Drew Magary’s Thursday Afternoon NFL Dick Joke Jamboroo runs every Thursday during the NFL season. Email Drew here.


It’s the Super Bowl bye week! OH GOD PLEASE DON’T LET ME ENDURE A WEEKEND BEREFT OF HOT SPORTING GOODNESS. Anyway, the bye week sucks and I hate it and I would gladly join any class action lawsuit suing the NFL for punitive damages stemming from its implementation. I am mentally distressed. Call me, lawyerfolk!

And so, as a matter of tradition, and because I am lazy, I see no better entertainment option right now than to hunker down round the fire and swap some poop stories. Here now are several horrifying, tasteless stories of fecal shenanigans from our readers. Don’t act like it’s never happened to you!



About 6 years back I was at my girlfriend’s place. She had to leave for a few hours to go to some type of training. Once she left I had to drop a deuce. I went into the bathroom, did my business and stood up to wipe (yes, I am one of those). Immediately, I felt something move in the leg of my jeans. I freaked out. Based upon the size and movement, my brain instantly thought MOUSE!! So, I started hitting the outside of my jeans trying to kill the mouse that was running down the backside of my leg. After a couple of whacks, I felt like if I didn’t kill it I had at least badly injured it.

I pulled of my pants and found the mouse.... oh wait, nope. It was a piece of shit. When I stood up to wipe and piece of stool fell down into my pants and I had just smashed it all over my leg. Of course I didn’t have a change of clothes, but luckily there was a coin operated laundry. I was able to get my jeans washed and dried before I go home.

I still stand to wipe.


As I was taking a bathroom break a couple weeks ago at work, a guy stepped into the stall beside me. I heard some indiscriminate crinkling of plastic, and my first thought was that the dude was about to do some drugs. It was much worse:

That crinkling sound was him opening the crackers, which he then PUT DOWN ON THE FLOOR. By this point, I was already scrambling to snap the photo above (thank god my phone was on mute) but what happened next was even worse: the motherfucker picked up that one touching the floor and ate it. One of my coworkers asked “How can you be sure he didn’t just drop it in the toilet?” Reasonable question, but I know for a FACT that I heard him crunching that poop-cracker as he chewed it. This is a disgusting subhuman creature.



Over winter break, a few friends and I were hanging out and playing Super Mario Strikers (the best Gamecube game of all time).

In one matchup, my friend, Corey, was beating me 5-0 with only 1 minute remaining. I scored five times in thirty seconds to tie it up, then hit the game winning goal as time expired.

After throwing the controller and raging for a few seconds, he pulled down his pants and took a dump right on top of my beautiful console.

We don’t play it anymore.

Fuck you Corey.




In the summer of 2014 we, along with some other friends, went to Mumbai, India to attend the wedding of one of our college buddies. If you are not familiar with Indian weddings, they are fucking insane. The wedding takes a damn week, there are religious events and henna parties and dances and ceremonies.. it’s endless. Then, every night after the official events there would be a rager that puts the drunkest American wedding reception you’ve ever been to to shame, with all the booze you can drink and buffets that go on for miles. Now, as I’m sure you are aware, India can be murder on the insides. So we were all hyper aware of what we were eating and drinking. No raw foods, no ice (it was 115 degrees, so this fucking sucked), only bottled drinks, etc. etc.

We had been in the country for over a week with really no problems at all, minus the odd mild upset stomach, but nothing a few Tums couldn’t take care of. We also had been partying our asses off for days and were exhausted and sore, so we decided to go get massages during our downtime one day. We wandered in to a little place run by Thai women and all shuffled off to our respective rooms to get worked over. My massage took a bit longer than the others, so I was the last to come out and rejoin the group in the waiting area. My husband was there and had a weird look on his face.

He had elected for some fancy steam room thing, and at the end they had a shower for him to rinse off in. Before the masseuse left him to do his business, she asked if he would like a cup of tea. He said yes, and then hopped in the shower. When he got out and dressed, he noticed a small tea cup sitting on the table. He picked it up and could feel that it wasn’t very hot, so he slugged the whole thing back in one gulp.

He had just drank an entire bowl of massage oil.

He recognized that this could have terrible, terrible digestive repercussions, but at that point all he could do was wait and see. Everything was fine for the rest of the night, and the next morning he woke up still feeling fine. Thinking he dodged the bullet, we took a car across the city to go get some food and do some shopping. We get to the restaurant and all was well until he takes that first bite of pasta. He then immediately turned white, started sweating, muttered “I’ll be right back…” and dashed off towards the restrooms. Apparently all that oil was just waiting for something else to show up in his stomach and bond to it before evacuating… and then hooo boy, did it evacuate.

After a bit he was able to pull himself together and return to the table to let me know we needed to go NOW, and then went back to the bathroom while I paid our tab and had our food boxed up. He emerged again looking a little pale, but determined in a way that only a man who doesn’t want to shit his pants full of oil in front of his girlfriend while they are on vacation can look.

We then had to take a white knuckle (for him) ride across Mumbai, while he pled that we didn’t run in to a huge traffic jam (which is always a distinct possibility). Apparently it worked, as we made it back to the comfort of our hotel room without incident, where he spent the next 6 hours writhing around in agony before making a full recovery. I never asked him what happened in that bathroom. All he would say was “it was pretty much the same out as it was in”.


I am a singer in a moderately successful local band. We don’t play loud/screamy music, but occasionally I’ll have to reach for the high notes. Since you use your diaphragm and abdomen to control your breathing and singing eventually you will squeeze out a fart or two during each show.

Occasionally these farts are sharts. Probably 15%. Maybe I eat too much dairy, I dunno, but I have talked to other singers and we are convinced it is universal. So next time you are jamming out to Michael McDonald, Adele, Stevie Wonder, Meatloaf (ha!), fucking anyone just know that they have sharted in front of tens of thousands of people at a concert. They then proceeded to sing in their sharty underwear and leather pants for the next hour. Feel comfort in this knowledge.



So it was my freshman orientation in high school. I had only been in this building 2 or 3 times so I wasn’t very familiar with the layout. So as I was sitting in my new homeroom with kids from middle schools all over town I felt that rumbling start. I wanted desperately not to have to deal with it. I started to sweat and quickly realized I wasn’t going to get around it. A friend even looked at me at one point and asked if I was alright which made me panic even more. So finally I asked permission to go to the bathroom and got up and left with an urgency because I waited so long to ask.

This is where not knowing the building came into play. The doors to the bathrooms weren’t doors but rather just an opening where you would kind of go in a U Turn around a wall to get in. Kept kids from getting into trouble in there I guess. Well my mind is in panic mode and I’m looking for a sign that says MENS ROOM with the stick figure guy. I’m pacing down hallway after hallway looking for it to no avail. I must have walked by at least 5 bathrooms by this point. Just to add to the fun, there were Seniors sitting at each corner to help out the new kids on campus. I would ask one at each corner in a panic “WHERE IS A BATHROOM?” and they would say “Right on the left”. Well now I am walking down the hall, passing classes full of people high stepping with my thumb pressed against my asshole trying to prevent it from exploding with warm gravy. Finally I grab a Senior and say “I need you to walk me to the bathroom I can’t fuckin find one” Thankfully he understood there was no time for questions and walked me right in and then turned around. Shit is running down my leg at this point. I sit down and unload. My boxers COVERED in shit sat on the floor. Now I had to just sit there and get the rest out. Just as I’m devising an escape plan out of this bathroom someone walks in and knocks on the door.

“Yeah?” I asked.

“Do you need to call home to get a fresh pair of shorts son?”

Oh my fucking god. FRESH PAIR OF SHORTS?

“No. No please just let me be. I’ll be alright”

The Senior obviously let a teacher know some freshman was having explosive diarrhea. I suppose his heart was in the right place.

Anyway, I eventually threw out my underwear. Cleaned my dirty ass up and went back to homeroom at least a half hour later free ballin’ it. Nobody ever found out. At least I was never teased for it.


So I’m a twenty something male who was touring Israel with my wealthy, older relatives. We were right on the border of Syria to do a canyon hike down to what we have been told was a spectacular waterfall. For the past week I had eaten nothing but Shawarma and Hummus, which are delicious, but my were wreaking havoc with my poor intestines. Usually the first and last thing I did when we arrived at our next tourist stop was go to the bathroom to deal with the consequences of eating delicious new food. On this occasion, however, there was a line of Israeli soldiers waiting for the bathroom as we arrived, and my group was already heading down the canyon (we were advised not to wander around alone near the Syrian border), so I figured I could wait until the end to cleanse myself.

As soon as we were halfway into the canyon, I felt something similar in size and density to a bowling ball shifting in my gut. No need to panic though, the hike is only about 2-3 miles roundtrip, and we were almost at the bottom of the canyon by this point. About 50 steps later, however, I broke into a cold sweat, the dreaded poop sweat. Whatever was brewing inside of me was positively howling to be unleashed, and drastic action was necessary. I immediately begin to run as fast as I could without emptying my bowels, and I passed the waterfall without so much as a glance in an effort to head back up the canyon. There were scores of tourists from all around the world scattered along the trail, and most of them were slow and old. I began rushing passed people, cheeks firmly clamped, trying to apologize through painfully gritted teeth as sweat poured down my face.

I honestly thought I was done for at least two or three times as I limped farther and my rectum quivered, but I was able to stop and squeeze the mass back into myself on each occasion. I finally reached the top of the canyon and the restroom was only 100 yards away- I’m saved, or so I thought. As I began the final stretch towards rectal release, the entire squad of Israeli soldiers visiting the canyon was marching toward me looking fucking determined. Each one had a fully automatic weapon and looked generally not to be fucked with. I did a quick calculation and realized that if I took so much as an extra step in this journey I would violently shit my pants. The problem was that there was only a small path to the restroom and the soldiers were marching two by two down it with PURPOSE, which left no room to maneuver around them. I was also at the point were I was doing weird things to take my mind of the pain, which at this point meant breathing/grunting/screaming after each faltering step I took. I had also completely sweated through my shirt at this point.

I had no choice, I limped my way directly through the soldiers, howling and sweating like a lunatic, and, to my immense relief, they broke ranks, staring at me with extreme concern. I wouldn’t have blamed a single one of them if they had decided to shoot me dead. When I finally reached the bathroom I pulled down my pants as I turned around towards the nearest toilet and the shawarma released itself from my body like an unholy demon. I kid you not that I filled an industrial sized toilet bowl to the brim with hummus and God knows what else I had eaten. The relief was so intense that I started tearing up, and when I exited the restroom an Arab man asked me if I was needed because I looked in such horrible condition. I’m sure I learned a lesson among all this, but I for the life of me I have no idea what it is.




When I was working as a math tutor at a community college, I at one point, in an hour long session with a student, developed about ten minutes near the end an overwhelming need to, well, poop. I was able to control myself for the remainder of the session and after it was over ran to the only decent toilet in the building, in the faculty wing (this was a school so poor that the men’s room in the tutoring center wing had no door on the stall). Anyhow, I got in and sat down thinking I was about to unleash a dump of epic proportions but instead let out a fart that I swear lasted ten seconds. Yes, somehow I had enough gas in my intestines that it replicated a turd.


I was taking the train home to Brooklyn, going over the Manhattan Bridge when someone in our train car straight up shit their pants.

We didn’t know who did it, but the smell became unbearable. Unbearable. And everyone looked around but there were no homeless guys or anything. No one was fessing up. And so people were holding their noses, and gasping for air. And it was over the bridge so it took a while before we hit a station. Straight up, it eventually became the worse thing I ever smelled.

Was it me? Thankfully no, but I wouldn’t have been surprised because it smelled so close.

The whole time this old-school New York dude keeps saying really loud:

“Get off the train! You know who you are. Get off at the next stop!”

And then remarking to people next to him:

“Now you know that was no fart, right? That was no fart.”

And loudly

“That was bad meat. Had to be. Had to come out.”

There’s no end to this story. I just got off the train, wiping tears from my eyes.



When I was in seventh grade I went to Puerto Rico over spring break with the Scouts. We were in the damn rainforest and everybody, EVERYBODY was getting sick from the water. Somehow, for a week in the jungle, I didn’t get sick. I was smug about it, too. I’d laugh when people would have to trot over to the latrine in a rainstorm (which happened every night at 6pm).

We went back to San Juan the night before our flight and decided to eat in an Outback Steakhouse. I had some lemonade with chicken fingers because I figured it would be safe and I was a weird kid who didn’t like steak (I actually hate my adolescent self, he sucked so much). We went back to the hotel and went to bed. I woke up early, feeling a rumbling in my tummy, and proceeded to vomit in the hotel room, then vomited in the lobby, then vomited in the airport terminal, then vomited in the little walkway onto the plane. I figured there was nothing left anywhere in my body at all. On the plane, I had some Coke to settle my stomach down (because seventh grade boys are stupid) and fell asleep, exhausted from having my body convulse so many times.

I woke up before we started landing – some Adam Sandler movie was on. The landing started so I put my seat back up and got ready, figuring I was home free. The forces of the plane coming back towards Earth awoke inside of me something vicious, something I had never experienced before or since. I pulled out the barf bag from the seat back in front of me and unloaded the Coke from earlier. However, while this was happening, I lost complete control of my bowels and shit the most horrible, wet, sopping diarrhea of my life while sitting in the coach cabin of an airplane. It felt like I didn’t even have an asshole that could regulate it, it flooded out as my body convulsed from vomiting. Complete control of my bowels was negated and taken away from me. I imagine that it must have been similar to how people crap themselves when they die. It certainly felt like that. I need to add that I was, in fact, wearing cargo shorts, because Puerto Rico was warm and I was, indeed, wearing boxers underneath because that was the cool underwear in seventh grade. I was distressed – would the shit leak from the shorts and boxers down my leg once we got up? Would there be a stain? Would it smell? What if all these people trapped in here with me SMELL my SHIT!? What if all the people who smell my shit ALSO start vomiting and shitting their pants?! What will all the other kids think?? What horrible nickname will they come up with for me!? I could be “Poop Pants” until I graduate high school!!

Luckily we sat for a while, taxiing around Newark Airport with my barf bag dripping onto the shoe of the kid next to me, and the shit became less liquefied and more like chili that had too much flour in it. It clung to my boxers and butt for dear life as I stressfully, slowly, awkwardly, walked up the aisle towards the front of the plane and the bathroom. And it didn’t smell. I think.

I asked the stewardess if I could use the bathroom while she was smiling and telling everyone “Thank you! Have a great day! Enjoy Newark!” I was holding my Coke vomit in my hand while my pants were filled with now solidifying and crusty Puerto Rican Outback Steakhouse chicken finger shit. She immediately stopped smiling and angrily told me yes, but to make it quick, because the pilots had to get off. I asked what to do with the vomit, and raised it to eye level as I asked it because I was a seventh grade boy and didn’t know what to do. What do I do with this vomit? See? THIS vomit right here!! She told me to leave it in the bathroom. I went in, wiped shit off of myself and as much off of my boxers as I could, and walked out. It took forty five minutes to get home in the car after thirty minutes in the airport with dry shit in my shorts. I slept for 16 hours that day/night and didn’t go to school for three days.

A lot of people jump out of airplanes to feel a rush – I say shit your pants on a fully loaded 777 wearing cargo shorts in seventh grade, that’ll give you a rush and terror that’ll stick with you until the end of time.


I was a lifeguard in the late 90s at a public pool that was basically a barely underwater playground equipped with slides, spray guns and vertical water jets...those perilous, vertical water jets.

On one especially hot Texas afternoon, a family of four comes to the pool with a mother and three sons ages ranging between 3 and 13 (the teen did not want to be there). But then the 13 year old discovered the vertical water jets. Now, a seasoned lifeguard at this point (two summers of service already), I knew that you DON’T let children sit on the water jets. Yes, it tickles; yes, it feels strangely good...”WHISTLE BLEEP!!! Get off the water jet.” Anyway, I was not on stand for what happens next, but the young teenager discovers the forbidden pleasure of the jets, and he sits down. None of the lifeguard on duty tell him to move. Now, I don’t know how long he was sitting on the jet, but when it was my turn to rotate back on stand (usually 30 minutes), I immediately tell him to move on. BIG MISTAKE.

He gets up and immediately the rush of brown water comes pouring from his trunks. I’m sure he can feel it, as we lock eyes in a way that I assume is similar to that shared by enemies in a war zone about to share one last bit of respite before the next wave of artillery shelling. Back to us, the boy rushes off to the restroom, drizzling poop water the entire way, even on our beachfront entry. Immediately, I blow my whistle and try and clear the water, but it’s a play pool, which means three things: 1) The pool water circulates quickly, 2) the little kids don’t know shit about whistles, and 3) every parent panics with no clear direction as what to do.

So, I get to witness this dark cloud of water quickly circulate among the 6 to 12 inches of water as parents rush from there lawn chairs abandoning their Diana Steele novels to rescue their Madisons, Harrisons, Delias and Chrissies.




When I was in college I worked on a farm in central Wisconsin that employed migrant laborers in the summer and provided housing for them mostly in the form of mobile homes. The camp had one large 6-hole outhouse that serviced around a hundred people in total. One of my jobs was to pump the outhouse tank every couple of days, take the sludge to a distant field and spray it on the ground. When the weather was hot, as it often was, the smell was unbelievably foul.

One particularly hot day another guy and I attached the vacuum tank to the outhouse tank and started pumping. A couple minutes later something (I never learned what and never want to know either) jammed the line and caused the connection to break, spraying both of us and a 20-foot circle with hundreds of gallons of everything that goes into an outhouse. We got it in our ears, nose, mouth, eyes, everywhere.

When we recovered from the immediate shock we looked at each other and just walked away from the scene, leaving the pump running and spraying shit everywhere. We walked across the road and jumped into a lake to get the worst of it off us, then stripped down and went home to get clean for real. When I got back to work a couple of hours later, the pump had been stopped. No one ever asked us what happened or why we’d left. They could see the story in the shit spray around the scene. I never touched the tank again.

To this day I cannot be grossed out by anything. I have looked into the abyss.


When our daughter was six months old, she was put into a body cast to correct the hip dysplasia she was born with. The first of her casts covered her from armpit to her toes with a square hole cut into the crotch for diaper changing. Diapering consisted of a small interior diaper and a larger exterior one that fit over the cast. We did everything we could to prepare ourselves for this: voraciously read every internet forum, harangued our orthopedic surgeon, and stalked with parents who had similar situations.

The first two weeks, she did great. She didn’t seem too uncomfortable, and we quickly got used to changing the diaper around her cast. We knew from experience that poop was tricky to get out of the cast without collateral damage to the cast. But the cast was lined with plastic and she still didn’t have too much output yet as a wee thing. We had this handled. People grew unduly impressed with our ability to manage a baby who couldn’t move at all.

And then...baby’s first “stomach bug.” Our first sign something amiss was opening up her diaper and discovering mounds of runny bright yellow poop covering the inside diaper, spreading over the outside diaper, snaking down the legs of the cast, and creeping up onto her chest. And the smell. Oh God, the smell. Frantic, we tried to clean her up the best we could, trying to reach into the crevices of the cast with baby wipes. We scrubbed her down knowing that there was no possible way we got all of it. No way.

This conviction was reinforced for the next three days as she became a mini exorcist baby, systematically filling her diapers 3-4 times a day with the most vile bowel movements ever seen on planet earth. And no matter the method you used to clean her up, the poop would spread everywhere - onto her, onto us, onto the cast, and onto every conceivable surface. We had to start using a blow dryer on her poor red skin to try and head off the inevitable chest to toe body rash we just knew was coming.

We called the doctor and did all the things they tell you to do for babies with upset stomachs. Finally, after what seemed eons, her system cleared and the vile pooping stopped. My husband and I felt like veterans of some foreign war. War is hell, but at least it’s over now.

Except two weeks later when it happened again. And then a month after that. Because one of the things they never tell new parents is that for the first year, your new baby is going to be sick basically every other week - especially if it’s in daycare. And our girl appeared to weather every conceivable illness through her digestive system. It was agony. I remember times I opened up her diaper, looked at the hideous spreading mess on the inside of her cast, and just cried.

So if I seem unimpressed by your “I shit myself once in private and had to clean it up” story, this is why.

Drew Magary writes for Deadspin. He’s also a correspondent for GQ. Follow him on Twitter@drewmagary and email him at drew@deadspin.com. You can also pre-order Drew’s second novel, The Hike, through here.


Illustration by Jim Cooke