.
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If You Need Your Faith In Humanity Restored, Read This
October 6, 2012 | 6 Comments » | Topics: Life |
Just about every time I see someone I stop. I kind of got out of the habit in the last couple of years, moved to a big city and all that, my girlfriend wasn’t too stoked on the practice. Then some shit happened to me that changed me and I am back to offering rides habitually. If you would indulge me, it is long story and has almost nothing to do with hitch hiking other than happening on a road.
This past year I have had 3 instances of car trouble. A blow out on a freeway, a bunch of blown fuses and an out of gas situation. All of them were while driving other people’s cars which, for some reason, makes it worse on an emotional level. It makes it worse on a practical level as well, what with the fact that I carry things like a jack and extra fuses in my car, and know enough not to park, facing downhill, on a steep incline with less than a gallon of fuel.
Anyway, each of these times this shit happened I was DISGUSTED with how people would not bother to help me. I spent hours on the side of the freeway waiting, watching roadside assistance vehicles blow past me, for AAA to show. The 4 gas stations I asked for a gas can at told me that they couldn’t loan them out “for my safety” but I could buy a really shitty 1-gallon one with no cap for $15. It was enough, each time, to make you say shit like “this country is going to hell in a handbasket.”
But you know who came to my rescue all three times? Immigrants. Mexican immigrants. None of them spoke a lick of the language. But one of those dudes had a profound affect on me.
He was the guy that stopped to help me with a blow out with his whole family of 6 in tow. I was on the side of the road for close to 4 hours. Big jeep, blown rear tire, had a spare but no jack. I had signs in the windows of the car, big signs that said NEED A JACK and offered money. No dice. Right as I am about to give up and just hitch out there a van pulls over and dude bounds out. He sizes the situation up and calls for his youngest daughter who speaks english. He conveys through her that he has a jack but it is too small for the Jeep so we will need to brace it. He produces a saw from the van and cuts a log out of a downed tree on the side of the road. We rolled it over, put his jack on top, and bam, in business. I start taking the wheel off and, if you can believe it, I broke his tire iron. It was one of those collapsible ones and I wasn’t careful and I snapped the head I needed clean off. Fuck.
No worries, he runs to the van, gives it to his wife and she is gone in a flash, down the road to buy a tire iron. She is back in 15 minutes, we finish the job with a little sweat and cussing (stupid log was starting to give), and I am a very happy man. We are both filthy and sweaty. The wife produces a large water jug for us to wash our hands in. I tried to put a 20 in the man’s hand but he wouldn’t take it so I instead gave it to his wife as quietly as I could. I thanked them up one side and down the other. I asked the little girl where they lived, thinking maybe I could send them a gift for being so awesome. She says they live in Mexico. They are here so mommy and daddy can pick peaches for the next few weeks. After that they are going to pick cherries then go back home. She asks if I have had lunch and when I told her no she gave me a tamale from their cooler, the best fucking tamale I have ever had.
So, to clarify, a family that is undoubtedly poorer than you, me, and just about everyone else on that stretch of road, working on a seasonal basis where time is money, took an hour or two out of their day to help some strange dude on the side of the road when people in tow trucks were just passing me by. Wow…
But we aren’t done yet. I thank them again and walk back to my car and open the foil on the tamale cause I am starving at this point and what do I find inside? My fucking $20 bill! I whirl around and run up to the van and the guy rolls his window down. He sees the $20 in my hand and just shaking his head no like he won’t take it. All I can think to say is “Por Favor, Por Favor, Por Favor” with my hands out. Dude just smiles, shakes his head and, with what looked like great concentration, tried his hardest to speak to me in English:
“Today you…. tomorrow me.”
Rolled up his window, drove away, his daughter waving to me in the rear view. I sat in my car eating the best fucking tamale of all time and I just cried. Like a little girl. It has been a rough year and nothing has broke my way. This was so out of left field I just couldn’t deal.
In the 5 months since I have changed a couple of tires, given a few rides to gas stations and, once, went 50 miles out of my way to get a girl to an airport. I won’t accept money. Every time I tell them the same thing when we are through:
“Today you…. tomorrow me.”
(via)
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A Horrifyingly Embarrassing And Equally Hilarious Poop Story To Go With Your Morning Coffee
September 20, 2012 | 3 Comments » | Topics: Story |
When I was 17 my girlfriend at the time was finally ready to have sex. I, as one might expect of a 17 year old, was excited. Neither hell nor high water was going to stand between me and my final destination.
I get ready for the night, trim everything up, shower extra well. Unfortunately there was also an issue. I have a digestional disorder that sometimes cause my shit to become large and quite solid while still inside me. I wasn’t aware it was a treatable problem and, in fact, just thought everyone had to deal with the equivalent of anal kidney stones. I bring this up because I had a mighty one which had been loaded into the gun for several days.
Let me set the scene. Her parents are away. We have her house to ourselves. She was always a little kinky so she demands we do it in her parents bed. I walk in to a candle holocaust. She’s been working on this all day apparently, and its as bright as high noon in there with the lights off. Which is good, because she proceeds to do a sweet, sexy little dance for me. At 16, she was AMAZING. For those of you who never experienced a female at that age, I pity the fool.
Now I’m sitting on the bed, watching this dance. I smile and tell her how good she looks. Unfortunately, most of my attention is focused on the dull throbbing from my sphincter and the large amount of intestinal discomfort associated with not dropping duce in days. But somehow I still get hard and we go to town. She starts out on top, then we switch. I bend her over the bed, and I even smack her ass (a ballsy move at the time, but she loved it). Due to my built up distraction, I last for what seems like FOREVER. She can’t stop moaning and telling me how good it feels, and then she says what every man wants to hear “I want to make you cum in my mouth.” I fu*king love women.
So she goes down on me. She was always average at best in the head department but at least she tried. She pops my cock out of her mouth long enough to look up at me and say “tell me if you like this”. Then I feel it.
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I Think We Have A Contender For The Funniest Sh*t Related Story Ever. Props To Harvey Balls For The Find
September 7, 2012 | 4 Comments » | Topics: LOLs, Story |
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 Sh1tter. I wasn’t happy about being next to the occupied stall, but Big Things were afoot.
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The Funniest Sh*t Related Story You Will Ever Read
September 6, 2012 | 1 Comment » | Topics: Best Of, LOLs, 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 porn 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.
