It’s the Super Bowl bye week, and what better way to fill the gaping, chafed hole in your sporting psyche than with the waste products of your fellow Deadspin readers? Join me now, my friends, as I take you through a personally curated list of only the finest, most utterly horrifying tales of fecal hijinks you will ever lay eyes upon. Have a seat. It’s gonna take a while to get all this out. And come to our party in Minnesota when you’re finished.
About 13 years ago (I was maybe 14 at the time), my family and two other families embarked on a long weekend trip at a wilderness lodge up in Canada. This place was only accessible via plane, and other than our travel compatriots and a few workers in the lodge, we were essentially stranded at this lodge, which sat on a small lake, for the weekend.
Now one of the families we traveled with frequented this lodge a couple times a year - they’ve got serious money - and as a result, their Dad had invested in a few “toys” that they kept on the property, one of which was a brand new aluminum fishing boat. This thing wasn’t anything special - maybe 10 or 15 feet, with a 5-6 horsepower outboard motor - and could only fit a couple of us on it at once.
Naturally, the first thing we wanted to do when we got there was take the fishing boat out. Knowing we’d be the only people on the lake, and that we’d be within sight of the lodge, our parents gave us the OK. So, me, my brother Joe, who was around 12 at the time, and my best friend Drew proceeded to take the thing out for a spin.
As we got a little over halfway across the lake, which took a good 15 minutes or so, I felt a particularly nasty concoction brewing rapidly in my midsection and frantically told my buddy driving that he better step on it before disaster hit. We couldn’t have been going more than 5 or 10 mph at the time, and to my horror I soon realized that there was no way we’d make it to the other side of the lake in time, presumably where I’d have the ability to relieve myself in the woods. Given this was Fall in Canada (the water was freezing), coupled with the fact that if I made any sudden movements to try to take my clothes off I would have immediately shit my pants, I decided that jumping in the lake was not an option.
As this ticking time bomb inched closer to zero, my buddy suggested that I pull my pants down and shit over the side of the boat. With about T-15 seconds left I did exactly that, but unfortunately proceeded to miss completely and launch 2 or 3 decently sized turds onto the side of the boat, which slowly slid down to the floor where we were standing. At this point, Joe and Drew are laughing so hard they’re practically falling off the boat, while I’m petrified of what my friend’s Dad would say to me when he saw what I did to his brand new boat.
Knowing we needed to clean up the mess ASAP, and without anything on board to aid the cleanup process, we came to the conclusion that the only way would be for me to manually scoop the shit out with my bare hands. I distinctly remember, to this day, Drew exclaiming, “Dude, it’s no big deal - Bam Margera eats shit for breakfast!” (this was 2004: peak Viva La Bam / Jackass time), and ultimately finishing the shameful deed while Joe and Drew, at this point, cried with laughter.
Unfortunately, this story isn’t over. After cleaning myself off in the woods and as we headed back towards the lodge, I felt a slight, uncomfortable pinch on my one of my balls. As I reached into my boxers to see what the deal was, I was horrified to feel something on my left nut that certainly hadn’t been there before. Screaming, I pulled down my pants and, clear as day, saw a tick about the size of half a sunflower seed firmly attached to my scrotum. Given the stressfulness of the shit saga, along with the tick on my nuts, I was close to passing out completely. While Joe and Drew, forcibly controlling their laughter, yelled at me to rip the thing off, I froze in fear and stress from the preceding events and simply sat there, almost in tears. Seeing that I was essentially catatonic at this point, my brother, God bless him, decided to end it once and for all and ripped the tick off my balls - like ripping off a band-aid - and probably saving me from a lifetime of Lyme Disease.
I haven’t been back to that godforsaken place, and don’t think my brother has looked at me the same way since.
We’re in Vegas about 10 years ago. After plowing through the champagne brunch at the now-defunct Frontier, me and my friend Kevin find ourselves needing to blast off at the Venetian. We go into the bathroom and plop down in neighboring stalls.
I go about my business in a slightly labored though otherwise uneventful manner. When I feel like things are starting to wind down, I hear a series of horrifying bowel explosions coming from Kevin’s stall. I start laughing, banging on the divider and loudly cheering on Kevin’s efforts both as a sign of support and because I’m an immature ass.
I finish up and head out into the hall to wait, and there I see Kevin waiting for me. Turns out I hadn’t noticed that he took care of things rather quickly and that someone else had swooped into his stall. I spent a good two to three minutes loudly and gleefully cheering on the explosive shit of a complete stranger.
If you get a story from someone about the time some asshole was hooting and hollering during his shit at the Venetian, please put me in touch so I can apologize.
Here are some highlights from the two-month hell I endured while battling an ulcerative colitis flare-up. I did not know I had the disease at the time.
• Any time I would move – i.e. sitting down, standing up – I would have to run to the bathroom to shit.
• In the middle of the night, I would have to shit like 5 times.
• I got put on mega steroids that turned my semen orange.
• One time I was in the shower and had to shit. It came on so fast that I couldn’t dry off to get on the toilet two feet away, resulting in me plugging the shower.
• The bathrooms at work were out of order one day so I had to drive home to shit (small town, so drive was manageable). I didn’t make it, and had to raise off of the seat high enough to full-on shit my pants. I don’t know if anyone noticed that I had changed when I got back to the office.
• After visiting the Mayo Clinic, I was diagnosed with UC. They wanted a stool sample that day, but I somehow could not shit. I had to mail one in (for real).
• On my way home from Mayo, the doctor called me and said I needed to get to a hospital as soon as possible for a blood transfusion because I had shit so much blood out during the past two months. My hemoglobin was down to 6. Normal levels are 13.8 to 17.2 in men.
BUT I LIVED DAMMIT!!!!1!!
Back when I was a teenager, my parents used to send my brother and I off to stay with our grandparents for a few days during the summer every year.
One time, after choking down whatever old person meal my grandmother served, I was lying in the bedroom reading a magazine when I felt my intestines start quaking. I head into the bathroom, and proceed to give birth to a turd roughly the size of a Kia. When I flush, it circles for a moment, then lodges sideways into the drain without getting sucked down. I flushed again - didn’t move. A third time, nothing. The low-flow toilet at their retirement community had nothing on this beast.
I looked around, no plunger. Now I was in a full scale panic. I went back to the bedroom to consider my options. The closet was open, so I looked inside for anything that could help. Finally, on the top shelf, was something I’d never seen, and that I couldn’t believe: a sword.
I pulled it down and took it out of the sheath. It was maybe a foot long, and very old. Now, my grandfather had served in World War 2. I don’t know if he had used this sword to kill a man, or if he bought it for $5 at a flea market, but either way, I considered my options and decided it was my only hope.
I took the sword into the bathroom, used it to cut up the turd, and flushed it away. I washed the sword under hot water, put it back in the sheath, and returned it to the closet. For all I know that sword had been sacred to my grandfather, and I used it to chop up a massive turd.
When he died years later, my parents were cleaning out the house and found the sword in the closed. They called me to ask if I wanted it. I politely declined.
My story is from freshman year of high school, probably 23 or 24 years ago now (fuck!). Some friends and I were at another friends house hanging out and getting high, as high school kids will do and our curfew was fast approaching (two of my friends would be staying over at my house that night). I called my dad to see if he’d pick us up, but apparently he was sick of carting us around and he told us to walk home. It was only two miles, and it was probably the summer anyway, so we did just that after another bowl or two. I’m feeling pretty high, obviously, but I start to feel pretty sick too. We’re about halfway home and it hits me. The closest option is a Hardees across a busy street and about a block down, so I take off running right through traffic with no warning to my friends.
Anyway, I get there safely and promptly drop trow just in the nick of time and just let loose. My friends show up a few moments later wondering what the hell happened and they start giving me some shit from outside the stall. A few moments pass and I’m still spraying at full strength and they finally decide it’s probably more desirable to wait outside. Another few minutes pass, still plenty of ammo left in my bowels, and they come back in to tell me/harass me about the fact that my stench has now eminated into the dining room of the restaurant and that they will now be waiting outside.
The door opens again, 5 minutes later, and I’m still high and a little annoyed thinking my buddies are back to wonder why the fuck I’m still blowing ass after 15 minutes, but it’s someone else and I don’t hear anything until he’s done and then, as he’s leaving, “Homie’s taking a BIG ass shit in there, y’all!” to which I hear my friends from outside bust out laughing. Over the next 5 minutes a steady stream of dudes come in and almost immediately leave guffawing, taking in the spectacle of the never-ending squatter.
I have never pooped more in my life. Since the dawn of the smartphone, I’ve definitely had “poops” that I’ve taken my time on, but I legitimately pooped constantly for about 20 minutes that night. When I finally finished, I limped my raw ass outside only to be applauded by my 2 buddies and 4 other randos that were outside eating burgers because it stunk too much in the restaurant.
We finally made it home 30 minutes later than we were supposed to be and my dad was furious. He completely refused to believe me or my friends about the 20-minute poop.
Every year all 4 of us had to do the Swim for Diabetes charity event which involved trudging from door to door in the neighborhood and asking people to pledge 5 cents per lap or whatever. There was no time limit for how long you could swim, but you were supposed to do 200 laps maximum which the 4 of us were all expected to do. I did not enjoy doing this.
I am about 8 years old at the time of this particular incident. It’s the dead of winter and I jump in the freezing cold shitty high school pool to start my 200 laps. As I’m plodding along I realize that something is not right. That something turned out to be a massive dump with the consistency of very watery oatmeal. I stop around lap 12 to gather myself, then think in my tiny child brain “yea I can probably make it 178 more laps before I have to poop.” This was a mistake. I made it about 3 more laps before unleashing the entire contents of my bowels into my size 26 Speedo. I think my swimsuit was so tight that most of it stayed in, but I remember the feeling of my entire suit being filled with poop. Literally all the way around. I very carefully got out of the pool and frantically waved down my older sister (about 13 at the time) and told her what happened.
She calmly exited the pool and shuffled me to the stands, wrapped me in a towel and walked me into a bathroom stall. I don’t know how, but she managed to contain her horror as she stripped off the shit filled swimsuit, cleaned me off and put me in dry clothes. She never told me and I didn’t notice, but I don’t think anyone ever knew what happened and there were probably 50 kids in the pool that day. Needless to say, we did not raise very much money for charity that day. Also, my sister is a saint.
I got a chance to go backpacking in South America with two buddies for several months. At this juncture of the trip, we had just completed a multi-day hike through Colca Canyon, where I hadn’t taken a shit since before the hike started. After we got done, we decided to hit up a small restaurant in town to get some real food back into our system. We absolutely stuffed our faces with all sorts of who-knows-what kind of food. Just as long as it was edible. As soon as we finished our meals, we went directly to the bus station to catch the next available bus out. With no time to spare, we hopped on a 10-hour overnight bus.
A few hours into the trip, I woke up to my stomach rumbling along with the engine of the bus. After not shitting at all in the last few days I went to use the bathroom at the back of the bus. It was around 3am so everyone on the bus was asleep, my two buddies included. Once I made it into the bathroom, there was a sign displaying the toilet as broken. At this point, I was ready to explode. With my body as tense as possible, I made my way back to my seat to think about my options. I was sweating profusely trying to keep my butt cheeks together. I dug through some of my things and found a plastic bag. I figured my only option would be to shit in this bag and throw it out the window to get rid of the evidence.
Thankfully, as I was contemplating this monstrosity, the bus turned into a station to stop and pick up some additional passengers. I hopped off the bus with only my bus ticket and some spare change in my pocket (you have to pay to poop almost everywhere), not thinking to wake-up and alert the guys. I sprinted to the bathroom and threw down some spare change, not bothering to count it because I knew it was all going to be worth it in the end. As soon as my shorts came off, I exploded. The entire bowl of the toilet was dark brown before I flushed. It was the best relief I’ve ever encountered in my life.
After walking out of the restroom a new man, I cruised back to the bus. As I walked around the corner of the building, I saw my bus was gone! I panicked. I rushed to the lady near the gate while showing her my ticket, asking in broken Spanish, “where is my bus!?” Her eyes widened as she realized the bus just left without me. She opened the massive gate and pointed down the dimly lit road to the bus a few blocks away. I figured I was done for but the bus stopped and was picking up some random people on the side of the road. We both kind of looked at each other and she says to me”¡RUN!”
I booked it chasing after the bus, still chafing from either the hike or the dump I just took. The bus door closed and began to roll away. As I’m sprinting, I barely get to the back of the bus and start slapping it as hard I can to get the attention of the driver. The bus driver stopped and opened the door, yelling at me in a state of confusion. I proceed to show him my bus ticket and I said to him while catching my breath, “Yo hacer caca” (I poop). He just laughed at me and signaled me to get on. Only until the next morning was I able to share my story with my buddies, since they slept through my entire ordeal.
When I was sixteen or seventeen I was at a friend’s pool party. I had taken a huge dump earlier in the day and didn’t wipe well enough because I felt a bit of residue in between my crack. For some reason I thought it would be a good idea to clean myself off by pulling down my bathing suit in the pool and sticking my crack against the pool jet, which I’d hoped would serve as my very own bidet. I left my ass against the jet for a solid thirty seconds to properly get the job done. I was quite pleased with myself, as the powerful stream of water really cleaned me off. About an hour later I felt like I had to poop again so I made my way to my friend’s bathroom, which next to his kitchen. Before I went in to do my business I felt a bit of gas coming on, so I figured I would let out a fart before going to the bathroom. Big mistake, as I ended up shitting out gallons of brown pool water all over his kitchen floor. I was too embarrassed to tell anyone, so I grabbed a few nearby towels and wiped off the floor as best I could. The room, towels and I all smelled terribly - like a combination of chlorine and low tide.
As someone who has been on opiates for a time in the past, I can tell you that any opiate taker will have some absolutely horrifying poop stories. It can build up for WEEKS you get so constipated. My worst was one such time when the laxatives finally did their trick on a nighttime drive taking my girlfriend home. The only option was a Walgreens preparing to close for the night. Keep in mind this place is completely empty and I made a beeline straight for the bathroom. I kid you not, I shit an actual pile. This was not one turd sticking out of the water. This was an entire mound so large it stuck out the top of the water. I have learned that there is an actual medical term for the relief felt after taking a shit. This is called defecation syncope, aka poo-phoria. Never in my life had I felt such relief. It was large enough that I should have named it and filed for a birth certificate. By some miracle this thing actually flushed, and I will never go back to that Walgreens for the rest of my life.
When the war began there was a lot of speculation as to whether or not Sadam would use chemical weapons, so we had “MOP Suits”. MOP Suits were pseudo hazmat suits which were lined with charcoal on the interior to prevent you from being harmed by chemical weapons. Well, the tough part about wearing it is, it’s a bitch to get on and off quickly and the point of these things were to keep them on, once you got it on. This wasn’t conducive to my current situation. It wasn’t an hour into wearing the suit that my body hit the eject button and I shit inside of my MOP Suit. To make matters worse, I’m in the back of a Humvee with three other Marines who laugh every time we hit a bump just knowing that a tiny bit more shit just made it into my boot from inside my suit.
Early morning the next day we became engaged in some territorial disagreement with some of the local republican guard and I was still shitting in my MOP Suit. That took up a good part of the morning and into the afternoon. By the time everything had calmed down, I was moving onto 12 hours stewing in my own shit. I eventually got to take the suit off, but because the Marine Corps doesn’t believe in contingency planning, I only had one suit. I dumped water in my pant leg, which coincidentally screws the charcoal protection in the suit, and I put it back on. I shit myself twice more in that MOP Suit... eventually it got to the point where it was just funny. I kept that Suit my entire stay as a badge of honor.
The brutal heat and terrain of the Southern California desert weed out many wannabe hikers who think they can complete the entire Pacific Crest Trail, the 2,650-mile path from Mexico to Canada made famous by Wild. In the mountains above San Bernardino, California, in May 2017, a middle-aged, heavy guy came straggling into camp around 8 p.m. dizzy, out of sorts and on the verge of passing out. The heat and elevation were too much for him, and we had to get him off the mountain.
Using a satellite phone, I was able to connect to my uncle in nearby Palm Springs, who called authorities with our GPS location. Soon, a helicopter hovered above the camp of two dozen hikers, asking over a loud speaker if we still needed assistance. We followed instructions, clicking a flashlight on and off to indicate that we had a medical emergency. The helicopter flew off, most likely to find a place to land or a better location for an airlift. All the excitement made me want to poop.
When the helicopter left, I found a nice spot to dig a cat hole behind a tree a hundred feet from our cluster of tents. As soon as I dropped trou, the helicopter appeared above, shining its spotlight on me. Startled, I hobbled, shorts at my ankles, mid-shit, penguin-like behind some bushes and away from their glare. “Get out of our LZ!” the helicopter men announced, claiming their landing zone.
I finished relieving myself, cleaned up, and headed back to camp embarrassed. The helicopter never did land, leaving my original cat hole undisturbed. Authorities in two trucks used nearby dirt roads to get up the mountain, and arrived 20 minutes later. We carried the immobilized hiker to the trucks. His journey on the trail was over just after it began. I pooped hundreds more times in cat holes, public restrooms, and strangers’ homes up the West Coast all the way to British Columbia, but this was surely the most memorable.
A few years after college I was living with my then-girlfriend (now-wife) outside Philly. My wife is an ex-gymnast and still teaches gymnastics with her coach (an ex-Olympian) on Saturday mornings.
One Saturday she asked if I wanted to come work out with her students. I played D-II soccer and ran half marathons several times a year, so I thought I was in pretty good shape. I had just finished an embarrassingly large breakfast burrito, but there was no way I was going to pass up the chance to show up 8 year old girls. What could go wrong?
10 minutes into the WARMUP I’m dying. The girls are bouncing around like they’re hopped up on speed and I’m struggling to stand. I feel like I was set up. At this point my stomach starts rumbling. I could have excused myself to the lobby, where there was a bathroom but I wasn’t thinking clearly. Saying I needed some air, I stepped out the back to the loading dock area.
The rumbling got worse, and I knew it was inevitable. The combination of breakfast burrito plus exercise was a poor choice.
I ran behind a dumpster, dropped trou, and let rip. It was as if I birthed some kind of Lovecraftian monster. Luckily I was unobserved. Or so I thought.
As I’m cleaning up as best I can, I notice a raccoon staring at me. It must have been there the entire time. Without breaking eye contact with me, it strolls over to my deposit and starts sifting through it.
This is the first time I’ve shared this story.
I got to know Ali in our twenties when he opened a sub shop near my duplex. Ali was the definition of jovial with a high pitched giggle. You couldn’t help rooting for the hardworking guy and patronize his business because, despite his restaurant being mostly take-out, he often delivered himself, especially when he wanted to hear your opinion about his food and/or ditch his wife back at the shop—she’d often call and yell at him to get back and stop slacking.
After a couple years building a solid reputation, Ali decided to step out of his lane and diversify into pizza, so to support my friend, I was among the first to order a pepperoni, which he promptly delivered to my front door. The extra large pie was handsome and smelled great, and upon lifting the lid one thing caught the eye immediately, the “pepperoni” were ginormous, probably five times the size of the standard garden variety and about the circumference of the palm of my hand. But hey, more meat coverage is beautiful, what’s not to love and the pizza tasted great. I complimented Ali after one bite and remarked what a topping innovator he was, which made him squeal with delight.
Next morning at my usual appointed time, I mounted the throne feeling just dandy and looking forward to a glorious day. But the poop stopped short of the water, as in totally didn’t break off, detach nor exit my ass, a literal turd hangup. Still unaware of any problem and calm, I thought, “Uh, that’s a little odd” and gave a little duck fanny, shimmy shake to goose detachment, but nothing, my chad remained hanging ABOVE but not yet touching the water.
Now I’m wondering WTF?, bent over to peer between my legs and sure enough, the Duke is dangling millimeters above the waterline but otherwise not departing my sphincter. So now my heart rate quickens, I bounce up and down atop the pot, first only an inch or two, but then going full Air Jordan five to six inches above the seat, hard enough to rattle the entire commode, slosh water inside the tank and possibly risk lower back injury. Turd still there but now the leading edge of the spear only touching the water! Panic sets in, I can feel its weight inside the bowl and my chest, and I’m actually talking aloud to myself and IT. (Thank God I lived alone.)
“WHY THE FUCK AREN’T YOU DROPPING!?!”
I demanded an answer, didn’t have all day to sit like a grandfather clock swinging the brown pendulum while also bouncing up and down wrestling the anaconda. Now I’m sweating and heart pounding as I contemplate options, which did NOT include standing up to go to the E.R. and having my new appendage back slap me in the ass. I felt fine aside from the panic attack. Tucking it inside my pants and going about my day wasn’t an option, so the only move left was to reach between my legs and employ the finger scissor method.
Yet again I peered between my butt cheeks toward the taint area and noticed for the first time there was some form of long strand to which the turd formed and clung, like an extra long wick of a candle. Now I’m freaking as I reach toward this string to investigate, I’M SHITTING OUT MY INTESTINES! I’m convinced I had managed to turn my bowel inside out as I grabbed this “string” and began pulling, worried a kidney might come out with it. Here’s the weird part (the cherry atop this shit cake), it actually kinda felt good, tickled a little, as I pulled down the string. I could feel more of it up way inside my nether region and, despite now sweating and freaking out, I tugged the candle turd clear of my butthole and was again a free man. Liberated and, after examining my pull fingers, there wasn’t any blood nor poo, so I was relieved I wasn’t dying.
I stood up and spun around to examine the evidence now submerged in the bowl. The string part of the brown candle was a different color, translucent, and was floating atop the drink. I went into the kitchen to examine a leftover pizza slice. Turns out it was meat casing from the “pepperoni”, each meat disc still had the damn casing around the outside edge. Later Ali admitted he forgot to remove before running through the meat slicer. Ali apologized while giggling into tears. I continued ordering the Iranian style pizza.