April 10, 2006
clogged--- and clogged again!
He was petrified--- not frightened, just plugged-up--- with a turd the consistency of a piece of granite stuck firmly at the end of his bowels. He could feel it when he sat or walked. It was like having a brick shoved up his ass and left there. That thing had to GO.
He tried sitting on the throne, but the blockage wouldn't budge, not even a little. No amount of straining helped. He was plugged tighter than Dick's hatband.
He drank a big glass of grape juice, to... uh... prime the pump. No help. He tried walking around his yard to see if he could shift the rock-like plug around to facilitate an exit. Still no help. The problem was becoming painful now.
Growing desperate, he reached for the heavy weapons. He carefully unwrapped the foil from a Dulcolax missle and attempted to load it into the firing chamber. The damn missle almost wouldn't fit. He could feel the offending blockage just inside his anus, and he had to work the Dulcolax around it to achieve insertion. When he finished the nasty task, he felt really uncomfortable, stuffed like a Christmas goose.
Fifteen minutes later, he felt something stirring within his guts. He waddled to the bathroom and assumed the position on the Throne.
He strained. He groaned. Beads of sweat broke out on his forehead. His heart raced in his chest and he became short of breath. Still, nothing...
He had a horrible thought. Isn't THIS the way Elvis died??? Falling off his Graceland commode with a petrified turd stuck halfway out of his ass? Dead of a heart attack? The victim of clogged bowels caused by one too many peanut butter and banana sandwiches? Ohmygawd! The humanity!!! But he couldn't stop now. The job had to be done.
Finally, he felt something move. Slowly and painfully, the rock was beginning to slide. Even though he felt as if someone were dragging a big ball of barbed wire and broken glass out of his internals, he kept up the pressure and was rewarded with a small "plop," followed by a TREMENDOUS splash as the chunk of granite broke loose.
What followed was vile and revolting. Once the cork was out of the bottle, everything behind it came pouring out. Like a volcano spewing molten lava, he exploded. Bejus! He felt as if he were being turned inside-out. The digested remains of things he didn't even remember eating poured out of him in hunks and chunks. He was consumed with a strange combination of relief and disgust.
When he finally was finished, he sat spent and panting for a moment. That was a rough one, he thought, as he stood up and surveyed his work. A BIG ONE, too. Looked like about five pounds of shit in the bowl. With a sweaty, trembling hand, he reached for the handle and pushed it to flush.
The toilet made the right sound and water poured into the bowl. But it didn't flush. Instead, the water simply rose and floated all the detritus in a lazy, counter-clockwise circle, all the way to the rim of the bowl before it stopped, just short of overflowing. Here was a fine mess, indeed.
He pulled up his pants. It was a dirty job, but somebody had to do it, so he grabbed a plunger and went to work.
Bad idea. Shit splashed everywhere when he agitated the plunger up and down in the foul, brown liquid. He didn't unclog the commode, but he did manage to puree the contents and give himself a good faceful of muck in the process. He almost vomited before deciding that There Must Be A Better Way.
He took a section of the Sunday newspaper and cut a hole in the middle of it. He inserted the handle of the plunger through the hole and created a nice shit-shield for his tool when he was finished. He placed the paper over the commode bowl and started plunging away again.
This time, he got the job done. After about 45 seconds of frantic plunging, he was rewarded with the sound of the bowl draining. Aha! Gotcha, you bitch!!!! After that, all he had to do was figure out how to remove the plunger from the dung-soaked newspaper without getting even MORE shit all over himself.
He was... partially successful. But his commode works fine now. So does his shower, which he needed desperately after this ugly adventure.
Thank Bejus that I'm just making this story up. It didn't actually happen to ME. I didn't really shit a brick yesterday and clog MY toilet. No, I simply have a vivid imagination.
That's why I am KING of the shit-bloggers.
Holy shit, A-Man. Yes--you are the king.
TMI....but as long as you brought it up, why didnt you go down to the local TEXACO and let THEM deal with the plumbing problem?
You have waaay too much time on your hands Acidman!!
Heh... A little more than I wanted (Or needed) to know!
I have always known that you are full of shit.
Yep. See, that's the difference between being the king and someone who would have dug it out with a # 2 pencil.
You're not really plugged up until you excrete a petrified turd that's one color and texture on one half, and an entirely different breed of turd cemented onto on the back half.
Not that I know anything about that.
Not true? I was hoping for photos.
Any questions about who is the Crap-Daddy should have been settled by this one post.
(Of course, Velociman's Brown Tsunami is a close second...in fact, it's neck and neck...or is that Dreck and Dreck?)
OH my...vivid is putting it mildly, sweetheart...
Oh baby. Nobody talks shit like you do Acidman.
Look on the bright side. All that [shit] could have happened on a DATE.
That's never happened to me, nossir...
Remind me to tell you about The Incident Of The Toxic Blowjob some day...
Oh, and I forgot.
Rule #1 when beaching a five-pounder:
ALWAYS flush immediately after the Big Guy has made his final dive.
Whoever it actually happened to (Rob), it sounds more like a cinder block that a brick.
At least you had paper. And a plunger. And was at your own home, not at the boss'es house for formal dinner.
I do like the idea of a "shit shield". Never thought of that one!
OK, here's what you do to get rid of a large one that won't flush down. Wait for the waters to recede, then pull a plastic bag (supermarket carry bag) over your hand and up your arm. Then put a second bag over that. Maybe a third. Then reach in with the plastic bag covered arm and grab IT, and pull the bags inside out all together, catching the large turd in the outermost. Do the bag thing again if there is another one farther up the pipe. Drop the bagged things in the garbage.
You know Rob, it was, for a long while, largely conjecture the whole Elvis turd locked in the chamber thing. But they did finally analize the Snicker in the lab. They can't PROVE that it killed him, but they can confirm finding three "rest notches" and a sweat ring.
Fresh fruit, fresh veggies every day and a bowl of oatmeal at least three times a week.
Unless of course, you enjoy passing turds the size and shape of watermelons.
And stay away from codeine pain killers. That crap will stop you up better than being stitched shut with well waxed right twist linen sailmaker's twine.
Gerry's got it -- any of those opiate derivitive pain killers ( hydrocoderone, i.e. Norco, Vicoden, Oxycontin, is as close a chemical relative to morphine as we know how to manufacture, or codeine) will plug you up like an Xmas goose. Try a couple of stewed prunes w/ the oatmeal. Of course these new, low-flush toilets don't help much either, doesn't take much to back them up. I LIKE the newspaper shield for the plunger though -- GREAT idea. You might be able to patent that one -- "Acidman's Shit Shield for High-Yield Low-Flush Situations" -- although I'm sure with a little thought, someone will come up with a better acronym for it!
... King, indeed.. and you DO have a mighty crown.. heh heh...
Didn't that happen to Hank Hill?
*wiping tears of laughter from my eyes* Oh sorry, not laughing AT you of course, with you, uh huh.
What's that you say? You made it up? Frighteningly, from personal experience I suspect you were telling the truth, the whole truth and nothing BUTT the shitty truth. *butt pun fully intended* LOL
Now I will patiently await The Incident Of The Toxic Blowjob story one of your guests will hopefully post.
hmmmm remind me to tell you about the aftermath of the roid operation about 20 years back!
and the bastards wouldn't give morphine for the *breaking in* of the newly installed ring.
But you are the king....craptastic indeed!
Sorry man... I'm still going to have to vote for Og the Neanderpundit...
Unless you have some stories where you shit ON someone.. as an adult...
Hope "he" remembered to wipe his ass...
Now I'm curious: which section of the paper did you, er, this other guy who's definitely not you use?
All hail King Crap Daddy!
Don't know if this is true or not but it's a funny story.
But I figure you'll apreciates it:
THE BIG Job
All in all, it hadn't been a good day. Bad traffic, a malfunctioning computer, incompetent coworkers and a sore back all made me a seething cauldron of rage. But more importantly for this story, it had been over forty-eight hours since I'd last taken a dump. I'd tried to jumpstart the process, beginning my day with a bowl of ass cleansing fiber cereal, following it with six cups of coffee at work, and adding a bean-laden lunch at Taco Bell.
As I was returning home from work, my insides let me know with subtle rumbles and the emission of the occasional tiny fart that Big Things would be happening soon. Alas, I had to stop at the mall to pick up an order for the wife. I completed this task, and as I was walking past the stores on my way back to the car, I noticed a large sale sign proclaiming, "Everything Must Go!" This was prophetic, for my colon informed me with a sudden violent cramp and a wet, squeaky fart that everything was indeed about to go. I hurried to the mall bathrooms. I surveyed the five stalls, which I have numbered 1 through 5 for your convenience:
2. Clean, but Bathroom Protocol forbids its use, as it's next to the occupied one.
3. Crap smeared on seat.
4. Crap and toilet paper in bowl, unidentifiable liquid splattered on seat.
5. No toilet paper, no stall door, something growing near base of toilet.
Clearly, it had to be Stall #2. I trudged back, entered, dropped my trousers and sat down. I'm normally a fairly Shameful Crapper. I wasn't happy about being next to the occupied stall, but Big Things were afoot.
I was just getting ready to bear down when all of a sudden the sweet sounds of Beethoven came from next door, followed by a fumbling, and then the sound of a voice answering the ringing phone. As usual for a cell phone conversation, the voice was exactly 8 dB louder than it needed to be. Out of Shameful habit, my sphincter slammed shut. The inane conversation went on and on. Mr. Dumper was blathering to Mrs. Dumper about the crappy day he had. I sat there, cramping and miserable, waiting for him to finish. As the loud conversation dragged on, I became angrier and angrier, thinking that I, too, had a crappy day, but I was too polite to yak about in public. My ass let me know in no uncertain terms that if I didn't get crapping soon, my day would be getting even crappier.
Finally my anger reached a point that overcame Shamefulness. I no longer cared. I gripped the toilet paper holder with one hand, braced my other hand against the side of the stall, and pushed with all my might. I was rewarded with a fart of colossal magnitude -- a cross between the sound of someone ripping a very wet bed sheet in half and of plywood being torn off a wall. The sound gradually transitioned into a heavily modulated low-RPM tone, not unlike someone firing up a Harley. I managed to hit the resonance frequency of the stall, and it shook gently.
Once my cheeks stopped flapping in the breeze, three things became apparent:
(1) The next-door conversation had ceased; (2) my colon's continued seizing indicated that there was more to come; and (3) the bathroom was now beset by a horrible, eldritch stench.
It was as if a gateway to Hell had been opened. The foul miasma quickly made its way under the stall and began choking my poop-mate. This initial "herald" fart had ended his conversation in mid-sentence.
"Oh my God," I heard him utter, following it with suppressed sounds of choking, and then, "No, baby, that wasn't me (cough, gag), you could hear that (gag)??"
Now there was no stopping me. I pushed for all I was worth. I could swear that in the resulting cacophony of rips, squirts, splashes, poots, and blasts, I was actually lifted slightly off the pot. The amount of stuff in me was incredible. It sprayed against the bowl with tremendous force. Later, in surveying the damage, I'd see that liquid poop had actually managed to ricochet out of the bowl and run down the side on to the floor. But for now, all I could do was hang on for the ride.
Next door I could hear him fumbling with the paper dispenser as he desperately tried to finish his task. Little snatches of conversation made themselves heard over my anal symphony: "Gotta go... horrible... throw up... in my mouth... not... make it... tell the kids... love them... oh God..." followed by more sounds of suppressed gagging and retching.
Alas, it is evidently difficult to hold one's phone and wipe one's bum at the same time. Just as my high-pressure abuse of the toilet was winding down, I heard a plop and splash from next door, followed by string of swear words and gags. My dump-mate had dropped his phone into the toilet.
There was a lull in my production, and the restroom became deathly quiet. I could envision him standing there, wondering what to do. A final anal announcement came trumpeting from my behind, small chunks plopping noisily into the water. That must have been the last straw. I heard a flush, a fumbling with the lock, and then the stall door was thrown open. I heard him running out of the bathroom, slamming the door behind him.
After a considerable amount of paperwork, I got up and surveyed the damage. I felt bad for the janitor who'd be forced to deal with this, but I knew that flushing was not an option. No toilet in the world could handle that unholy mess. Flushing would only lead to a floor flooded with filth.
As I left, I glanced into the next-door stall. Nothing remained in the bowl. Had he flushed his phone, or had he plucked it out and left the bathroom with nasty unwashed hands? The world will never know.
I exited the bathroom, momentarily proud and Shameless, looking around for a face glaring at me. But I saw no one. I suspect that somehow my supernatural
elimination has managed to transfer my Shamefulness to my anonymous dump-mate. I think it'll be a long time before he can bring himself to crap in public -- and I doubt he'll ever again answer his cell phone in the latrine.
And this, my friends, is why you should never talk on your phone in the bathroom
you haven't been seeing any fudgepackers have you?
Rob - How'd you get your crapper to rotate counter clockwise while in the northern hemisphere?
the comments to your blog entries are ALMOST as entertaining as you!
Yep. Them pain pills will do that to you everytime. You want to shit concrete just take any decent pain medication for more than a day and you are gauranteed to shit 3000 psi and it won't be pump mix either. I know this is kind of late but when taking pain pills for more than a day, you might want to add a lot of fiber to your diet. A good spoonful of caster oil once a day will work wonders also. I know your pain. Been there, done that. Them concrete turds will go down if you pick them out of the bowl and break them in half first.
After a bad day I needed that laugh. Thank you.
I see your imagination, and raise you two dumpy indian women