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Thread: Why cell phones and bathrooms don't mix. Poo humor.

  1. #1
    Senior Member sky_blue's Avatar
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    Why cell phones and bathrooms don't mix. Poo humor.

    I read this on 600rr.net. I read their threads for a laugh, but usually dont find actual jokes... Don't ask me why I clicked on their "What do you read in the bathroom?" thread--morbid curiosity?

    This one had me rolling. Probably says something about my sense of humor...

    --------------------------

    "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 bowel-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 my wife. I completed
    this task, and as I was walking past the stores on my way backto 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 0
    through 4 (I write a lot of software) for your convenience:

    0.Occupied.

    1.Clean, but Bathroom Protocol forbids its use, as it's next to the
    occupied one.

    2.Poo on seat.

    3.Poo and toilet paper in bowl, unidentifiable liquid splattered on
    seat.

    4.No toilet paper, no stall door, unidentifiable sticky object near base
    of toilet.

    Clearly, it had to be Stall ..1. I trudged back, entered, dropped trou
    and sat down. I'm normally a fairly Shameful Sh1tter. 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. Sh1tter was blathering to Mrs.
    Sh1tter about the sh1tty 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 bowels 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 @ss 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 underthe 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 poop-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 poop-mate. I think it'll be a long time before he can bring
    himself to poop in public -- and I doubt he'll ever again answer his
    cell phone in the loo. And this, my friends, is why you should never
    talk on your phone in the bathroom."

    Author is unkown

  2. #2
    Senior Member Yellow Bullet's Avatar
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    Re: Why cell phones and bathrooms don't mix. Poo humor.

    Ah brings back memories

  3. #3
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    Re: Why cell phones and bathrooms don't mix. Poo humor.

    lol

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