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Pooping at work. Outside.


archenemy

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Arch:

 

I think I've read somewhere here you're a female.

 

If this is the case, I htink you might not be aware of the difference in male and female digestion. I'm not that familiar with the female side, but I can tell you the frequency and urgency with which I shit is completely different than either my past or current girlfriends. Maybe it's just them, but they just don't get the urge as rapidly as I do. I can think of three times (off the top of my head!) that I've been forced by circumstances and my bowels to shit somewhere normally called "inappropriate." It happens.

 

Story:

 

Stopped at one of those "freeway oasis" places somewhere on I80 in Wyoming. This was while traveling with a twenty person crew. Mcd's, arbys, and a gas franchise. Nothing else for miles. I had to go. Gas station's got a nineteen person line. I can't wait that long. I go over to Md's: closed for cleaning. I could have said to the mcd's dude, "i HAVE to go. can you step out for a moment." But I thought, hey, there's still Arby's. By the time I was into Arby's, I knew I was committed. The walking/trotting between the three places, combined with my rising levels of adrenalin really had me conserned. Rounded the corner to the door... single locked stall. That did it. I was going to crap in the next thirty seconds. I could do it it my pants on not. I chose not. I got to behind the building (I was undoing my belt while going out the door) and it was an explosion. PooCano. (girls never use that term. Ever wondered why?) I was done in ten seconds, went without the wipe (I mean, at this point, I need to get eh hell out of there) and pulled up my pants, only to discover there was shit on the inside of my pants and underwear. Not lots, just spray. What else am I to do. Pull on the pants, put a smile on my face, and walk over to my foreman and tell him I shit myself and need to hold the entire convoy up so I can go change my shorts. Word spread like wildfire. People still remind me.

 

So for you to complain that some dude had to take ashit in your stall and in the process loose his shoes (that's going to take some explaining).... I got no simpathy for you.

 

 

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I love shit stories!!!

 

Once I was in the car with three buddies, all guys. We were driving this crazy curvy mountain road that had absolutely no shoulder. I had to shit so bad I told them they had to pull over. The driver said that was impossible, there was no where to pull over. I said fine, stop right here and I'll crap in the middle of the road. No can do, someone could come speeding around one of the corners, they were all hairpin blind corners, and hit us. I'd be caught with my pants down, litterally. Well, I had to go so bad that the hair on my arms actually stood up. Now I consider that my barometer; if I don't get the shit chills, I don't really have to go that bad. Oh, except for that one time when I crapped my pants because the asshole at the seven eleven wouldn't let me use his bathroom at five am.

 

I don't need no sympathy buddy, just tales of woe.

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RE: the parking space crapper who produced the large mound:

 

Some likely suspects:

 

1) A skinny supermodel who's been holding it in for many weeks.

 

2) A family of hippies...mom, dad, the kids, all contributing to the pile in order to make some sort of ecological statement about cars and the environment.

 

3) Or perhaps it was this young lady....

(click if you dare.....)

 

 

Illustration: Hippies rejoice at the news of another successful parking space soiling.

hippies.gif

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I hired a roofer once to, as you may have guessed, reroof my house in Seattle while I was living in Ptown. I get a call from the tenant, an extremely fastidious cellist, no less. He informs me that there is an apple brown betty curled up in the middle of the basement.

 

I come up (fortunately that was already my plan), and, sure enough, there it is. I found two more in my back yard, which measures all of 16' x 20'. Plus my cheap cement Bhudda was gone. It was worth way more than three turds, IMO.

 

Anyway, I confronted the roofer. Turns out somebody's 12 year old kid had to hang around the job site due to lack of a sitter, whatever, and the kid was, prolific, shall we say.

 

I got a $250 turd discount from the guy, but I never saw Bhudda again.

Edited by tvashtarkatena
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