Shitting Stories

[Lambie's Pigeon Feed]

Anyone ever taken a toly in the sea? It is a truly liberating experience. I performed the dirty deed whilst on a camping trip with the a few mates a while back, we went for a paddle/wash in the sea when I jokingly stated I was choking for a Jo-Lee, well I just went for it, it came out perfectly cylindrical and all in one nice long piece, a specimen to be proud of. And just like in that Kevin and Perry film them fleeing the scene did indeed make it follow them for a bit and took it away from mysel, the evil do-er.

I also sharted whilst watching a Wales vs New Zealand rugby game in Walkabout after the ill fated attempt by the SRU to allow Scotland to play Australia at Hampden, the pub was packed as well, standing room only. It came out of nowhere, I thought I would squeeze out a cautious fart safe in the knowledge I couldnt be pin pointed for the crime in such a large crowd, out of nowhere I felt the trickle of liquid. It was compounded by one of those walks to the bogs that takes eternity, stopping all the time, tapping people on the shoulders, 'scuse me pal', etc. Cleaned up and thankfully the adjoining cubicle was locked and out of order so I slid my clatty breaks under the door into the next trap.

My second shart occured whilst on an away day to Dumfries, in that Hole in the Wa pub. It had been a particularly heavy night on the beer and curry the day before and I was feeling rough as guts but I was ill prepared for a shart. It was self induced, I stood up to go for a slash and had to squeeze by one of my pals at the table, 'have a whiff of this' was the retort as I attempted to float out an air biscuit, alas I forced out a bit of jobby, the smirk vanished from my coupon and I cleaned myself up in the bogs leaving my sullied undies behind the u-bend.

Another one was when at Leeds Festival a few years ago there was a no campfire rule. One of the lads had made a habit of pishing in bottles in his tent as a means of avoiding the cesspit toilets in the campsite. Well one afternoon after a few drinks he emerged from his tent with an empty wine box that he had bent a fresh biscuit in. Being proud of the act he decided to keep the shit filled box near our tents to show everyone else when they returned from the evenings bands. Well after nightfall we started a wee fire just from all the rubbish around our tents and some bright spark put the cardboard jobby coffin on the fire. Over zealous campsite stewards come storming up and their fire extinguisher doesnt have enough juice to put out the flames, 'put that out guys no fires' he exclaimed, 'you put it out pal' came the reply. Thats right, he proceeded to stamp it out with his feet resulting in about 20 guys rolling about the floor in fits of laugher. 'You do realise their was a shite in the middle of that fire', he was far from amused and buggered off.

PS - Jobbys on fires smell worse than normal.

[el Gringo]

Who would have thought one person could have so many shite-related anecdotes? That said, you've brought tears to my eyes laughing at that.

[Dunning1874]

Another one was when at Leeds Festival a few years ago there was a no campfire rule. One of the lads had made a habit of pishing in bottles in his tent as a means of avoiding the cesspit toilets in the campsite. Well one afternoon after a few drinks he emerged from his tent with an empty wine box that he had bent a fresh biscuit in. Being proud of the act he decided to keep the shit filled box near our tents to show everyone else when they returned from the evenings bands. Well after nightfall we started a wee fire just from all the rubbish around our tents and some bright spark put the cardboard jobby coffin on the fire. Over zealous campsite stewards come storming up and their fire extinguisher doesnt have enough juice to put out the flames, 'put that out guys no fires' he exclaimed, 'you put it out pal' came the reply. Thats right, he proceeded to stamp it out with his feet resulting in about 20 guys rolling about the floor in fits of laugher. 'You do realise their was a shite in the middle of that fire', he was far from amused and buggered off.

PS - Jobbys on fires smell worse than normal.

[Poet of the Macabre]

shit/shitting is not a very nice word.

Do you mind changing it please.

To faeceing or pooing or jobbing.

Aw naw man, it's got to be shitting. Nothing else can compare.

[Guest el bawbag]

best.thread.ever.

[endieinreekie]

shit/shitting is not a very nice word.

Do you mind changing it please.

To faeceing or pooing or jobbing.

The word you are looking for is defecating.

[endieinreekie]

I was once walking along Rose Street with one of my workmates after a night on the bevvy, when all of a sudden I get that rumbling feeling in the guts. There is no way I could have made it home without keeching myself so I asked my mate if he has any paper and thankfully he did. So I took a dump in one of the lanes just off Rose Street. It was quite a watery one so the main difficulty was trying to avoid shiteing on my shoes and trousers, which were wrapped around my ankles. I sincerely hope a council cleaner was working in the vicinity the next day and had to clean it up. It was quite a liberating experience feeling the cool air against my cheeks.

[Fife Saint]

Anyone ever taken a toly in the sea? It is a truly liberating experience.

Me and my mate fell out over this issue. We decided to put it to scientific test on a camping expedition to Loch Tay. I argued that it would not be possible as the cold water of the loch combined with the pressure of the water would make it really hard to do.

Anyway, as dawn rose over Highland Perthsire and pished out of our trees we trekked down to the Loch to conduct the experiment. He stripped off and took the plunge while I stumbled about on shore trying to stay conscious. He claims he did it but I wasn't going in to try and find the evidence. Dirty b*****d.

[Lambie's Pigeon Feed]

Me and my mate fell out over this issue. We decided to put it to scientific test on a camping expedition to Loch Tay. I argued that it would not be possible as the cold water of the loch combined with the pressure of the water would make it really hard to do.

Anyway, as dawn rose over Highland Perthsire and pished out of our trees we trekked down to the Loch to conduct the experiment. He stripped off and took the plunge while I stumbled about on shore trying to stay conscious. He claims he did it but I wasn't going in to try and find the evidence. Dirty b*****d.

Its a strange one, the sensation in your brown tunnel is a little different to your standard toly on the porcelain throne but you can feel something happening. Your not really aware of it coming out but before you know it the shit canal feels lighter and up floats a wee jobby...or in my case a perfectly formed cylinder of exquisite length and girth.

[killiepiemuncher]

Mine isn't as good as some but here goes anyway.....

In August 2007 my ex and I were involved in a car crash where I suffered from whiplash and loads of other shit, anyway the hospital gave me some painkillers for my fucked knee and said there may be 'side affects'. This was on a Sunday I might add.

Fast forward 24 hours and I was doing my football coaching as I felt ok when suddenly I felt a burning sensation im my arse area and knew straight away, if I didn't act fast, I was going to keech myself.

I ran for the bushes that were about 100 yards from where I was standing, and as I ran past one of the boys, he asked what was going on, to which I replied 'I'm about to shite myself pal'.

I reched the bushes and dropped my kegs and what can only be described as arse magma, left my body at great velocity.

To my horror the lad I had just spoken to came running over and shouted 'I went and told my mum you were going to shite yourself (she was waiting to pick him up) and she has given me some tissues from the back of the car to wipe your arse with'.

I still cannot look his mum in the eye when I see whenever I see her.

Arse magma pure quality.

[Bibby]

An Altercation with the Cassandra:

I actually wrote an essay about this in fourth year and got a B for it.

So I was at the Bowling in Dunfermline about three or four years ago playing pool with ma mates.

Untimely, a dribble of pee descended down the facade of ma Calvin Klein's. A voyage to the well-kept, I must say, bathrooms, was essential.

Upon arrival to the column of urinals there was a grown man, a dominating feature with long sideburns and what appeared to be a massiv pecker. Lets just say this thing rhymed with 'nose' and the fire brigade use it.

So I unzip, standing approximately four feet from him. I prepare myself for one of those semi-pees, when you arny completely bursting. I like to call it a Half-Time pee, just so you don't miss anything.

Anyway, Stage Fright of untetherable proportions arrived. Why couldn't I urinate.

So I'm pushing hard, this big fella just lashing all over the yard. He glances at me.

But I'm pushing that hard to pee that I jobbied.

[TheScarf]

An Altercation with the Cassandra:

I actually wrote an essay about this in fourth year and got a B for it.

So I was at the Bowling in Dunfermline about three or four years ago playing pool with ma mates.

Untimely, a dribble of pee descended down the facade of ma Calvin Klein's. A voyage to the well-kept, I must say, bathrooms, was essential.

Upon arrival to the column of urinals there was a grown man, a dominating feature with long sideburns and what appeared to be a massiv pecker. Lets just say this thing rhymed with 'nose' and the fire brigade use it.

So I unzip, standing approximately four feet from him. I prepare myself for one of those semi-pees, when you arny completely bursting. I like to call it a Half-Time pee, just so you don't miss anything.

Anyway, Stage Fright of untetherable proportions arrived. Why couldn't I urinate.

So I'm pushing hard, this big fella just lashing all over the yard. He glances at me.

But I'm pushing that hard to pee that I jobbied.

Thats a certain A.

[soti14]

This happened to my mate. No, my mate is not me. It was actually my mate.

When he was a youngster he was over at his pal's house (Celtic under 19s player now byraway), sitting playing the PS2 when he decided he needed a shite. Off he pops to the bog, shuts the door. Just as he goes to sit down, his pal's parents decided to stop outside the bog door for a wee chat. He sits on his arse and chucks one out, then after this he tries to plop another, however, nothing comes out. Instead, a monstrous fart emerges and echoes round the house. He then jumped out the window and fucked off home. The door was still locked several days later. The end.

When i go back to my Mrs's house after the nightshift i head for the toilet & in fear of waking the house up with echo's from the toilet bowl i stuff some toilet roll in to cushion the blow.

[Casey]

Brilliant thread, here's two stories from my travels.

This is dangerous territory as these two'll have dirt on me (so to speak).

December 07, we’d been drinking for about six hours, before taking the train for a short journey to the pub where we’d spend the rest of the night.

Having departed the train and started our short walk to the pub, my mate Mr X breaks into a jog and shouts “can’t wait, I’ll see you in there”.

So five minutes later, me and my other mate enter the pub, but no sign of yer man. So we ordered up three shorts and just chilled for a while. Twenty minutes later, he’s still not back (and knowing this guys history, we’re not going in there). We could see that one of the regulars at the other side of the bar nearest the toilets had gone in and when he came back out his eyes were watering and although we couldn’t hear what he said, the gestures to his mates said it all.

Eventually out he comes and rather sheepishly asks the barman if he has a mop and bucket. We start laughing, “What’s up X?” The barman knows X too and laughs along. “Aye what’s it for?”

“Just f***in’ give me a mop and don’t go in there.”

We were only too happy to oblige.

It must have been another fifteen minutes before he re-emerged.

It turned out that just as his arse was six inches from the pan, out it came horizontally, everywhere, cistern, cubicle door, floor, everywhere.

He spent a while cleaning it up as best he could before requesting the mop and bucket.

Having got it cleaned up, he gives the toilet a final flush, turns round and kicks over the bucket full of shitty water.

We nearly died laughing that night.

October 07.

We’re driving up to Elgin to take in the footie and stay over.

We had just left the greasy spoon truckers stop place in Newtonmore after our breakfast and had hardly gone any distance when Mr. Y announces that he needs a shit, but would hold on until we got to Elgin.

Needless to say many references were made to various synonyms for the jobbie word, just to make him more uncomfortable.

Eventually we get there without incident or accident.

You know how it goes that your body always seems to adjust to the actual time you have to spare, well as our landlady let us in, Mr Y’s sphincter relaxed a little as he thought he was home and dry (so to speak).

However, Mrs Whatever decides to keep us at the front door, while she demonstrates the working of her front door lock. Y is hopping from foot to foot by now and she closes the door as part of her demo and unexpectedly someone chaps it.

She opens the door and says “Well, hello Mr. Brown.”

That was our excuse to dive up to our rooms in hysterics. Poor woman will never know.

I had the dubious pleasure of room shariing with the smelly c**t.

Maybe you had to be there, but it was FAF.

[Monster]

That truckers cafe in Newtonmore is bloody brilliant.

[GeeMac]

Brilliant thread, here's two stories from my travels.

This is dangerous territory as these two'll have dirt on me (so to speak).

December 07, we’d been drinking for about six hours, before taking the train for a short journey to the pub where we’d spend the rest of the night.

Having departed the train and started our short walk to the pub, my mate Mr X breaks into a jog and shouts “can’t wait, I’ll see you in there”.

So five minutes later, me and my other mate enter the pub, but no sign of yer man. So we ordered up three shorts and just chilled for a while. Twenty minutes later, he’s still not back (and knowing this guys history, we’re not going in there). We could see that one of the regulars at the other side of the bar nearest the toilets had gone in and when he came back out his eyes were watering and although we couldn’t hear what he said, the gestures to his mates said it all.

Eventually out he comes and rather sheepishly asks the barman if he has a mop and bucket. We start laughing, “What’s up X?” The barman knows X too and laughs along. “Aye what’s it for?”

“Just f***in’ give me a mop and don’t go in there.”

We were only too happy to oblige.

It must have been another fifteen minutes before he re-emerged.

It turned out that just as his arse was six inches from the pan, out it came horizontally, everywhere, cistern, cubicle door, floor, everywhere.

He spent a while cleaning it up as best he could before requesting the mop and bucket.

Having got it cleaned up, he gives the toilet a final flush, turns round and kicks over the bucket full of shitty water.

We nearly died laughing that night.

October 07.

We’re driving up to Elgin to take in the footie and stay over.

We had just left the greasy spoon truckers stop place in Newtonmore after our breakfast and had hardly gone any distance when Mr. Y announces that he needs a shit, but would hold on until we got to Elgin.

Needless to say many references were made to various synonyms for the jobbie word, just to make him more uncomfortable.

Eventually we get there without incident or accident.

You know how it goes that your body always seems to adjust to the actual time you have to spare, well as our landlady let us in, Mr Y’s sphincter relaxed a little as he thought he was home and dry (so to speak).

However, Mrs Whatever decides to keep us at the front door, while she demonstrates the working of her front door lock. Y is hopping from foot to foot by now and she closes the door as part of her demo and unexpectedly someone chaps it.

She opens the door and says “Well, hello Mr. Brown.”

That was our excuse to dive up to our rooms in hysterics. Poor woman will never know.

I had the dubious pleasure of room shariing with the smelly c**t.

Maybe you had to be there, but it was FAF.

Brilliant Casey :lol:

Cheers, Mr Z

[Tryfield]

shit/shitting is not a very nice word.

Do you mind changing it please.

To faeceing or pooing or jobbing.

What about "Dropping the Killie kids off at the pool"?

[Poet of the Macabre]

May be biased but some of these posts alone deserve gold status, never mind the thread itself.

[Toma_BullyWee]

Big story about doing a jobby.....

Unsuprisingly those boxers weren't left in the dirty washing basket, I personally made sure they found there way to the washing machine.

You kept them!?!

Anyway, A few years ago me and friend decided we'd take a wander through Tollcross Park.

Not long after I left home I knew a jobby was on the cards. I decided I would hold it in, I'll work for the jobby. I'll have a jobby once I deserve it.

I tried to put it out of my mind, But no matter how hard I tried, there was simply no fighting it.

After half an hour I turned round and said "I could do with a shite right now.", He felt the same way.

We decided we would call time on our walk through the park, But I didn't think I could make it. We were walking along a path and there was a little dogs jobby there, taunting me. I skipped over it. Big mistake.

My insides felt like a machine left behind in an abandoned factory had been turned on. Everything was moving slowly, but it was about to gather speed. I quietly soldiered on, Not saying a word in regards to my impending arsepocalypse.

I started to sweat and had shooting pains in my belly. I knew I couldn't hold on. I bared my soul and told my friend that if I didn't get this satanic being out of my ring within the next few minutes that I was going to shite myself. Surprisingly, He had been going through a similar experience.

I clocked a bunch of trees next to a little lake and decided that would be the point of impact.

So we ran down, whipped down our kegs and started to do our business, When I realised that we weren't hidden at all. If anyone had to walk past then they would see 2 big bare arses being sick while looking at them.

Out they came, an army of smelly brown warriors hell bent on destruction. After they landed I felt amazing.

I knew that this wasn't a clean shite, and there was nothing near me to use as toilet paper, I sure as f**k knew that I wasn't going to simply pull up my drawers and take the journey home smelling like every other person who lives in Parkhead.

I had to use my boxers. I started to tug at them, slowly but surely tearing them off. I suffered a few cuts and scrapes on my inner thighs, but it had to be done.

Taking pity on my friend I offered him half of my boxers to clean himself up. We wiped as best we could with the materials available to us. But it wasn't enough.

We walked home in near silence. Every now and again I'd look down at the elastic from my boxers, still hugging my waist.

When I got home it was straight to the toilet for Operation Cleanup.

To my absolute horror I noticed a few ninja streaks on the inside of my jeans. I took them off and prepared for the sprint from the toilet into my room without no one noticing me with no bottoms on.

I found a safe place for the jeans to sit before sneaking out of the house at around 2am to quietly dispose of my dirty denims.

I've never sharted though, and I consider myself very lucky in that respect.

[Poet of the Macabre]

Toma

Although the build up did seem like some sort of erotic tale