So, you think your life sucks?

So you think you have it bad?  Work sucks, wife is too hard on you?  Maybe you are being indicted for income tax evasion?  Well, nothing can compare to the horrible set of situations thrust upon the unlucky gentlemen focused on in our three case studies below.  Some of the material you are about to read is not safe for work, may be disturbing to young readers, squeamish people and possibly some midgets.  You may also not want to continue reading if you are pregnant or suffer with heart problems because you may laugh yourself into a sub dermal hematoma!  Otherwise, sit back, relax and enjoy these three tales of the perils of modern life!

Case #1

Alright…I don’t care if you guys believe me … it’s real. This is the the most embarrassing thing that I’ve ever experienced… it was a horrible night for me.. and I’m sharing it with you guys because I don’t want any of my misc bro’s to have to go through this.. especially since it all could have been EASILY prevented. I have added MS paint images so that you have a better idea as to what happened. It’s very long, but I’ll do my best to recount all of the important details. no freaking cliff notes….. read it to save yourself from something like this…

Anyway…
If you’ve been following my social anxiety thread you would have learned that I got an Asian girls number during my last update (the encounter wasn’t recorded unfortunately because my Camera froze). But anyway, it’s been over a week and I was feeling like taking a break from exam studying, and I figured that if I didn’t call her before exams were done then I wouldn’t get a chance to see her until after the break (which would be too long perhaps). So I called her up and asked her if she wanted to take a break from studying and meet me for coffee. Well she said yes, and we met at a campus cafe. We had some small talk, and it went well overall. After that she said “hey my roommate is making some Chinese food for dinner because her boyfriend is over, would you like to come by and try some? she usually makes way more than needed”. Now at that point I felt like I had to take a sh!t, but there was no way I could turn down this opportunity; it seemed like she was into me and this would be a great opportunity to get to know each other further. So I decided to try and hold my crap as long as possible (I don’t crap in public toilets) and accept her invitation.

Well we went back to her place, had some food (very good btw)… and damn… I had to take take a shit really badly… and I also had to take a piss really badly (I had been holding that too since I didn’t bring my pee bottles with me to the date)… I really didn’t want to use her washroom because I didn’t want stink the place up… but it became so unbearable to the point where I could feel the turd popping out of my rectum.. to make matters worse I was actually starting to get an erection (I’m not sure why.. but that’s what happened). So I rushed to the washroom… and thus begins the worst possible scenario imaginable.

I pull down my pants step up to the toilet and I am then faced with an ominous predicament; I have to extremely badly take BOTH a pee AND a POO…. AND I have an erection…. what the hell do I do? Which do I do first??

So I bend over and try to push my erected penis down a bit to pee into the can… but as I relax my pelvic floor muscles to release the urine.. I feel my turd start to come out at the same time!

So then I’m like “fuck this… I’ll just try and hold the pee and let the poo come out”… so I sit on the can… grasp my penis hard to try and “block” it… and I then tried to let the crap come out….that didn’t work so well…

As I relaxed my anal sphincters… my pelvic floor muscles relaxed as well and piss started flying all over the floor… I started panicking at this point… so I desperately held my crap again, while I attempted to shove/bend my erect penis into the toilet. Once it was in… I tried take the piss and crap at the same time, but my ass was too far out and this massive turd started flying out missing the bowl, landing partially on the back rim and partially on the floor.

I then closed everything off again (you can’t imagine the pain of repeatedly blocking yourself from peeing and pooing when you have go so badly)… wtf was I supposed to do? I either pee on her floor or poo on her floor….then out of sheer desperation and instinct an idea popped into my head:

I ran into her bathtub and let myself go there… I figured that at least this way I could rinse it all down instead of getting sh!t on her floor….

At that point things get even worse…

The turd wouldn’t fucking dissolve… and the damn bitch was asking me wtf I’m doing showering in her washroom….

I then answer “yea lol… I’m showering… is that ok?”…

She says: what the hell? why?? you don’t think we’re having sex do you???

At this point I can’t even think straight and I jokingly (retardedly) say: yes we are lol

She then gets mad and says: wtf? is this some kind of joke… get out of there!!

I say: no please don’t come in… I’m not done yet…

At this point the hot water I was using to try and dissolve my sh!t was releasing sh!t smelling vapours all over the room.. and it was pretty rancid… the girl could smell it and she said: “why the hell does it smell so freaking bad? What the hell are you doing in there???”

I say: please don’t come in… trust me.. you’ll regret it…

she says: Fuck this… get out now or I’m unlocking the door..

I beg her not too… but she loses her patience and then opens the door. She stops dead in her tracks. There before her was me standing with a pseudo-erect penis, left over fecal residue on my ass,large semi dissolved turds in her bathtub, turds on the floor beside her toilet, and pee all over the floor in front of the can… I was so fucking embarrassed… I started shivering… she looks at me while covering her mouth and nose and whispers… “wtf did you do???”…she was starting to cry… I hesitate for a bit and I try to explain myself “I tried my best … I… I’m sorry”… She then flips out and tells me to clean up the mess or she’s calling the cops. I agree to do it.

She leaves, and I grab some toilet paper… pick up the turds from the floor and bathtub, toss them in the can, and then I proceed to clean off the floor and bathtub with soap, water and a lot of tissues. I tossed most of the tissues into her toilet bowl (the garbage was full eventually). I then took some perfume from the counter and tossed into the bathtub to get rid of odor. After I was done I cleaned my ass off and flushed the toilet. To my utmost dismay, my massive fecal matter bulk and the large amount of TP ended up clogging the toilet and it overflowed and started spilling crap all over the floor… I’m literally crying at that point… I look for the plunger but I couldn’t find it so I put my pants on and rushed out to ask her if she had a plunger so I could fix the toilet…I see her with her roommate and her roommates bf… she’s crying… as soon as she sees me she tells me to gtfo right now… I try to explain that the toilet is clogged… but she doesn’t let me … she says she feels threatened and she wants me out now… she grabs a knife from the drawer and tells me to leave… I leave.

about a minute later I hear this loud scream coming from her dorm room (I assumed she went back to the washroom to see it covered in poo water). At that point I sprinted away as fast as possible, while swearing at myself and crying tears of frustration and embarrassment.

All of this could have freaking been prevented if I had just brought my goddamn pee bottles!!! WTF?!?! The FIRST girl that shows interest in me.. I have to go and shit in her bathtub???? This is freaking retarded (yes mad).

to all you people saying “peeing in bottles is stupid/gross”… well screw that… not only is it more convenient and cleaner, but it also prevents epic disasters like this one….

This is what WOULD have happened if I had my trustee pee bottle… I would have on sat on the can and then simultaneously peed into the bottle and pooed into the toilet. No disaster… no mess…. and none of this would have happened.

anyway… should I let things cool off for a bit and call her back? maybe to apologize/explain myself? or should i just hope I never run into her again?

_________________________________________________

Case #2

Why you should never talk on your 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 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 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.

___________________________________________________

Case #3

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…

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 wire cutters 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 ones 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 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 wake…you 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 ankles 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 of 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. The upshot of all this is that I strongly recommend eating dinner at Ryan’s Steak House. They have, by far, the nicest management staff of any restaurant in which I have eaten.

______________________________________________________

So there you have it!  Nothing that happens in your sheltered life could possibly be as bad as the hardships and challenges these guys had to face!  But don’t feel too comfortable, as long as there is a public restroom, an all you can eat buffet or a pretty girl out there, someone is bound to embarrass themselves LIKE A MOFO!

May 25, 2011 | Categories: From the Internet, Funny Photos, WTF? | Tags: embarrassing, funny, poop, puke, stories, turds, wtf | 1 Comment »