deviant_kine
12-10-2004, 03:18 PM
i got this off another forum i am a member of. its quite long, but worth it:
It never fails. Whenever I feel that I'm tapped out, that I'm unable to produce any new material, that my days as a PoopReporter are over, I experience yet another odd pooping event.
The other day the wife and I had theater tickets to go see The Expresso Café. The show started at 6:00, so we decided to grab a late lunch/early dinner. With our daughter in tow, we ended up at a Pizza Hut around 2:00. I was against it -- the last few times I ate at a Pizza Hut, I got the shits. However, our daughter talked me into dining there, and my wife was in the mood for a gooey pizza anyway. The wife and I are both on low-fat diets (we've each lost over twenty pounds in the past six weeks), so we felt a pizza was in order.
The wife and I split a medium double cheese and sausage pizza. Our daughter ordered a small with black olives. After eating, we headed home. I watched a little football and drank two beers while the wife did her hair. Once my wife was ready, we drove over to my parents' house, dropped off our daughter, and headed to the Hanna Theater in Downtown Cleveland. The show was great. I haven't laughed that hard in a long time.
During the show, the wife and I shared an antipasto salad for two. She drank beer and I spent the evening sipping Ketel One vodka on the rocks. As the show was ending, I started feeling some tremendous gas pains. I figured a big old log was on the way, but didn't think much about it at the time. After the show ended, we jumped into my truck and headed to my parents' to pick up our daughter.
While sitting at a red light waiting to get onto I-71, I was suddenly hit with severe stomach cramps. The house was about twelve miles away; I felt I could make it.
We got on the interstate and the pains grew worse with every passing mile. The shit was coming. I started to panic. My truck was moving at 70 mph, but my mind was racing twice that speed. Since it was dark out, I thought about pulling over and squatting -- but after thinking about all the roadside crapping horror stories that I've read on PoopReport, I just couldn't. I didn't want to drive any faster -- I wasn't drunk, but I'd been drinking and I didn't need a DWI.
Then it happened. Something that we all read about on PoopReport every day, but never think it'll happen to us: I shit in my pants.
It just happened. There was no stopping it. It just came out. I couldn't tell if it was solid or loose -- but it was warm and it burned my starfish.
I honestly don't remember the last time I shit myself. I'm sure I was under five years old. But... oddly enough, the sensation of shit in my pants felt eerily familiar.
My wife started gagging as the smell hit her. Rolling down her window, she started blurting out accusations about how something is wrong with my bowels, how I should go see a doctor, how it's crazy how greasy foods, cheeses and red meat give me the shits all the time.
It wasn't long before she would regret those words.
With poop in my pants and a lot more in my colon, I drove on to my parents' house. We were about a quarter mile away when the next urgent wave of butt mud stabbed at my guts, demanding to exit. As I pulled into the driveway, the diarrhea just started oozing out of my asshole like warm, wet cement. I had lost all control.
I just surrendered to the load. I could actually feel my pants getting tighter and heavier as I ran from the truck into my parent's house. I shot down to the basement toilet, hoping like hell I wasn't dripping shit as I ran.
I got to the bathroom, ripped down my pants, and sat on the toilet. There must have been over a quart of light brown mud in my underwear. To my surprise, though, my jeans weren't in that bad shape. But DAMN, the stench was disgusting.
I blasted some more diarrhea into the toilet and then carefully removed my shoes and clothes. I again thought of PoopReport, and all the pants-shitting tales that I have read, and all the techniques that have been used by fellow PoopReporters to clean themselves up after one shits one's self. I threw my brand new pair of underwear in the trashcan -- which, luckily, was lined with a paper bag. It was the first and only time I would wear that pair.
After feeling a sense of relief, I stood up to find the toilet seat completely smeared with the diarrhea that had originally been all over my ass. I started wiping my ass, my asscrack and my balls with toilet paper, only to discover that this wasn't going to complete the job.
I found some bathroom cleaner under the sink and cleaned the toilet seat off. Suddenly another wave of watery poop surged through my intestines, so I sat down, re-smearing and re-soiling the seat. I quickly squirted that mess out of my colon, stood up, cleaned the seat again, and hopped into the shower.
By this time my daughter had come down looking for me, and I could hear my father bitching and wanting to know why the shower was on. I then had to reveal to my daughter that Daddy pooped his pants. Even worse, I had to tell my parents that their 41-year-old son had shit his pants in their house.
Finally clean, I got dressed, grabbed the stinky paper bag with my underwear in it (which I ended up tossing on to the neighbor's tree lawn upon my departure), and rushed my daughter and wife into the truck so I could get home before my next shit storm.
Five minutes into the trip, my wife informed that she had to shit, pronto! I then made her eat her nasty words about my bowels being spastic -- we later decided that the sausage on the pizza was the most likely culprit. I stopped at a gas station so my wife could shit. As my daughter and I waited for my wife to unload, I grew more and more impatient, worrying that the next wave of the squirts would hit me before I got home.
Fortunately we did make it home in time. The wife ran to our upstairs toilet while I ran to the downstairs pot. I unloaded once again and went upstairs to change my clothes, putting on a pair of shorts.
My wife was still in the upstairs bathroom when another discharge (wave SIX?) hit me. I ran downstairs... but before I reached the toilet I shit my shorts.
I couldn't believe it -- after thirty years of perfect rectal control, I shit myself twice in one day!
After another shower and some Imodium AD, I went to bed. Stomach cramps kept me tossing and turning. I finally had one more blast of watershit... and, thankfully, that was the last of it. My poor raw asshole couldn't handle any more abuse.
Pizza Hut, Inc.
14841 Dallas Parkway
Dallas, Texas 75254
October 11, 2004
To whom it may concern:
This letter is to inform you that yesterday I once again got sick after eating at one of your Pizza Hut locations. The last two times I dined at your North Royalton, OH, store, I got sick from the meat on your pizza. I vowed to stop eating at Pizza Hut but my daughter gets those Book It coupons and talks us into eating at Pizza Hut. My daughter always gets black olives on her pizza, no meat.
Yesterday I was again talked into going to Pizza Hut but I tried the Strongsville, Ohio store. My daughter again got her pizza topped with black olives and my wife and I ate a pizza with sausage and double cheese.
A few hours later my wife and I both suffered an attack of diarrhea, which continued into the night.
Please do not send me any free coupons because I will NEVER eat at a Pizza Hut again. If you want to do something for me, you can reimburse me $5 for the new pair of underwear I had to throw away after I defecated in my pants.
Sincerely,
{Doniker}
North Royalton, Ohio
It never fails. Whenever I feel that I'm tapped out, that I'm unable to produce any new material, that my days as a PoopReporter are over, I experience yet another odd pooping event.
The other day the wife and I had theater tickets to go see The Expresso Café. The show started at 6:00, so we decided to grab a late lunch/early dinner. With our daughter in tow, we ended up at a Pizza Hut around 2:00. I was against it -- the last few times I ate at a Pizza Hut, I got the shits. However, our daughter talked me into dining there, and my wife was in the mood for a gooey pizza anyway. The wife and I are both on low-fat diets (we've each lost over twenty pounds in the past six weeks), so we felt a pizza was in order.
The wife and I split a medium double cheese and sausage pizza. Our daughter ordered a small with black olives. After eating, we headed home. I watched a little football and drank two beers while the wife did her hair. Once my wife was ready, we drove over to my parents' house, dropped off our daughter, and headed to the Hanna Theater in Downtown Cleveland. The show was great. I haven't laughed that hard in a long time.
During the show, the wife and I shared an antipasto salad for two. She drank beer and I spent the evening sipping Ketel One vodka on the rocks. As the show was ending, I started feeling some tremendous gas pains. I figured a big old log was on the way, but didn't think much about it at the time. After the show ended, we jumped into my truck and headed to my parents' to pick up our daughter.
While sitting at a red light waiting to get onto I-71, I was suddenly hit with severe stomach cramps. The house was about twelve miles away; I felt I could make it.
We got on the interstate and the pains grew worse with every passing mile. The shit was coming. I started to panic. My truck was moving at 70 mph, but my mind was racing twice that speed. Since it was dark out, I thought about pulling over and squatting -- but after thinking about all the roadside crapping horror stories that I've read on PoopReport, I just couldn't. I didn't want to drive any faster -- I wasn't drunk, but I'd been drinking and I didn't need a DWI.
Then it happened. Something that we all read about on PoopReport every day, but never think it'll happen to us: I shit in my pants.
It just happened. There was no stopping it. It just came out. I couldn't tell if it was solid or loose -- but it was warm and it burned my starfish.
I honestly don't remember the last time I shit myself. I'm sure I was under five years old. But... oddly enough, the sensation of shit in my pants felt eerily familiar.
My wife started gagging as the smell hit her. Rolling down her window, she started blurting out accusations about how something is wrong with my bowels, how I should go see a doctor, how it's crazy how greasy foods, cheeses and red meat give me the shits all the time.
It wasn't long before she would regret those words.
With poop in my pants and a lot more in my colon, I drove on to my parents' house. We were about a quarter mile away when the next urgent wave of butt mud stabbed at my guts, demanding to exit. As I pulled into the driveway, the diarrhea just started oozing out of my asshole like warm, wet cement. I had lost all control.
I just surrendered to the load. I could actually feel my pants getting tighter and heavier as I ran from the truck into my parent's house. I shot down to the basement toilet, hoping like hell I wasn't dripping shit as I ran.
I got to the bathroom, ripped down my pants, and sat on the toilet. There must have been over a quart of light brown mud in my underwear. To my surprise, though, my jeans weren't in that bad shape. But DAMN, the stench was disgusting.
I blasted some more diarrhea into the toilet and then carefully removed my shoes and clothes. I again thought of PoopReport, and all the pants-shitting tales that I have read, and all the techniques that have been used by fellow PoopReporters to clean themselves up after one shits one's self. I threw my brand new pair of underwear in the trashcan -- which, luckily, was lined with a paper bag. It was the first and only time I would wear that pair.
After feeling a sense of relief, I stood up to find the toilet seat completely smeared with the diarrhea that had originally been all over my ass. I started wiping my ass, my asscrack and my balls with toilet paper, only to discover that this wasn't going to complete the job.
I found some bathroom cleaner under the sink and cleaned the toilet seat off. Suddenly another wave of watery poop surged through my intestines, so I sat down, re-smearing and re-soiling the seat. I quickly squirted that mess out of my colon, stood up, cleaned the seat again, and hopped into the shower.
By this time my daughter had come down looking for me, and I could hear my father bitching and wanting to know why the shower was on. I then had to reveal to my daughter that Daddy pooped his pants. Even worse, I had to tell my parents that their 41-year-old son had shit his pants in their house.
Finally clean, I got dressed, grabbed the stinky paper bag with my underwear in it (which I ended up tossing on to the neighbor's tree lawn upon my departure), and rushed my daughter and wife into the truck so I could get home before my next shit storm.
Five minutes into the trip, my wife informed that she had to shit, pronto! I then made her eat her nasty words about my bowels being spastic -- we later decided that the sausage on the pizza was the most likely culprit. I stopped at a gas station so my wife could shit. As my daughter and I waited for my wife to unload, I grew more and more impatient, worrying that the next wave of the squirts would hit me before I got home.
Fortunately we did make it home in time. The wife ran to our upstairs toilet while I ran to the downstairs pot. I unloaded once again and went upstairs to change my clothes, putting on a pair of shorts.
My wife was still in the upstairs bathroom when another discharge (wave SIX?) hit me. I ran downstairs... but before I reached the toilet I shit my shorts.
I couldn't believe it -- after thirty years of perfect rectal control, I shit myself twice in one day!
After another shower and some Imodium AD, I went to bed. Stomach cramps kept me tossing and turning. I finally had one more blast of watershit... and, thankfully, that was the last of it. My poor raw asshole couldn't handle any more abuse.
Pizza Hut, Inc.
14841 Dallas Parkway
Dallas, Texas 75254
October 11, 2004
To whom it may concern:
This letter is to inform you that yesterday I once again got sick after eating at one of your Pizza Hut locations. The last two times I dined at your North Royalton, OH, store, I got sick from the meat on your pizza. I vowed to stop eating at Pizza Hut but my daughter gets those Book It coupons and talks us into eating at Pizza Hut. My daughter always gets black olives on her pizza, no meat.
Yesterday I was again talked into going to Pizza Hut but I tried the Strongsville, Ohio store. My daughter again got her pizza topped with black olives and my wife and I ate a pizza with sausage and double cheese.
A few hours later my wife and I both suffered an attack of diarrhea, which continued into the night.
Please do not send me any free coupons because I will NEVER eat at a Pizza Hut again. If you want to do something for me, you can reimburse me $5 for the new pair of underwear I had to throw away after I defecated in my pants.
Sincerely,
{Doniker}
North Royalton, Ohio