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Time For Your Worst-Ever Poop Stories

Oh God, the Super Bowl bye week. I feel as if all the blood has been drained from my body. No playoff games. No picked up flags. No de-juiced balls. No endless replays. I barely know what to do with myself, apart from avoiding the Pro Bowl.

Anyway, since this is the dreaded bye week, it's time again for me to share our readership's worst poop stories . We're talking poop in pants, poop in the street, poop in other piles of poop… POOP EVERYWHERE, which is a fitting description for my current station in life. Let's pull the handle and go down the drain…



I was at military school in 9th grade in the mid '90s. Our hall consisted of eight rooms, four on each side of the shitter. There were four bowls, two on each wall facing each other, and the showers were in the back. All one big room. The bowls each had half curtains, navy blue, that kind of covered your "area." One night, toward the end of the year, I was with some upperclassmen and my roommate. Somehow a bet was made to take a big bite out of a magic mushroom air freshener - which all dorm rooms apparently need to cover the stench of sweat and ass - chew five times, then spit out. I think $5 was in play which was worth many rounds of NBA Jam in the lounge. I took my five bites, spit it out, and rinsed/swallowed with a Dr. Pepper. It was pretty uneventful.

Until about 4AM. I woke up to a severe burning in my stomach and I made the 20 yard dash to the bano. I hit the door, throw it open, and charge in only to realize I'm gonna be too late, drop my boxers and try to back in. I almost make it, almost. The shit projected from my ass, hits the bowl and wall behind it from about five feet out. And just keeps coming. The ceiling was low, so I painted all sides of stall #1. Maybe 60 seconds was all it took. I throw my boxers in the trash, hit the shower, and head back to my room. Maybe 20 minutes go by and I repeat the same scenario. Stall #2 done. Shower, back to my room. Not even 10 minutes for round three, I don't make it and end up shitting all over Stall #3's curtain and the main floor. I can still see all the brown liquid covering, and dripping, from that navy blue curtain.

Now I'm fucking panicked. Not 'Am I ok' panic. Nope I'm more worried about getting into trouble but still hoping I'm getting away with it. I go back to my room, revelry, or whatever it was called, sounds and everyone starts to wake up. Explosion number 4 hits, I run into my Hall Senior, who was a prick, and nearly knock him down on my fourth, and final, trip. He walks in about to let me have it, witnesses the scene, and just walks away. Now I know I'm fucked. But that was pretty much the end of the shit.

Two hours later, I've made it through formation, drills, mess, and am in second period. Just sweating. I happen to be able to see my hall from class. I see the janitor cart roll up and the janitor go in, a minute or maybe less passes, he comes walking out and pukes everywhere, very casually. I see him stand up, shake his head, and put on a mask and head back in. Nearly simultaneously my name blares out over the speaker to go to the Commandants office. My mom is on the speaker phone in his office. The rest is a blur. There was a large cleaning fee. Lots of running, with my rifle over my head. And lots of yelling. For weeks. I've never looked at those air fresheners the same since.



About a year ago I decided to get a dog. I got the dog from a rescue group and she was a healthy puppy aside from some intestinal parasites. We got the dog on a Saturday so we couldn't get her to the vet untilMonday to start trying to fix the parasite issue.

It turns out new living situations can stress out dogs and prevent them from going to the bathroom for a couple days. By Sunday night she hadn't pooped once. I was concerned but after some googling it didn't seem too unusual. I woke up Monday and after getting ready for work (note - if you have a puppy check it BEFORE you shower) I go down to her crate and immediately get hit with a wall a stench unlike anything I'd smelled before. She had wallpapered her crate with 2 days worth of parasite-ridden shit. Cleaning it up was awful, but I didn't think much of it.

The next couple days I started having "loose stools" to put it politely. I wrote them off as maybe drinking too much the night before and moved on. Their frequency and urgency increased as the week went on, and I got a little more worried. Then one night, it happened. I woke up in a state of cold-sweat panic and start running to the bathroom. As I open the bathroom door I lost the fight and shit my pants. It was a horrible, awful experience and one I really never need to relive.

The doctor's appointment went about as well as an appointment for a 25 year old man shitting his pants can go. The doctor comes in and then a gorgeous med school student walks in behind her and asks if it's ok if she sits in on the appointment, I was so thrown by the hot girl in the room that I forgot I was there to discuss my incontinence so I agree to her sticking around. We get into why I'm there, and once I get to the shitting my pants part, the girl starts smirking which was the real ego booster I needed in this situation. The doctor asks if I've been to any foreign countries or been camping recently and drank water with parasites in it. I mentioned the dog incident and the doctor immediately jumped on it. She was sure I'd somehow swallowed some dog shit and picked up the parasites. She was ecstatic, started talking about publishing a paper on my bizarre case, and was sure this was the source of my problem.

I'm sent home with a kit to get a stool sample and some medicine for the parasites. I bring the stool sample back and the result came back. I didn't have any parasites. I'd just shit my pants for no reason. It was a pretty low point in my adult life, but just to save face I told people I had giardia anyway. A couple weeks later I ran into the med student when I was out at a bar and immediately turned around and walked out the door. Be careful around puppies with parasites.



When I was in college, I went to school in Corpus Christi, TX and had taken a weekend trip to San Antonio to hang out with some friends. On a whim, the Sunday afternoon I was scheduled to drive back I stopped by the ATT center to look at the Spurs store and decided to attend a Kings/Spurs game in the evening which cost about 20 bucks.

So I go to the game and inside is a BBQ food stand and go to town on probably more than a pound of chopped BBQ with about a gallon of sauce. Fast forward to later on and I arrived into Corpus at around midnight where my roommate promptly wanted to go have a late night dinner at Denny's. I chow down some more, we leave and start to head back home when the bubble guts hit. My apartment wasn't too far but I wasn't going to make it so I tell him to pull into Walmart.

As I get out of the car my guts are screaming to be let loose and I'm clenching my ass and doing a penguin walk and as I'm walking, shit starts leaking into my underwear and jeans. I don't think it's too bad, I figure it's something I could manage to save using a whole bunch of toilet paper.

I run into the stall and pull down my pants and release what's left of the shit and I realize it's got a reddish tint to it due to the BBQ sauce. I look at my underwear and jeans and they are covered with what looks like that Ohio chili Burneko is always yammering on about. I'm so embarrassed and don't know what to do, and about a half hour later a Walmart employee walks in and I tell him to call an ambulance so I can fake getting out of Walmart.

Think about that, I was so embarrassed to just run out of store and hop back into the car and embarrass myself and roommate that I ask the employee to dial 911 and call for an ambulance.

So paramedics arrive and I tell them that the red poop might be due to blood and they put me on a gurney and rush me to hospital with my friend driving behind me. Several hours later and after a multitude of tests, x-rays and drugs administered to me one of the doctors comes in and tells me I actually DO have something wrong with me. They said one of my ureters which funnels pee from the kidneys to my bladder is closed and that they have to put a stent in to keep it open.

Several days later I have a procedure done where I went in for outpatient surgery and they shoved a stent in through my dickhole and basically inflated a long rubber balloon that would hold my ureter open.

About six months later, I went into doctors office, the female doc applied some novocaine to the head of my dick and used some wiry alligator clamp thing to reach in and pull out about a footlong balloon out of my dickhole, fully awake.

This was all because I didn't want to be embarrassed for five minutes.


It was the summer of 95, I'm years 12 old, and me and about 6 of the neighborhood kids were in my backyard, shooting hoops, bullshitting, etc. Typical summer day.

Dumb and Dumber had come out in the past year, and like many other kids (I hope), we were all infatuated with the scene where Jim Carey lights a huge fart. We never really thought about it before, but now it became our number one goal. We're all sitting around, and all of the sudden I feel the bubble in my stomach. First thought was to go inside and grab a lighter, because fuck if I didn't want to be the first to make a fireball.

I run back outside and pull a lawn chair out of the garage. At that point I was corking what I thought was going to be a huge blast, so I slip the mesh shorts below and ass and then get on the chair and proceed to throw my legs back like a cat.

I light the lighter, and then release. All of the sudden I hear nothing but my friends roaring laughter as well as "HE SHIT HIMSELF", and then feel a wetness on my ass. I look down and see 2 moist nuggets, one on the chair dangling and the other on the blacktop.

They were all in tears by the time I ran back outside to hose it down, and I laughed although it was easily the most embarrassing moment in my life at that point. It was my first ever shart (there have been a few more), and easily the most entertaining.



A few years ago, I was down in Cabo San Lucas with my family and friends for vacation. My dad, my buddy and I decided to go play some golf, and end up at this very fancy, very expensive golf course.

Given that we're spending all that money, I decide to avail myself of all the services the club offers. This includes complimentary shrimp tacos, as many as I can eat.

Things are going great until the 10th hole, when I feel a sudden twinge. About 9 minutes later, standing in the middle of the 11th fairway, the gears of gastrointestinal apocalypse kick into full gear, and I am struck by the horrible realization that I am not going to make a bathroom, and if I don't want to spray paint a line of feces down the fairway, my only chance is to sprint 25 yards, into the desert. I start running, ripping at my belt as I go. I do not make it in time.

So I'm now running towards the desert, shitting 117 tacos into my shorts (thank God I had on boxer-briefs, so at least containment was maintained as I ran). I make the desert, still pooping, drop my shorts, pull down my saturated, heavily laden underwear, assume a standing squat with my ass pointed as far from the civilian population as possible, and continue the diarrhea tsunami for at least another minute.

At this point, I lose my balance in said squat, and begin to fall back towards the pond of evil I've just unleashed on the earth. Instinct takes over, I throw my hand back to find anything to grab to prevent me from falling into the little ocean of vileness, and land my left palm squarely on top of a spiny cactus. The barbs penetrate to the bone in my hand. I'm now screaming, crying, covered in my own waste, with my laden drawers still around my knees because I couldn't get them all the way off my body. In a desert. In Mexico.

My father, concerned for my well being (I ran towards the desert without explaining, and now he can hear me screaming 10 feet deep into a chaparral), tries to come in and find out what's going on. I scream for him to not come any closer, for if he were to see that little panorama of catastrophe, we would never be able to look each other in the eye again. I tell him to throw me his golf towel, my towel, and my buddy's towel so I can set to the unpleasant experience of delousing myself as I stand now naked, absolutely covered in diarrhea, with a bleeding hand that I can no longer use after slowly removing it from the cactus, and not wanting to get sepsis by getting it near my feces covered body. Cleanup takes about 10 minutes, at which point I hurl my ruined, shit-filled britches further into the desert, where they get stuck on a tree branch and drip out a steady stream of poo, a lasting visual reminder of a near impossible amount of shame. I pull my shorts back on, emerge from the desert with no towels, tell my Dad I don't want to talk about it, and, to my credit, finish the round. Later that afternoon I sit on the floor of the shower in my hotel, knees clutched to my chest, rocking slowly back and forth as I weep softly for an innocence lost.



During the summer following 3rd grade, my parents sent my brother and me to camp. My mom had been hit by a car earlier in the year, and she was okay, but they wanted the two of us out of the house for as much time as possible, so they put us in a month-long summer camp in northern Minnesota. The catch was that this was a camp designed to prepare special needs kids for middle and high school. I am not special needs, but my older brother is. I believe my parents thought that I would be able to support my brother at camp and help him with his anxiety (he has Asperger's and ADHD, so social upheaval and routine change are the WORST for him) and I think they actually got something of a 2-for-1 deal out of it, maybe because I was the only kid there without any kind of disability.

Camp was awful, for many, many reasons, owing in part to that region of Minnesota having terrible weather and in part to the fact that, well, I was the only non-special needs kid. I didn't even get to see my brother much, since he was in a separate age group with its own strict schedule. Every time I saw him, he started bawling, and I had to try to comfort him.

But the worst memory I have of this camp is this: Once every week, the camp would serve hot dogs for dinner. I already did not like hot dogs at this age, given I had a sensitive stomach as a kid, and a thousand hot dogs cooked en masse were never going to be easy on the gut. But there were no alternative food options, and the counselors basically force-fed us, so I ate the hot dogs, knowing full well I would regret it in one way or another.

After having had hot dogs for dinner and after lights-out one night, I awoke to the terrible feeling that my insides were made of fiery goop and that they were going to leak out of me any second. I hopped down from the top bunk, which only jarred me further and brought me closer to the shitsplosion that was my due. This caused the female counselor, who slept in the adjacent room, to awaken, and she groggily tried to ask me why I was up. I sprinted past her, slammed open the screen door, and stepped out into a light, cold rain.

Now, the camp latrine was on the opposite side of camp, at least a good 200 yards from my cabin, so I knew there was no way I would make it there. Instead, I went around to the side of the cabin, pulled down my shorts and boxers, relaxed my sphincter, and waited, horrified, as a shit poured forth that was incredibly similar in texture and stench to, but far more voluminous than, doggy diarrhea. To my utter horror, the female camp counselor had followed me outside (she may have feared that I was trying to run away, which was a problem the camp faced) and witnessed at least some of the evacuation. Even though I was embarrassed, it was good that she was there to help me deal with the situation, since I was not entirely familiar with the process of recovering myself from such a shitastrophe. She took my shorts, which of course had not been spared, and saw to clean-up duties while I tried to go back to bed. The next morning, I didn't mention it to any of my fellow campers, and I believe they did not know what had happened.

I still mostly hate hot dogs.


While in Guatemala for work I was met by a now ex-girlfriend. I had just gotten over a the second worst food poisoning in my life and was looking to regain the 11 pounds I had lost. As she was a former coworker, she had greatly aided me with my work, so we had a large amount of time to explore. We took the Chicken Bus to Antigua and spent a wonderful wandering around that lovely tourist trap of a city. As this was a semi-vacation, we opted for a for a luxuriant, expense account padded lunch. Guatemalans are quite found of grilling whole marinated scallions and I had been religiously eating them. The ones at this restaurant were particularly delightful and I largely inhaled the entire plate.

The next day, after I had finished up my last necessary meetings I returned to my hotel. There I realized that I had to take care off business in a rather pressing matter. After much pushing and straining I passed the first shit. It was however still hanging from anus and I was unable to pinch it off. I raised off the seat into a partial squat I managed to shake it loose. Curious, I looked down to see what the problem was. I was a bit surprised to see a whole, unchewed, undigested, scallion. It must have been about 7 inches long and it was essentially unscathed.

I sat back down and a second one followed shortly after. This one I just grabbed with a square of toilet paper and gently pulled it out. This one was about 5 inches long and also virtually untouched.

I washed my hands and informed my girlfriend what I had just done. She vehemently declined to observe the evidence to my everlasting disappointment.



On my 1st deployment to Iraq, my camp was basically a glorified truck stop for convoys & helicopters passing through. Since we didn't have a real kitchen because the camp was so small we had to depend on food trucked in from a larger base in the area. If there were too many bombs on the road to our camp we wouldn't get the food & we would just be stuck w/ MRE's (Meals Ready to Eat). For most people I know, eating too many MRE's tend to have adverse affects on pooping patterns. For me, too many meant I should expect some constipation. Then, when I would switch back to regular food, the flood gates would open.

Halfway through my tour, bombs were being planted on the roads faster than they could clear them. So, for about 3 weeks, we were on an all MRE diet. It felt like I was carrying around a brick in my stomach & when I actually did shit, it felt like I was trying so hard to push that brick out that it felt like the veins in my neck would burst. There wasn't anyone in camp that had anything to use as a laxative. Even the medics had run out of pooping aids.

Then, one day out of nowhere, the food truck shows up! It shows up full of surf & turf. The best part were the piles of chocolate chips cookies. I must've had 15 of those cookies w/ my meal. I was expecting the emergency shit evacuation sometime that night, but it never happened. At the time I was relieved because the lines after dinner for the shitters looked like an Apple store before a new iPhone comes out. My relief was short lived.

In the morning, we got movement orders to another camp 4 hrs away to help out another team w/ an upcoming operation. It was such a rush to get ready & leave I didn't notice I hadn't shit yet. About 30 minutes into our drive, the 3 weeks worth of shit bricks announces it's time to move out. I was in our trucks turret & it felt like w/ every bump in the road I was 1 step closer to shitting my pants while everyone in the cab would get an eye level view of it. My asshole was doing it's best but massive failure was at hand. I radioed my driver to tell him to relay up to the convoy commander if we can stop because I was going to shit my pants. At this point I don't care if I earned the scorn & humilation from the entire convoy. Before he gets on the radio, our truck starts spewing oil out & the oil pressure drops. We have to stop on the side of the road in the middle of nowhere. I'm saved!

After pulling into our protective formation, I go to the farthest corner of the formation & w/ my friend Richie providing over watch I proceed to carpet bomb this small part of Iraq w/ choclate chip shit. The relief was immense. But no shit goes unnoticed. My friend Richie never let me forget he had to stand there for the whole shit massacre. Even 6 years later when I ran into him & his wife in Hawaii he told his wife "Remember that story I told you about watching someone take a dump?" This is the guy." Awkward.



When I was in grade school I had to bike ride pretty much every day to my grandparents house in the summer with my little brother in tow while my single-mom was at work. Paying for daycare was out the question as my mom was strapped for cash taking care of my brother and I with little income and no child support from my basically dead-beat dad.

My grandparents were both retired and loved having us but my mom was quite the scatterbrain and was always rushing out the door for work so I was in-charge in making sure we made it to my grandparents.

The ride was about 2 miles across the city in which I lived and actually was a pretty straight shot on a couple of quiet streets and through a park then down some alleys.

My brother, who is just a year younger then me, woke up early that Friday morning and was rearing to go so we could make it in time for breakfast - which was a real treat because my grandmother would usually cook up some bacon and fresh homemade flour tortillas for us and compared to the corn flakes on our shelf at home, it was like a prime rib dinner to us.

We headed out and about half-way through the bike ride I got the cramp of a lifetime in my mid-section.

I had two options: 1) I could stop at the park ahead and drop a turd in the woods but not be able to wipe OR 2) I could keep trekking on and try to make it my grandparents house and enjoy a nice shit on her super soft toilet seat.

Of course I opted for number 2 and about 3/4 of the way there while going up a hill I couldn't hold it anymore and shat myself with a huge log into my fruit-of-the-loom tighty whiteys.

The worst part was I was near a spot where I couldn't stand while peddling and had to basically sit in this huge log that is now in my pants and could feel the shit spreading across my ass cheeks.

Once to my grandparents house I snuck around the house and was lucky that the walk-in basement door was open. I made my way to the basement bathroom only to find the door locked as my college age uncle was in the shower/jerking off/shitting. Seeing as I had minimal outs I decided to sneak upstairs and hopefully no one would notice my smelly ass walking up two flights of stairs of the split-level home

I tip-toed up the stairs and down the hallway walking past by and my grandma was busy rolling tortillas and didn't notice me. I got to the bathroom and immediately started the clean-up process- removing the underwear and wiping the shit off my ass - first with toilet paper then wetting the toilet paper under the sink to remove any trace of shit on my ass.

Now, what to do with the underwear? I couldn't just pocket it or even throw in the garbage. Then a brilliant idea popped into my head - why not flush it?

Down it went. Home fucking free! I walked out of that bathroom like a boss and enjoyed me some bacon tacos and enjoyed my day.

The weekend came and went and the following Monday my brother and I made the same trip. when I got there I noticed a plumbers vans parked out front not really thinking anything of it.

I got into the kitchen and the plumber is talking with my grandparents as I casually stroll in grab a tortillas off the big stack cooling off on their kitchen table when I overhear:

"Seems like something is stuck in the pipe. I am going to cut the pipe in the basement and take a look."

That's when it hits me - fuck. He's going to find my shit stained evidence and I am a dead boy.

The plumber goes down to the basement and goes to work. My brother and I are trying to make our way outside when my grandmother grabs us and asks us to help her go downstairs and take the clothes off the clothes-line she had in the basement while the plumber was working. Right as we get down there I find the plumber has drained the line and cut out the drain pipe and is running a snake through. He cant find anything below the cut.

He instead looks up the pipe and just then my shit-stained underwear falls directly out of the pipe and onto his face.

My grandfather looks over to my grandmother - "Lecha" - (my grandmas nickname) - "go get a twenty from my wallet. We better tip the plumber."



I do volunteer work which requires me to hang around the local high school all day on Saturdays. Because athletic events are going on all day, and my "job" requires me to perform the "work" at various intervals, the opportunity to scarf concession stand hamburgers, hot dogs and popcorn is omnipresent.

On a prior Friday noght, I had consumed some salmon from a new restaurant. Seemed a little underdone but I'm notoriously forgiving of new restaurants. However, something wasn't right.

Saturday dawns and I'm performing my mindless functioning while plowing through some concession garbage. A little queasy, but I'm sure it will pass.

After 9 hours on the volunteer job, the pressure is starting to build, big time. I leave the high school by the one route home. The high school is equipped with portable toilets which are too disgusting for even me to use. Of course, I'm driving behind the oldest licensed driver in the Lower 48.

I continue to trundle along and finally arrive at home with my GI system totally intact. On arrival, my neighbor wants to make some small talk which ends up costing my valuable seconds.

I run as fast as I can into the house. Luckily for me, the bathroom is adjacent to the back door in a laundry room. The lava inside my system is raging. I fly in to the small bathroom, drop pants and unload the burning mess. Unluckily for me, the lid to the toilet is down as I was too panic stricken to check. The cataclysm is everywhere, including on my clothes, which I must now clean up before my wife arrives home.

I fire my clothes into the washer and get to work on the hazardous waste clean up.

What was in my pants which are now being washed? Yes. My cell phone.

The moral: Never volunteer for anything.


Several years ago when I was 21 I was celebrating New Years at this girl's house and was intent on hooking up with this girl there. This would also be the first night I tried absinthe. After having a few shots of this and at least 15 beers later I felt a demon brewing in me. I snuck into the bathroom and figured it would just be a diarrhea mess, completely wrong. I laid a solid 10 inch cable in this girl's toilet, after giving it a flush the toilet of course backed up to the rim. There's a knock at the girl and it was the girl I was trying to hook up with. I told her it would just be a second, I completely panicked. I knew this log as not flushable, so in my incoherent state I did the next best thing. I rushed out of the bathroom and told her not to go in there that someone else had clogged the toilet.

I went into the kitchen and grabbed a glass from the parent's cabinet, rushed back into the bathroom and the log was now peeking out of the toilet. I scooped it up with this Disney Cinderella glass, got the entire shit in there and flushed the toilet. I'm now standing there...holding a Cinderella glass with this huge shit in it. I weighed my options: throw it out the window or sneak it out of there. I can't throw it out the bathroom window into the backyard because there are people out there. I decided to hide the glass under my jacket and rushed out the front door. Right past the girl's parents, wishing them a Happy New Year, ran down the block and chucked the glass into their neighbor's bushes. I was never caught, but thinking about it now, that neighbor at one point must have been cleaning his yard and found this pretty Cinderella glass… with my gigantic turd in it. Happy New Years!



My poop story comes from my first job out of college, working for a group of radio stations in Eastern Kentucky. It will shock you that the owner of such an establishment happened to be a racist, old bastard who looked like Al Davis and was a cheapskate to the fullest extent of the word.

I was working the board and hosting a weekend afternoon shift while my co-workers were doing a remote broadcast. It was during one of their live segments where my stomach started to rumble. As soon as their segment ends, I bolt to the gas station-esque bathroom and unleash hell. That's when I came to the sudden realization that there was no toilet paper. The owner was too cheap to buy any for the employees and if you brought in your own, he'd steal it and take it home with him.

That leaves me waddling around the station looking for anything that can finish the job. That's when I notice an unmarked canister sitting by one of the station control boards. I thought it was my lucky day, baby wipes were often used to clean the radio equipment. I grab the canister and race back to the bathroom. Only they weren't baby wipes, they were Clorox bleach wipes and the label had fallen off, I had inadvertently bleached my own ass and the feeling that came with it I don't wish on many people. Fuck that man for stealing all our toilet paper. He's dead now.



I'm going to a show and we're pre-gaming at a bar that offers cheap beer and free hot dogs. I drank a lot of cheap beer and I ate a lot of free hot dogs. We head to the venue and my friends go in, but I wait outside to meet a girl I've been seeing who's also coming to the show. So of course, the girl is running late and my stomach announces that it needs to evacuate, right fucking now. I can't go inside the venue because I need to give the girl her ticket, and I can't find a bar or McDonalds around anywhere, so I'm panicking - but then I remember there's a dumpster around back.

I hustle the two blocks over to the dumpster, and when I get there, a homeless guy is hanging around at the entrance. A little shady, but I hustle by. I get back behind the dumpster, drop trou, and prepare to let loose, when suddenly I catch an unmistakable whiff of fresh shit. I look down and see that I'm literally squatting in a pile of human feces. And ironically enough, my first thought was, "What fucking ASSHOLE would take a shit behind this dumpster???" I hastily stood, buckled, and got out of there, completely failing to avoid eye contact with the dude whose stew I'd just stomped all up in.



A few years ago, I worked for a small non-profit company that gave health related presentations in schools. One Tuesday I was with a female co-worker in a small town close to our office. The morning went well enough, and we had an extended lunch break because of the school's schedule. I live in Texas, so the only restaurant in this small town was a Mexican one. We spent an hour in the restaurant, but still had one hour left before our next presentation.

We went back to the school, but when we tried to get in, the doors were locked. The administration told us that we could not be let back in to the school until it was time for our next presentation because of new security policies (screw you, school shooters.) After 10 minutes in the car with my co-worker, I realized I was going to have a problem. After 30 minutes, I had to get out of the car because my stomach and sphincter felt like they were going to explode. 5 minutes prior to the presentation they let us back in the school. All I had to do was walk about 120 feet down a hall way to the bathroom.

I made it 115. I stood in the hallway of this small town school and shit myself. I waddled the last 5 feet into the bathroom, where I spent the next 15 minutes trying to clean my body and my soul. Luckily, I dropped trou quickly enough that my slacks were saved. I was forced to trash my boxers, and do the remaining presentations whilst going commando. I know for a fact that I still stunk, and that those high school kids remember me as that "one guy who shit himself, and then told us to get screened for STDs."



A few years ago, my husband and I were at the Mandalay Bay casino in Las Vegas and we'd just been to the buffet for breakfast. My husband is a big eater, so he'd put away lots of bacon, eggs, and tiny fancy pastries that look much better than they taste. He had a trade show to go to down the strip, and I was just going sight-seeing, so we were going to get a cab. We went to the cash machine to get money for said cab and while we were transacting he got a funny look on his face.

"I gotta find a bathroom," he said and quickly strode away. I finished getting the money and went to sit on a bench near the bathroom I'd seen him go in. I waited and waited and waited. Twenty minutes go by. I text him to see if he's ok. No answer. I call him. No answer. About 10 more minutes go by, and I'm preparing to ask the next man who comes up to the bathroom if he'll call out for my husband when he goes in in case he's had a heart attack or something, when I finally see my husband.

Apparently, he'd farted back at the cash machine and it had all gone wrong. He'd rushed to the bathroom with shit in his underwear and had spent the last half hour dealing with an episode of diarrhea and then cleaning up. He'd had to cut his underwear off with his swiss army knife so he could get them off without making a bigger mess. We went back to the room to freshen up further before we got that cab.

Recently, I was following the MGM properties in Vegas on Facebook because I was looking for hotel deals they were running a contest asking people to send in their "Most Memorable Mandalay Bay Moment." I did not win.



I was headed into Boston for a job interview and got Indian food the night before. After the meal I tried to find my way to my hotel which was in Cambridge. This was before iPhones and I had no GPS, and as everyone knows, Boston roads are the biggest clusterfuck imaginable and impossible to navigate. Soon after I start driving, I feel a dreaded rumbling. The hotel is no more than 10 minutes away though, so I don't think it's a big deal. There's some bridge across the Charles that's confusing as hell with mysterious signs pointing in 8 different directions, and I cross it like 4 roundtrip times trying to find the damn hotel. Each time I'm getting more pissed off and confused, and more rumbly and panicked.

Eventually I realize I'm not gonna make it, and pull into some desolate industrial park to do the deed. I hop out of my car, drop trou, and unleash a torrent of horrific brown butt pee. My best option for a wipe is.....the plastic bag that had been holding the leftover Indian food (which CLEARLY never wound up getting eaten). The whole thing is a disaster but somehow miraculously a) no security or anyone from this industrial park finds me, and b) I didn't splatter shit all over my clothes. With my intestines and head much clearer I at last made it to the hotel, probably smelling at least a little like poop. I didn't get that job but did eventually move to Boston for a different gig, and I (quite rightly) wound up hating that godforsaken city and fleeing to NYC 15 months later. Whenever I reflect on how much I hate that place, I can always take a little bit of comfort knowing I shit on its streets.



About eight weeks ago, my fiancee returned from a month long trip to Europe. I was missing her like crazy, not just for the sex, but also because of the sex. I had decided to propose while in her absence, buying the ring and whatnot. She came back, I proposed nonchalantly at home (we've lived together for the past four years, so we are basically married already) and we hugged in joy with our cat and dog. So, ready to face our five-star life of the future, we start caressing and mildly engaging in some nice foreplay. However, kitchen stuff needed to be finished, so we paused and finished tidying up the house. While I was finishing the dish-cleaning, she ran upstairs to get a shower. She whispered in my ear to join her in a few minutes.

I heard the shower upstairs and I immediately felt the need to take a massive crap. I hurried to the downstairs toilet, opened my iPad and started checking the Guardian website while I disposed of a respectable succession of turds. However, the last one was one of those lazy turds that keeps hanging and breaks apart halfway. I shuffled and see-sawed my body as much as I could to get rid of the leftover shit and it surely dropped, but some nasty cream remained stuck. While I was attempting to clean the mess I hear my girl scream that she was waiting for me. I got stupidly nervous, ended "cleaning" and headed upstairs still reeking of shit. I opened the door, undressed and got in the shower. I don't know if it was the mixture with vapor, but the combination of it with my shit stench was too much. She looked distressed and laughed nervously.

The window was open, so I started doing a fake sniff, as if also feeling surprised. "It smells horrible, wonder what the neighbors are doing?" I said with aplomb. She looked unconvinced but I guess there was no reason for her to connect the shit dots. While showering I did try and clean my crack as discreetly as possible, leaving partial stains on my hand in the process, but managing to make it without her noticing. I think the smell was too strong, because she told me to go have sex in the bed as opposed to doing it there in the shower.

So on we go to bed and being happy as she was, she decided to go on top all the way. It was a fantastic performance and it was a long lasting fuck. We finished, we hugged and off she went to clean herself. When I turned on the lights I looked at the Duvet and there it was: a lame attempt at a Jackson Pollock study done by my stained ass. There were skid marks all over in around 50 shades of brown. I knew it was a matter of seconds before she came back, so I took the duvet cover, did a final ass cleaning with all my might (I surely cleaned that crack with that fine cotton), put on my boxers and made a ball of the duvet. I told her I found some dog paw stains on it and that I was going to clean it (playing the new perfect husband role). She smiled back and never noticed.

Until last week, when she admitted she realized I had a dirty ass that night when she got up from sex and saw the marks. I really love that girl.



A few days ago I was walking back into my office from lunch and I had a cup of Moroccan lentil soup in my hand and my briefcase in another hand. Of course, I then had to key-in to my office to get past the glass door separating the hallway and the work area, as if we're building fucking nuclear rockets back there. Anyway, I totally fucked it up, lost my grip on the soup, tried to save it at the last minute while it was falling and ended up splattering it all over the carpet and the glass door itself. To my horror, it looked very much like someone pulled down their pants and diarrhea'd all over the carpet and the door. It was simply too much to clean up, so I did a cursory rub/scoop/garbage run, quickly looked around, verified that nobody saw me and then sat down at my desk like nothing happened.

About twenty minutes later I hear and see the inevitable commotion by the door. My colleagues are all standing around and pointing, covering their noses. Someone says "I think it's shit!" and people turn and gag and cough like Pavlov's moronic dogs. Someone else insists it's vomit and some more people gag and run away. They call the janitorial staff and they come rushing in with wet vacs and mop buckets like an Ebola patient just vomited blood. As you might imagine, I was very tempted to own up to the deed and call everyone on their bullshit. It's not poop, you numbskulls. It's Moroccan lentil soup. It happens to be very good if you like some liquid with your sinus-clearing herbs. Anyway, I decided against it. Watching all of them make fools of themselves ogling what they thought was a biohazard was simply too much fun.


Drew Magary writes for Deadspin. He's also a correspondent for GQ. Follow him on Twitter @drewmagary and email him at You can also buy Drew's book, Someone Could Get Hurt, through his homepage.


Image by Jim Cooke.

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