Sports News Without Fear, Favor or Compromise
Sports News Without Fear, Favor or Compromise
Illustration for article titled Pigs Will Eat The Poop Right Out Of Your Butt

The two weeks in between the conference championships and the Super Bowl are downright shitty. So let's tell some poop and fart stories to pass the time, shall we? It's the Pooporoo!


Same Sad Echo:

After college I moved to San Francisco. Not long after, I started to have really weird shits - a lot of thick mucus and varying shades of green. Instead of placing the blame on my significant uptick in beer consumption and a one-a-day burrito habit, I assumed I'd contracted the AIDS or some other god awful disease. Luckily I had just gotten a good job with health benefits, so I went to the doctor. Naturally, they needed an actual piece of my shit to test.

This was before I started drinking coffee, so I wasn't the metronome of pooping I am today. The lab hours were from 8 am to 8 pm. M-F, and the poop could come at any time. I had only been at my new job a few weeks, and hadn't earned any sick or vacation time. I wasn't about to ask my new boss for an unpaid personal day so I could sit at home and take a dump in a jar.

I had no choice: I was going to have to do this at work. But where? I worked in a five story building. My office was on the fourth floor, so that bathroom was out. Ditto the second floor, which had the offices for a different branch of the same company. The first floor had the public bathrooms for anyone coming off the street, no good. The fifth floor was some fancy lawyer's office, the kind where the elevator doesn't open into a common hallway but right to the receptionist. Third floor it was.

I took my sample jar to work and waited, not sure how it would work. The lab guy told me that there were some tongs attached to the inside of the jar lid to pull the turd out of the toilet.

10:30 rolls around and here it comes. I head down to the third floor, get in the handicapped stall, and drop the deuce. I don't want to wipe my ass yet, because I don't want the toilet paper to get in the way. I open the wrapping paper for the sample jar and notice right away IT'S TINY. No way the whole log will fit in there; I'm gonna have to break off a piece. I unscrew the cap and am hit with the ungodly aroma of the preservative. If formaldehyde were a dairy product that got left in the backseat of your mom's station wagon during a July heat wave, this is what it would smell like.

I then notice the "tongs" on the bottom of the lid. I had been hoping for some kind of skewers like you'd use when grilling. You know those little plastic spoons ice cream places will give you for a tasting? It was that size, but a fucking spork.

So here I am, at work, eyes burning, dry heaves, standing with pants around my ankles, trying to keep my asscheeks from rubbing and bobbing for a hunk of mucusy shit with a god damn spork.

I finally mange to get a piece in the jar and put the jar on the back of the toilet. I failed to notice that the back of the toilet was ever so slightly tilted. I'm mid-wipe and the jar, preservative and shit all fall to the floor. The liquid is everywhere, the poop shoots to the far end of the stall. In a panic I manage to shove some poop back in the jar, pull my pants up and get out of there. No flush, I leave literally shit on the floor, and the stench of death in the room.

Slowly the day passes and to my surprise I'm not caught and fired. At the end of the day, I drop off the sample. Three weeks later, I get the test results: inconclusive. Of course.


Raj sends in this one called POOPISSIPPI POOPSALA:

I grew up in Bangalore, India. You may or may not know that even to this day, shitting in public is a very common phenomenon in India - in fact, the second you land in India, a wave of shit smell greets you, not unlike the smell in PATH trains between Jersey and New York. Being a staunch Bangalorean, however, I contend that it's a much less funky and slightly more welcoming shit smell in my hometown compared to other cities.

This was sometime in the mid '90s, and my family was on a 600 km road trip to a small town in a neighboring state. The highway system in India was quite haphazard back then, with basically 7 national highways and several shitty state highways, many of which were no more than narrow dirt roads. Our family used to make this trip almost yearly, so we knew the right places to stop since reliable and safe restaurants were few and far between, especially in the middle of nowhere. There was a restaurant in a small village, roughly two thirds of the journey in, that we'd tried on a previous trip and liked, so we decided that we would not make any stops till we reached that place. However, about halfway through, some of us - there were four adults and three kids packed in a vehicle roughly the size of a Rav4 - were quite eager to relieve ourselves and all of us were hungry. So we pulled off from the highway onto a smaller road and drove around till we found a restaurant/cafe/roadside eatery.

The place had a single, unisex restroom with no door and an Indian-style toilet, which essentially means it's a ceramic bowl IN THE FUCKING GROUND in which people would have to squat to shit in, or aim carefully to piss in. The restroom was a complete fucking disaster - the toilet didn't have a flush, so people had to fill a small jug with water to wash their excrement away. Don't even ask me about toilet paper. Anyway, the men - my dad and uncle - didn't really have a problem with the toilet and only really wanted to piss, so managed to do so without any difficulty. I don't remember what my mum and aunt did, but I guess they were quite horrified with the whole deal. My kid brother, cousin and I decided we'd simply use the back alley or a tree or whatever. So we went round to the back of restaurant to an alley that was filled with garbage, where, judging by the smell, some other people had definitely peed or shat.

As we unzipped, side by side, and began to piss on the wall, a small kid, probably 4 or 5 years old, possibly the son of the guy cleaning tables or something like that, came next to us, pulled his shorts down and nonchalantly began shitting next to us. I should probably mention that in India, you find a remarkable variety of stray animals - dogs, of course, but also cows, donkey and even pigs. Anyway, as this kid began shitting, a bunch of stray pigs came into the alley and began rooting around in the garbage. One of the pigs made its way towards us, which sent us scampering away before we were done pissing. It made a beeline for the little kid AND PROCEEDED TO EAT HIS SHIT OFF THE GROUND. A sublime moment indeed - the cherry on top was when the kid, startled by the pig, stood up half way through his dump, but still had half a turd hanging out of his ass, which the pig bashfully snatched away. Needless to say, we ran right back in to the restaurant, horrified and mildly excited with the tribulations of village life. I should expect shit like this happens in remote villages to this day.

I call this next one MEET THE POOPERS:


I once went with a girlfriend to visit her parents. They lived out of town quite a ways so we'd be spending the night at their place. I was 25 at the time and my girlfriend was 21, so her parents were never gonna let us share a bed under their roof. Instead, I got their son's room (he had his own bathroom and the guest room had to share the hall bathroom so they figured I'd be more comfortable in his place) and he took the guest bed. On my way up, the girlfriend's mom told me "that toilet's been acting up lately. If it clogs, just come and get one of us and we'll take care of it." Later that evening, I used the toilet without any ill effects and pretty much forgot about her warning to me.

The next night, I had to take a dump and went in to do my business. What I put in that toilet was about the size and shape of a toddler's leg. This thing was enormous. It could have been used as battering ram in "Braveheart." So, after admiring my handiwork and congratulating myself on a job well done, I flushed. Imagine my horror when the toilet starting filling and nothing went down. It kept filling. It was like something in a horror movie where it kept filling and it was in some sort of slow motion. The whole time I'm just watching in grim horror, hoping it doesn't overflow and saying "Go on! Scoot! Shoo!!" The water filled up to the rim and did that thing where it formed a meniscus, based solely on the surface tension of the water. One more drop, and the whole thing would have exploded. If you poked it with a pin, water would have run everywhere. And then, miraculously, the tank stopped running. For several agonizing seconds I just stood there, heart pounding, waiting to see if the surface tension of the water would give way. Finally, slowly, the water started to recede and the worst was over.

But there was still the matter of this leviathan I'd left in the toilet. My hostess had said that I should call her, but there was no way I was gonna show her my enormous shit. What do you do, hotshot? What do you do? I'll tell you want you do, you lay out a lot of toilet paper and then you gently cradle that beast out of the toilet and lay it on the toilet paper raft you've constructed Castaway-style and then you fold over the toilet paper and you wrap it up until it's about the size of a football and then you put it in the trash where you throw a few other items to distract anyone who might wander in. Then, you spend the rest of the weekend with that thing in the next room over, like some sick version of "The Telltale Heart" and not letting anyone go in that room. When the end of your weekend rolls around, you act like a scrupulously great houseguest, strip your own bed and you take out your own trash to the big trashcan in the garage. Above all else, you never use that toilet again.


I call this one THE BIG FARTY:


My parents took me to New Orleans when I was about 12 years old; I spent most of the trip stuffing my face with beignets and complaining about the heat. One day, my parents decide to take me on a trolley ride down St. Charles. We board the trolley only to discover that is filled to the brim exclusively with elderly black women, dressed in their Sunday best, on their way to church. As a nebbishy Jewish kid from the North with bad skin and worse self-esteem, I found this situation to be somewhat intimidating. It started off ok but then I feel a fart coming. There's no stomach pain, no queasiness, no sign whatsoever that this is going to be a bad one, so I lift up a bit in my seat and let it go: sure enough, it's just a little guy.

Before I know it though, I realize I have unleashed the beast. I notice my dad's face tighten and my mom's eye's begin to water, but they keep it together out of fear of embarrassing me. Not so the rest of the trolley car. "Whoa lordy," one lady says, quietly at first, then a bit louder. "Whoooooaaaaa lordy!" she wails. All at once the previously silent trolley erupts into a teeming mass of shouting and activity: the fart had captivated this audience. One woman covered her face with her bonnet, another slumped forward in her seat, feigning death; everyone was laughing so hard I feared for their well beings. "Light a match!" one of them yelled; "no, don't: you'll set the whole car on fire!" another responded. I feared the trolley might derail. I made myself as small as possible but to no avail: they all knew it was me. Their laughter continued long after the smell had dissipated; indeed, I can still hear it today.


And this one goes by the name SCHOOL OF HARD FARTS:


I have a notoriously bad farting in my sleep problem, which has more than once led to humiliating instances in my life. During my high school history class, we occasionally had about thirty minutes of "silent source reading," in which we were supposed to find and read interesting historical pieces for our essays. I don't think I ever made it awake through five minutes of this time.

So one day, we have our reading time, and I just go straight to sleep. About twenty minutes later, I wake up to the entire class hysterically laughing, seemingly directed at me. Due to my tiredness and being a teenager, I assumed it was because I had a boner, so I checked the pants, nothing. After what seemed like the longest minute of my life my friend turns to me and informs me that I have indeed farted in my sleep. Apparently it was an incredibly loud fart and no one knew what it was until someone pointed to me fast asleep, and everybody started cracking up. Even my teacher who we can never remember smiling had a good laugh at it. Luckily it was like two weeks before we graduated so it didn't make me a social outcast for all of high school. Still humiliating.




At one point, the Navy was paying me to sit on my ass in Pensacola, waiting for flight school. Having attended belly button school (USNA), I had a lot of friends in various stages of the program; this is about one of them. As part of Flight School, student pilots are trained in an aircraft called the T-34. Developed sometime around WWII, it's a two seat (front and back) propeller driven airplane that pretty much looks exactly like what you see in WWII movies. The student sits in front, and the instructor sits in the rear seat, and each wears the standard kit: flight suit, helmet, gloves, boots, survival vest, and parachute. All told, when you walk out to the plane each person has around 35-40 pounds of crap hanging on them. The instructor watches the student by looking over their shoulder (if they're tall) and a couple mirrors mounted on the upper left and right sides of the canopy. The cockpit is only a comfortable fit for a 5'9" 100 pound male with a flabby, cushy ass. For everyone else, once you get in, you need a tub of Crisco to help you out.

Anyways, this friend is out on a flight over Northwest Florida (playing "spot the meth lab"), when the instructor tells him to turn the mirrors in, meaning that they can't see each other, and to fly straight and level. Said instructor then starts making a lot of noise and shaking the aircraft left and right. It settles for a couple minutes, but the student is focused on flying; plus you would have to be in Cirque du Soleil to contort enough to look behind you. Seeing that the instructor's grade is entirely subjective, not following their directions can easily wreck your chances of getting "winged"; fucking around and doing a barrel roll wasn't really an option. The shaking started again, and noise, plus some swearing. The student is completely baffled, and can't think of anything the guy could possibly be doing in such a confined space. Finally, it stops and the instructor tells the student to slide back the canopy. Then, the guy tosses a puke bag full of shit out of the plane, right over I-10! Turns out the instructor had to crap so bad, he made the student to fly straight so he could take off all his gear, including his flight suit to get to his skivvies (there's no poop flap!) so he could crap in an airsickness bag. Of course you need to get rid of the evidence, because how do you explain that to the ground crew as you return the plane? "And oh, by the way, don't touch the puke bag, it's full of shit, sorry."

It's always made me wonder the frequency of accidents due to poop splattering someone's windshield? I also think it's unfortunate he didn't light the bag on fire before tossing it out.


Jake gives us TURNER AND POOPCH:

When I was in sixth grade I spent a lot of time at my friend Alex's house, who happened to live very close to the local Taco Bell. I can only assume this is what we ate one night before we retired to Alex's basement to play video games or whatever sixth grade boys do at sleepovers. Around ten or eleven o'clock, I felt a poop coming on. I went up to the bathroom which was across the hall from the top of the stairs. I don't recall anything spectacular about the poop itself, except I think it may have required more wipes than average. I finished and went down to rejoin my friends. A few minutes later we heard a thud on the floor upstairs. We didn't think anything of it, as it was about the time his parents were getting ready for bed. About 15 or 20 minutes later, Alex's dad called down to us: "Uh, hey guys? Did one of you take a dump and not flush? Because the dog was walking past the bathroom and passed out." The thud we had heard was Alex's (elderly) Australian shepherd hitting the hardwood floor. Apparently the poop smelled so bad that the aroma migrated to the hallway, where it remained potent enough for the passing dog to actually lose consciousness. I admitted to his dad that I had taken the dump, but insisted that I had flushed (I had). This led to twenty minutes of gasping-for-air laughter from my friends. It happened almost 15 years ago, but I still take pride in telling the tale of the time I dropped a deuce so atrocious it stunned a 60 lb. animal.




My friend Glenn told me a story of when he was in science class in the seventh grade. Now Glenn is a large guy and has always been "the fat kid", so entering middle school he asked his older cousin for advice in case he had to fart during class. The cousin told me if this ever happens grab your text book and throw it on the floor as you rip as to mask the sound. So sure enough the time has come, Glenn has to rip ass and suddenly remembers the words of advice from his cousin. He picks up his Science textbook and throws it on the ground to cover the noise of his fart. However, he mistimes the textbook drop and drops its a second too early. So the entire class hears CRASHHH then what he says was the loudest fart he has ever let out. Sure enough, everyone looks at him, being the fat kid and all.


And finally, Spalding sends in this one he calls SAD POOBA:

I played the tuba in marching band in high school, which pretty much exactly sums up what kind of fat loser I was.

That particular day, I was in second period when I realized something was seriously wrong in my guts. I felt like I had a giant bubble winding its way up through my intestines. I wasn't even farting (yet) but the noises coming out of my bowels were loud enough to hear clearly. It was obvious I needed to leave immediately.

I got probably five feet outside the classroom door before the first devastating shart-spasm wracked my body. I was sweating, horrified, and butt-squeeze-running towards the bathroom, praying I'd get there before the next contractions began.

I went to a huge public high school in NYC area; the bathrooms were like prison, perhaps worse, and there was no fucking way I was going in there. Luckily, I had an ace up my sleeve: the band room.

The band had its own little lounge and dressing room/bathroom (being adjacent to the auditorium). It was the perfect sanctuary for someone with tighties full of shit. By the time I got to the band room I had sharted my tighties full. I remember it feeling like swimming in the ocean, when you get sand inside the stupid mesh fake underwear sewn into swimsuits. Like the weight of the sand is threatening to pull your swimsuit off. Except, of course, it was soft and warm and smelled like a three-day-old dead body.

I got to the band room and thank god the bathroom was unlocked. I slipped in unnoticed. When I pulled my tighties down they were absolutely full of the grossest tar porridge imaginable. With chunks, like corn shit, except the nibblets were light brown, not yellow.

\still shivers from the thought

It took me about 15 minutes, after blowing the rest of the shit out my ass, to clean up with those ridiculous single-ply, single-serving, wax paper squares that passed for TP back in public high school. Still, I was left with a terrible conundrum. Since I was a huge loser, my mom was still in the habit of writing my last name on all my clothes, including this particular pair of shit-stuffed underwear. I mean I shat myself in high school and the fucking evidence had my last name on it. What in the fuck was I supposed to do about that? So I wasn't thinking clearly, but I was convinced that throwing them out wasn't going to cut it. So I flushed them. Bad move.

The tighties disappeared down the hole, but the water did that sucky-slurrpy thing where it didn't come back up to the right level in the bowl. It was obviously clogged. I didn't know what to do about that either, so I cut and ran.

That afternoon at band practice rumors were swirling about the toilet having flooded shitty water all over the floor. The janitors had blocked off the bathroom all afternoon and when band started there were like 5 dudes in jumpsuits working in there. I was just trying to be cool as possible, but I was panicking. Obviously. I was just imagining some jump-suited guy coming out of the toilet with my shitty underpants in a pair of 3 foot long tongs like, "[redacted]? Is there a [redacted] in here?" It was the longest afternoon of my life.

In the end, that afternoon passed, and the whole thing went away, except for one thing: from that moment on, for the rest of high school, the band director exclusively called me by my last name. He had never done that before. Ever. I'll give the guy credit... he could have RUINED me. That he choose to be a smirking, passive-aggressive dickhead about it was something I could easily live with, given the alternative. In the end, I guess he figured he wouldn't be able to find another fat loser to play tuba in the marching band if he forced me to commit suicide.

Share This Story

Get our newsletter