Showing posts with label Poop. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Poop. Show all posts

Thursday, March 11, 2010

TMI Thursday: The First Person To Say, "Sounds Like You Had A Shitty Day," Is Going To Get Donkey Punched.

Folks, it's TMI Thursday time with the one and only Lilu over at LivitLuvit. She wants me to do something "wholly unclassy" every Thursday, and I do my best to oblige her. If my contribution doesn't question your faith in humanity, then click that picture of those two old people having way more fun than you did last night. 


TMI Thursday

Today's story is about poop, because I know you sick bastards love poop stories the most. 

A lot of you don't know, but I used to work with some special education students. It was not a fun job, but it wasn't because of the students. It was the teachers I worked with. They were double crossing, back biting little rumor spreaders, and they hid it all under the guise of being exuberant, bible thumpin, pray over the kids everyday and speak in some tongues and try to see who can "outpray" the other others Pentecostals. 

The schedule worked on a rotation. Each day, each person would get a rather tough kid to deal with, and a relatively easy kid to deal with. You did things like take them to lunch, get them ready for naps, play games with them, annnnnnnnnnd...........bathroom time. 

If I told you to guess my least favorite time, it wouldn't take very long before one of you raised your hand and said, "Mr. Sloat? I think it's bathroom time." 

And then I'd put a gold star next to your name, pat you on the back, and send a report card home to your parents telling them that you liked to participate in class. 

One day, we all smelled something. 

That's right. THAT something. 

We had a shitter. A search was made around the room, and come to find out, the shitter was MINE. 

He hadn't just taken a normal sized dump in his pants, he had something the texture and color of really loose chocolate gravy running all the way down his legs, into his shoes, and into a sort of poop puddle around him. 

I told him not to move as I e Coli proofed myself. Gloves, mask, the works. 

Luckily the kid kept a spare set of clothes with him at all times. I walked him to the bathroom, sat him down on the toilet, told him to finish up, and I started working on cleanup. A couple minutes later, I was done, I walked back in the bathroom, had him get up, observed that there was NOTHING in the toilet, and started cleaning up the kid. 

I got him all cleaned up, and we put his new, clean and fresh pair of whitey tighties on. As I stood there, looking at his clothes trying to figure out how best to get him dressed, I see it. 

A little tendril of brown winding it's way down his leg like a muddy tributary finding it's way towards a river. 

Then another tendril. 

Then the assplosion. 

Folks, shit went EVERYWHERE. I had no idea this could come from such a little kid. I was dancing around in the bathroom, trying to dodge little shit tributaries, and cursing the name of the person who decided that the bathroom floor should run DOWNFUCKINGHILL. 

In the end, his mother was called. 

But not before the ladies told me that I had to clean him again, dress him again, and clean and sanitize this bathroom, which looked like a damn crime scene, only brown instead of red. Shit was in every last corner of that room. I was in there, and I don't know how I didn't get shit on me. 

Cleaning that up was one of the most humbling experiences of my life, and I'll never forget it. And the whole time I was doing it, each lady would take a turn walking by the bathroom, cluck her tongue, and say, "Oh this ain't nothin. This one time, I had a kid shit from the CEILING." 

I would call them all kinds of names in this post, but one of them is dead. The sad thing is, out of all three of them, she was the kindest and the least bitchy. 

There you go, folks. The story of how I cleaned up the Mississippi river of shit storms. 

Thursday, January 7, 2010

TMI Thursday: Yes, I HAVE Done That.

You might have noticed a new design here.

That's right, Jenna over at Bloggy Bog Designz did it up big. I can tell you two things about them.

1.) They do GREAT work, and they will hold your hand the whole way through.

2.) They take a LONG Christmas break.

The second thing is totally forgivable though, on account of the first thing.

Anyway, I think it's time for the main attraction. I know why you're all here. You're here for the TMI.

If you're new here, I just want to apologize up front for this. LiLu over at LivitLuvit does this little gig where you tell a really embarrassing story about yourself, and then link it up over on her site, where you will find a plethora of "wholly unclassy" stuff. If what I have to say doesn't make you twitch quite enough, I suggest you click the picture of the two old people down there who are having a lot more fun than you did last night.

TMI Thursday

The other day, I had some home-ec student made chili.

I honestly didn't think it would end like it did.

However, it did, and this is what happened.

I got the rumbles on the way home from work, and I chalked it up to stress on account of my brakes going out, and me trying to make it to the tag office before they closed so I could renew a 32 year old tag.

I made it home without any further incident, and I thought everything was okay. Little did I know, that chili had liqufied everything in my intestinal tract.

I think really it speaks wonders for the tightness of my ass.

Anyway, I sat down in my recliner, and didn't have anymore issues.

A couple hours later, I had to go tinkle.

As a guy, one of the great things about peeing is that it gives you an opportunity to fart. Some of my greatest squawks of the butt trumpet have come while I was shaking hands with the president. It's the best time to do it. You don't have to worry about the wife giving you beef, you don't have to restrain yourself, you can just let loose and let it fly.

As it turns out, those rules only apply when you haven't had home-ec chili.

You see where this is headed?

Yep.

Let me set the stage for you.

I'm in my bathroom. I have one hand firmly on the wall, one hand on Big T. The urge to pass a little gas hits me.

I turn it loose...

...and...

...I effin crapped myself.

That's right, ladies and gents, Travy G, the captain of cool, the sultan of sarcasm, the ambassador of alliteration, shit himself.

I'd like to tell you that it was just a little bit, and truth be told, it probably was. However, it didn't FEEL like a little bit. It felt like, well, it felt like someone had just dumped a bowl of chili down the back of my pants.

I almost cried.

Humiliation does not even BEGIN to describe the feeling I felt. I wasn't drunk. I wasn't incapacitated in anyway. I was of sound mind and able body, and I shit myself, WHILE STANDING AT THE TOILET.

The Missus knew immediately something was up for two reasons.

A.) I took a mid-afternoon shower.

B.) I started a load of laundry.

Have any of you had to tell your spouse that you just shit yourself?

She laughed at me. She tried not to, I'll give her that, but she did. Asked if I was alright, all while holding back the biggest smile I've seen out of her all year.

Home-ec chili.

It will make you shit yourself.

Also, how do you tell the young ladies at school that made if for you that it made you shit yourself? Hallmark doesn't make a card for that, and I can tell you how that conversation would go down.

"Hey Mr. Sloat, how did you like that chili we made you?"
"Well ladies, it made me shit myself somethin awful."
*crickets*
"I mean, it was delicious!"
"Oh Mr. Sloat, you're so funny!"

Yeah...

"I'm sorry bout the attitude I need to give when I'm with you, but no one else will take this shit from me." - Matchbox 20

That's right.

Two days in a row.

And this one went with the post, so suck it.

I'm totally kidding. I love you all.

Thursday, October 22, 2009

TMI Thursday: Yes, It Was That Big.

(This is it folks. It's Thursday. And I'm baaaaaaaaack! I took a week off last week, and I've gained some followers in that time. So let me warn you here. These are the days where you close the browser on your computer, shake your head a little bit, and say, "What the HELL was I doing reading everything he posted?" That's right... It's TMI Thursday, brought to you by a blogging associate of mine named LiLu. If you want more of this garbage trash wonderfulness, click that little button of the old people having more fun than you did last night. That, my friends, is real.)

TMI Thursday

I've always been a weird pooper.

Sometimes, when I was younger...wait. That can be next weeks.

Anyway, I never had a real schedule for dropping the kids off at the pool until I got older. About 24 or so. Used to be, I'd forget about taking the Browns to the Super Bowl. Wouldn't even cross my mind. And since I eat a diet rich in cheese and meats and fats and bad things, sometimes, I get the constipation, and it this instance, it was a very bad thing.

Occasionally, I'd go a couple days without chunkin a deuce, and I'd start getting scared. Because I knew it was gonna be big, and I knew it was gonna hurt. I'd eventually go into the bathroom and give it the ol college try, because I knew it would be better than waiting on my body to say, "Hey man, we gotta do this. We're backed up worse than the plumbing at the Biggest Loser ranch." You know, the poop where you roll your sleeves a little bit, because it might get ugly.

Well, one day, I realized that I'd gone about 4 days since my last poop. I realized this whilst Kid Funk and I were at a restaurant called Las Fuentes here in my town. We were just about to sit down to a fine Mexican meal, and my body gave me the tap. Not the rumbles tap, or the assplosion tap. But the "Hey man. We want this food as much as you, but something has to go." So I got up, and I went to the restroom. I dropped trou, and I sat down for a minute or two.

The reason I wasn't down longer is because folks, I FELT how big this thing was. It lowered itself down to be released, and I knew without a shadow of a doubt that this wasn't the sort of thing that could be handled in a small restaurant bathroom. I looked around, and they didn't even have a plunger. This WAS going to require a plunger. So I rescinded the order, pulled up my pants, and went out there and ate like a condemned man eats his last meal. Slowly.

We got home, and I went into the restroom to duke this battle out. I now had 4 days, and a Mexican lunch on top. I buckled down, and this is essentially what happened. Folks, I know I exaggerate a lot on this blog, but this is the honest to God truth the best approximation of what came out of me.



That is a Wilson TDS 14 and under regulation football. The closest thing I could find. The dimensions of said football? 10 inches by 6 inches. 6 INCHES AROUND. Guys and gals, it was the worst 30 minutes of my life.

I hollered at Kid Funk before I flushed it, just so I could have a witness. This legend has not grown with time, and I swear on it all that it was every bit of that big. He took one look at it, and he said, "How did you not make any noise when that was coming out?" I was defeated. Utterly defeated. I had nothing left. This thing started my hemorrhoids.

I asked Kid Funk to be the first to comment, so that you would all know that I wasn't lying about it. I also asked him for a quote. The quote:

"Shit was big."

That really sums it all up. Oh yeah, I mentioned flushing it. I had to use the stick end of the plunger to break it up into flushable pieces. The time for the whole thing to be completed from the birth to the subsequent abortion? One hour.

I took a nap. No shit.