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Alloa Akbar
22nd May 2008, 09:59
Apologies if this has been done before, but I hadn't seen it and thought it was bloody funny..:O

I went grocery shopping recently while not being altogether sure that
course of action was a wise one. You see, the previous evening I had
prepared and consumed a massive quantity of my patented 'You're definitely going to $h!t yourself' chili. Tasty stuff, albeit hot to the point of being painful, which comes with a written guarantee from me that if you eat the next day both of your *** cheeks WILL fall off.

Here's the thing. I had awakened that morning, and even after two cups of coffee (and all of you know what I mean) nothing happened. No 'Watson's Movement 2'. Despite habanera peppers swimming their way through my intestinal tract, I appeared to be unable to create the usual morning symphony referred to by my next door neighbors as thunder and lightning..

Knowing that a time of reckoning had to come, yet not sure of just

when, I bravely set off for the market; a local Wal-Mart grocery store that I often haunt in search of tasty tidbits.

Upon entering the store at first all seemed normal. I selected a cart and began pushing it about dropping items in for purchase. It wasn't until I was at the opposite end of the store from the restrooms that the pain hit me.
Oh, don't look at me like you don't know what I'm talking about. I'm
referring to that 'Uh oh, gotta go' pain that always seems to hit us at the wrong time. The thing is, this pain was different.

The habaneras in the chili from the night before were staging a revolt. In a mad rush for freedom they bullied their way through the small intestines, forcing their way into the large intestines, and before I could take one step in the direction of the restrooms which would bring sweet relief, it happened. The peppers fired a warning shot.

There I stood, alone in the spice and baking aisle, suddenly enveloped in a noxious cloud the likes of which has never before been recorded. I was afraid to move for fear that more of this vile odor might escape me. Slowly, oh so slowly, the pressure seemed to leave the lower part of my body, and I began to move up the aisle and out of it, just as an elderly woman turned into it.

I don't know what made me do it, but I stopped to see what her reaction would be to the malodorous effluvium that refused to dissipate, as she walked into it unsuspecting. Have you ever been torn in two different directions emotionally? Here's what I mean, and I'm sure some of you at least will be able to relate.

I could've warned that poor woman but didn't. I simply watched as she walked into an invisible, and apparently indestructible, wall of odor so terrible that all she could do before gathering her senses and running, was to stand there blinking and waving her arms about her head as though trying to ward off angry bees. This, of course, made me feel terrible, but then made me laugh. Mistake.

Here's the thing. When you laugh, it's hard to keep things 'clamped down', if you know what I mean. With each new guffaw an explosive issue burst forth from my nether region. Some were so loud and echoing that I was later told a few folks in other aisles had ducked, fearing that someone was robbing the store and firing off a shotgun.

Suddenly things were no longer funny. IT was coming, and I raced off through the store towards the restrooms, laying down a cloud the whole way, praying that I'd make it before the grand mal assplosion took place.

Luck was on my side. Just in the nick of time I got to the john, began the inevitable 'Oh my God', floating above the toilet seat because my *** is burning SO BAD, purging. One poor fellow walked in while I was in the middle of what is the true meaning of 'Shock and Awe'. He made a gagging sound, and disgustedly said, 'Sonofabitch!', then quickly left.

Once finished I left the restroom, reacquired my partially filled cart
intending to carry on with my shopping when a store employee approached me and said, 'Sir, you might want to step outside for a few minutes. It appears some prankster set off a stink bomb in the store. The manager is going to run the vent fans on high for a minute or two which ought to take care of the problem.'

That of course set me off again, causing residual gases to escape me. The employee took one sniff, jumped back pulling his shirt up to cover his nose and, pointing at me in an accusing manner shouted, 'IT'S YOU!', then ran off returning moments later with the manager. I was unceremoniously escorted from the premises and asked none too kindly not to return.

Home again without having shopped, I realized that there was nothing to eat but leftover chili, so I consumed two more bowls. The next day I went to shop at Albertson's. I can't say anymore about that because we are in court over the whole matter. Bastards claim they're going to have to repaint the store..

Binoculars
22nd May 2008, 10:41
Did you write that? If so take a bow, it's up there with the late and great separator's famous story on a similar subject matter, airborne in his case.

Edited to add I see you read it somewhere. Bloody funny whoever wrote it.

ArthurR
22nd May 2008, 13:01
Reminds me when I was at Khormaksar in the late 60's....
There was a thing going round called Aden Gut, you got violent stomach pains the seconds later your bowels evacuated, you could not stop it, any way, I had just gone to the toilet, standing use, when all of a sudden the door burst open, guy going supersonic, shoulder charges first closet, at the same time droping shorts and turning round and assuming the position, where upon he said "that was lucky"..then a voice from behind him said "not for me" :E

Rollingthunder
22nd May 2008, 13:21
The true talent in using chillis is to get the flavour out and control the heat, unless masochists are dining.

Effluent Man
22nd May 2008, 13:25
Speaking of which...Be very careful going to the lavatory after preparing chillis.If you happen to touch yourself with unwashed hands. I am told that water doesn't stop the pain,although yoghurt does. Remember not to put it back in the fridge afterwards!

SnoggingTarmac
22nd May 2008, 13:28
I like my chillis cooked the way I like my men - long and sloooow.

A decent chilli needs a minimum 4 hours on a low heat before it's edible - develops the flavour and clears that raw chilli heat. 6 hours is preferable. If you can give it 6 hours, put it in the fridge overnight and give it another few hours the next day - bliss.

airship
22nd May 2008, 13:41
I'm making a complaint to the RSPCC forthwith. 4 - 6 hours of slow-cooking before consommation, is that what you call foreplay - sounds more like a lot of torture for just a moment of pleasure...?!

Women: always hot and cold, cold or hot... :rolleyes: ;)

BlueDiamond
22nd May 2008, 13:57
... for just a moment of pleasure..
Goodness, airship ... you DO have a bit of a problem don't you? :uhoh:

airship
22nd May 2008, 14:04
Oh alright, I'll give you 10 minutes to withdraw that remark... :p

Kestrel_909
22nd May 2008, 14:25
it's up there with the late and great separator's famous story on a similar subject matter

Found here, http://www.pprune.org/forums/showthread.php?p=2026181 along with a story posted by BlueDiamond. Both brought tears to my eyes.:}

Binoculars
22nd May 2008, 14:48
That's the one.
It was an emanation that would have put a vulture off its breakfast.


Oh God, sep, we miss you mate; never a better turn of phrase on JB.

Evanelpus
22nd May 2008, 15:13
for just a moment of pleasure...?!

That included full foreplay and an the obligatory post coital cigarette!

Sorry, couldn't resist

S'land
22nd May 2008, 15:14
Speaking of which...Be very careful going to the lavatory after preparing chillis.If you happen to touch yourself with unwashed hands.

Or someone else. Years ago I shared a house with two other chaps, all of us squash players. We often had most enjoyable parties at the house. Usually one was was asked to provide one's famous chillie con carne (very hot). On one occasion one of the housemates offered to cut up the chillies, an offer which was accepted. The party went well and in the early hours of the morning when all of the guests had departed the three of us retired to our rooms with our current girlfriends. After about half an hour the whole neighbourhood was awakened by blood-curdling shriek. On opening the bedroom door one was treated to the sight of a naked, crying female holding a certain part of her anatomy running to the bathroom. This was followed by the sound of running water.

It seems that my friend still had some of the juice from the chillies on his fingers. Strange to say that their relationship did not last long after that.

One always used, and still uses, surgical gloves when dicing chillies.

Lon More
22nd May 2008, 15:42
Got this some time ago from a mate who is famed for his ability to clear a room in less than 5 seconds.

“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 go Christmas shopping. 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:

1. Occupied.
2. Clean, but Bathroom Protocol forbids its use, as it’s next to the occupied one.
3. Poo on seat.
4. Poo and toilet paper in bowl, unidentifiable liquid splattered on seat.
5. No toilet paper, no stall door, unidentifiable sticky object near base of toilet.

Clearly, it had to be Stall #2. I trudged back, entered, dropped trousers 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 *** 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 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.”

Flying Serpent
22nd May 2008, 21:15
Lon More :D:D

brilliant!

Put1992
22nd May 2008, 22:17
:D:}

Brilliant!

SoundBarrier
22nd May 2008, 23:19
:D

Oh, no - diet coke everywhere, keyboard, monitor, desk, mouse, roof!

Brilliant!

B Fraser
22nd May 2008, 23:43
Alloa, your bum must look like a Japanese flag.

Serves you right.

S'land
22nd May 2008, 23:57
Well done Lon More, that was brilliant. :D :D :D :D :D

Stoey
23rd May 2008, 05:23
Wery well done mr. More :ok:

Im of to buy a new laptop, the one i have now will not survive the coke, candy, water and tears :\

chuks
23rd May 2008, 06:12
I worked for a long time in Nigeria, where the traditional diet can be very, very spicy. "Pepper soup" is, for me, inedibly hot but there I think they feed it to babies. Anyway, what goes in must come out and if you fly unpressurised aircraft for a living that spicy diet can have repercussions.

I don't know why it is so but the air flow in a Twin Otter, a 19-seat, twin-engine bush plane, is from the cabin through the cockpit so that whatever happens back there, moments later you notice it.

When that cabin pressure dropped with our climb I would always get the same question from this one particular co-pilot, "Captain! Was that you?" I would look over to see his eyes staring in alarm. (He had an uncanny resemblance to the Gollywog.)

"Was WHAT me?" would be my first thought. Sniff, sniff, oh, yeah, I mean, "Oh, nooo..." "No, that wasn't me, but thanks for asking. Someone has been eating foo-foo again, I guess."

At least the drafty old Twin Otter clears whatever the problem is in a matter of minutes, not like one of these modern airliners with restricted air circulation in its sealed cabin. One of these days there's going to be a mass asphyxiation incident on an A380 carrying people back from a chili festival that shall cause a review of cabin environmental standards, mark my words!