Bathroom Humor

Old 07-27-2007, 12:52 PM
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Default Bathroom Humor

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 pick up an order
for my wife. I completed this task, and as I was walking past the stores on my way backto 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 0 through 4 (I write a lot of software) for your convenience:


1.Clean, but Bathroom Protocol forbids its use, as it's next to the occupied one.

2.Poo on seat.

3.Poo and toilet paper in bowl, unidentifiable liquid splattered on seat.

4.No toilet paper, no stall door, unidentifiable sticky object near base of

Clearly, it had to be Stall #1. I trudged back, entered, dropped trou 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.

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 ass 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; and (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 underthe 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



It was casual friday afternoon where i work, at Barryton Electronic Technologies. it was nearing the end of my work week and all i wanted to do was take an "after lunch dookie" in peace.

the bathroom in the far west wing of the building is perfect for moving your bowels because it is generally empty and also a single stall. i quicken my pace to reach the bathroom because i feel my poop trying to poke through like a turtle head peeking out of it's shell.

i enter the bathroom, zip lock bag full of baby wipes in hand, to find it empty as usual. "aahhhhh.....this is going to be nice," i think to myself.

a private, peaceful dump after a hearty lunch. my own natural ecstasy. i open the stall door only to find one of the most repulsive and disgusting sights i'i have seen since that rest stop outside of Fresno. liquid poop splattered all over the bowl and seat. some of it found its way on to the wall behind the toilet. how someone managed to do that i have no f**king clue. i gaged as i turned my head and started for the exit.

this was not good, not good at all. the next closest bathroom was about 100 feet away. not too far of a walk, but 100 feet can feel like 100 miles when your poop is trying to make a surprise guest appearance in your underpants. i power walk towards the bathroom, my ass clinched tight as hell. this was a serious situation. here i am, 1 week shy of my 23rd birthday, a grown adult, on the verge of messing myself. it has gone past the point of turtle heading and has reached the red alert stage of prairie dogging. this is the last step before actually making brownie batter in your underwear.

the bathroom door was in view now. it was a high traffic, multi-stall bathroom near the center on the building. i usually avoided this bathroom at all cost, only occasionally using it to take a piss, but never for s**tting. unfortunately today i had no choice.

i entered the bathroom expecting to find it full of overweight, middle aged men, but was surprised and relieved to see only two guys present. one at the sink, the other in a stall. the smell of air freshener trying to disguise the smell of urine and excrement lingered in the air. the guy at the sink looked at me through the mirror. "hey hey, there he is," he said.

this walrus of a man had no idea who i was and i sure as hell did not know who he was. yet he felt it was necessary for us to communicate in some way or another. that is fine with me. i could care less. "TGIF eh?" he continued as he washed his hands, water splashing on to his jeans and typical friday hawaiian print shirt.

god it is corny as hell at my work. i gave him a half smile and a nod and headed toward the stalls. there were four stalls, only the last one was occupied. i looked at the shoes of the occupant. i always do. he was wearing a pair of incognito, plain black Reeboks, concealing his identity. my shoes were always a dead give away. no matter what pair i was wearing people knew it was me taking a $hit and i hated it.

i set foot in to the stall next to Mr. Black Reeboks since it was the only one that did not require flushing before using. i hurried and undid my pants at the same time laid down the horse shoe seat protector. my ass was barely over the bowl when i dropped the shark in the water.

after the initial poop it would be a minute till the rest came. you know how that goes. it was while i was sitting there that i noticed how disgustingly warm the seat was. i was sitting in someone else's ass warmth. i imagined Mr. Luau Shirt sitting on the toilet seconds before me. his fat, sweaty ass covering the whole seat. sweat dripping from his brow and the tip of his nose. the rolls on the back of his neck looked like a pack of hot dogs. now i was not sure if i was going to use toilet for $hitting or barfing.

so there i sat in silence. Mr. Luau Shirt had left and it was just me and Mr. Black Reeboks. in this huge bathroom we were no more than three feet apart and only an inch thick sheet of metal separated us. that was when i realized that Mr. Black Reeboks was no longer $hitting. he was merely reading. reading in that stinky ass bathroom of all places.

i on the other hand had more pooping to do. and this f**ker was ruining it. i would have had the whole bathroom to myself if he would just leave. it would be perfect.

in the city of sacramento there are hundreds of shady park benches, cozy couches, and grassy knolls for him to curl up and read. but opposed to all that, Mr. Black Reeboks preferred the ambiance of a shitty, smelly bathroom. inhaling other peoples' vapors and fumes.

so there we sat. the only thing to break the silence was the occasional rustling of paper with the turn of a page or a fart from my ass. i was just about done now and wanted to at least wipe my ass in privacy. i was not up for someone listening to me while i wiped my ass with toilet paper, then a baby wipe, then toilet paper, then a baby wipe, then toilet paper, then a baby wipe and so on. "Wipe till it's white," that is my motto. i am really anal about keeping my anus clean.

it was just then that my wish had been granted. Mr. Black Reeboks rose to leave and he did. he did not even bother to wash his hands. what a sick bastard he was.

Finally. at last, some privacy. thank you lord and buddha. no more than ten seconds pass before the bathroom door opens and somebody else enters. DAMN IT, DAMN IT, DAMN IT! that is when i hear my name spoken out loud. "so how bout that heat outside, Steve?"

i look down and start to pout. actually pout out loud and mutter under my breath "damn these gum soled, olive adidas."


Now, I know that there is a lot of embellishment that occurs on this group and I am aware that a small number of things are perhaps sheer fabrication, but I have a story to tell that is the absolute truth. Funniest damn thing that has ever happened to me.

A couple of weeks ago we decided to cruise out to Ryan's Steakhouse for dinner. It was a Wednesday night which means that macaroni and beef was on the hot bar, indeed the only night of the week that it is served. Wednesday night is also kid's night at Ryan's, complete with Dizzy the Clown wandering from table to table entertaining the little bastards. It may seem that the events about to be told have little connection to those two circumstances, but all will be clear in a moment.

We went through the line and placed our orders for the all-you-can-eat hot bar then sat down as far away from the front of the restaurant as possible in order to keep the density of kids down a bit. Then I started my move to the hot bar.

Plate after plate of macaroni and beef were consumed that evening, I tell you-in all, four heaping plates of the pseudo-Italian ambrosia were shoved into my belly. I was sated. Perhaps a bit too much, however. I had not really been feeling well all day, what with a bit of gas and such. By the time I had eaten four overwhelmed plates of food, I was in real trouble. There was so much pressure on my diaphragm that I was having trouble breathing. At the same time, the downward pressure was building. At first, I thought it was only gas, which could have been passed in batches right at the table without too much concern. Unfortunately, that was not to be. After a minute or so it was clear that I was dealing with explosive diarrhea. It's amazing how grease can make its way through your intestines far faster than the food which spawned the grease to begin with, but I digress...

I got up from the table and made my way to the bathroom. Upon entering, I saw two sinks immediately inside the door, two urinals just to the right of the sinks, and two toilet stalls against the back wall. One of them was a handicapped bathroom. Now, normally I would have gone to the handicapped stall since I like to stretch out a bit when I take a good shit, but in this case, the door lock was broken and the only thing I hate worse than my wife telling me to stop cutting my toenails with a pair of diagonal wirecutters is having someone walk in on me while I am taking a shit. I went to the normal stall.

In retrospect, I probably should have gone to the large, handicapped stall even though the door would not lock because that bit of time lost in making the stall switch proved to be a bit too long under the circumstances. By the time I had walked into the regular stall, the pressure on my ass was reaching Biblical proportions.

I began "The Move."

For those women who may be reading this, let me take a moment to explain "The Move." Men know exactly what their bowels are up to at any given second. And when the time comes to empty the cache, a sequence of physiological events occur that can not be stopped under any circumstances. There is a move men make that involves simultaneously approaching the toilet, beginning the body turn to position ones ass toward said toilet, hooking ones fingers into ones waistline, and pulling down the pants while beginning the squat at the same time. It is a very fluid motion that, when performed properly, results in the flawless expulsion of shit at the exact same second that one’s ass is properly placed on the toilet seat. Done properly, it even assures that the choad is properly inserted into the front rim of the toilet in the event that the piss stream lets loose at the same time; it is truly a picture of coordination rivaling that of a skilled ballet dancer. I was about half-way into "The Move" when I looked down at the floor and saw a pile of vomit that had been previously expelled by one of those little bastards attending kids night; it was mounded up in the corner so I did not notice it when I had first walked into the stall.

Normally, I would not have been bothered by such a thing, but I had eaten so much and the pressure upward was so intense, that I hit a rarely experienced gag reflex. And once that reflex started, combined with the intense pressure upward caused by the bloated stomach, four plates of macaroni and beef started coming up for a rematch. What happened next was so quick that the exact sequence of events are a bit fuzzy, but I will try to reconstruct them as best I can.

In that moment of impending projectile vomiting, my attention was diverted from the goings-on at the other end. To put a freeze frame on the situation, I was half crouched down to the toilet, pants pulled down to my knees, with a load of vomit coming up my esophagus. Now, most of you know that vomiting takes precedence over shit no matter what is about to come slamming out of your ass. It is apparently an evolutionary thing since shitting will not kill you, but vomiting takes a presence of mind to accomplish so that you do not aspirate any food into the bronchial tubes and perhaps choke to death. My attention was thus diverted. At that very split second, my ass exploded in what can only be described as a know, as in a newspaper headline along the lines of "30,000 Killed In Wake of Typhoon Fifi" or something similar.

In what seemed to be most suitably measured in cubic feet, an enormous plug of shit the consistency of thick mud with embedded pockets of greasy liquid came flying out of my ass. But remember, I was only half-way down on the toilet at that moment. The shit wave was of such force and of just such an angle in relation to the back curve of the toilet seat that it ricocheted off the back of the seat and slammed into the wall at an angle of incidence equal to the angle at which it initially hit the toilet seat. Then I sat down. Recall that when that event occurred, I was already half-way to sitting anyway and had actually reached the point of no return. I have always considered myself as relatively stable gravitationally, but when you get beyond a certain point, you're going down no matter how limber you may be. Needless to say, the shit wave, though of considerable force, was not so sufficient so as to completely glance off the toilet seat and deposit itself on the walls, unlike what you would see when hitting a puddle with a high-pressure water hose; even though you throw water at the puddle, the puddle gets moved and no water is left to re-form a puddle. There was a significant amount of shit remaining on about one-third of the seat rim which I had now just collapsed upon. Now, back to the vomit... While all the shitting was going on, the vomit was still on its way up. By the time I had actually collapsed on the toilet, my mouth had filled up with a goodly portion of the macaroni and beef I had just consumed. OK, so what does the human body instinctively do when vomiting? One bends over. So I bent over. I was still sitting on the toilet, though. Therefore, bending over resulted in me placing my head above my now slightly-opened legs, positioned in between my knees and waist. Also directly above my pants which were now pulled down to a point just midway between my knees and my ankles. Oh, did I mention that I was wearing not just pants, but sweat pants with elastic on the ankles? In one mighty push, some three pounds of macaroni and beef, two or three Cokes, and a couple of Big, Fat Yeast Rolls were deposited in my pants...on the inside...with no ready exit at the bottom down by my feet. In the next several seconds, there were a handful of farts, a couple of turds, and the event ended, yet I was now sitting there with my pants full of vomit, my back covered in shit that had bounced off the toilet, spattered on three ceramic-tiled walls to a height of about five feet, and still had enough force to come back at me, covering the back of my shirt with droplets of liquid shit. All while thick shit was spread all over my ass in a ring curiously in the shape of a toilet seat.

And there was no fucking toilet paper.

What could I do but laugh. I must have sounded like a complete maniac to the guy who then wandered into the bathroom. He actually asked if I was OK since I was laughing so hard I must have sounded like I was crying hysterically. I calmed down just enough to ask him if he would get the manager. And told him to have the manager bring some toilet paper. When the manager walked in, he brought the toilet paper with him, but in no way was prepared for what happened next. I simply told him that there was no way I was going to explain what was happening in the stall, but that I needed several wet towels and I needed him to go ask my wife to come help me. I told him where we were sitting and he left. At that point, I think he was probably assuming that I had pissed just a bit in my pants or something similarly benign. About two minutes later, my wife came into the bathroom not knowing what was wrong and with a certain amount of worry in her voice. I explained to her (still laughing and having trouble getting out words) that I had a slight accident and needed her help. Knowing that I had experienced some close calls in the past, she probably assumed that I had laid down a small turd or something and just needed to bring the car around so we could bolt immediately. Until I asked her, I'm sure she had no idea that she was about to go across the street and purchase me new underwear, new socks, new pants, a new shirt, and (by that time due to considerable leakage around the elastic ankle thingies) new sneakers. And she then started to laugh herself since I was still laughing. She began to ask for an explanation as to what had happened when I promised her that I would tell her later, but that I just needed to handle damage control for the time being. She left. The manager then came back in with a half-dozen wet towels and a few dry ones. I asked him to also bring a mop and bucket upon which he assured me that they would clean up anything that needed to be cleaned. Without giving him specific details, I explained that what was going on in that stall that night was far in excess of what I would expect anyone to deal with, what with most of the folks working at Ryan's making minimum wage or just slightly above. At that moment, I think it dawned on him exactly the gravity of the situation. Then that manager went so far above the call of duty that I will be eternally grateful for his actions. He hooked up a hose.

Fortunately, commercial bathrooms are constructed with tile walls and tile floors and have a drain in the middle of the room in order to make clean up easy. Fortunately, I was in a commercial bathroom. He hooked up the hose to the spigot located under the sink as I began cleaning myself up with the wet towels. Just as I was finishing, my wife got back with the new clothes and passed them into the stall, whereupon I stuffed the previously worn clothing into the plastic bag that came from the store, handing the bag to my wife. I finished cleaning myself off and carefully put on my new clothes, still stuck in the stall since I figured that it would be in bad taste to go out of the stall to get redressed in the event I happened to be standing there naked and some little bastard kid walked in. At that point, I had only made a mess; I had not yet committed a felony and intended to keep it that way.

When I finished getting dressed, I picked up the hose and cleaned up the entire stall, washing down the remains toward the drain in the center of the room. I put down the hose and walked out of the bathroom. I had intended to go to the manager and thank him for all he had done, but when I walked out, three of the management staff were there to greet me with a standing ovation. I started laughing so hard that I thought I was going to throw up again, but managed to scurry out to the car where my wife was now waiting to pick me up by the front door.
jbsjunk is offline  
Old 07-27-2007, 03:49 PM
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My face hurts from laughing. The mental pictures were kinda twisted though...
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Old 07-27-2007, 05:55 PM
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:lol: :lol: :lol: whew.....I needed a laugh like that!!! :lol: :lol:
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Old 07-27-2007, 06:19 PM
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THAT IS JUST WRONG IN SO MANY WAYS :shock: :shock: :shock: BUT STILL FUNNY AS HELL :lol: :lol: :shock: :lol:
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Old 07-27-2007, 06:46 PM
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If I didn't think you'd like em, I wouldn't have posted em. Gotta make my dreary exsistance worthwhile, dontcha know? :lol:
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Old 07-27-2007, 07:41 PM
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jbsjunk; LMFAO, I think a cracked a rib! :lol:
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Old 07-28-2007, 10:05 AM
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Old 07-28-2007, 08:02 PM
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Originally Posted by Racefab57
Actually, I do write, ask Carl. ops:

Those posts above are copy/paste from a BMW MB I'm on. :wink:
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Old 07-30-2007, 04:03 PM
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Originally Posted by jbsjunk
Originally Posted by Racefab57
Actually, I do write, ask Carl. ops:

Those posts above are copy/paste from a BMW MB I'm on. :wink:
I have read some of Jeff's work and he has talent as a writer, no doubt!!!!!

BTW, that is just so sick and twisted, but true and funny as hell
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Old 08-01-2007, 06:59 AM
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THe funnist thing on here yet!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! Would love to see what else youve written! David.
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