View Full Version : A humorous dissertation on toilet incidents

15th Apr 2002, 10:10
The Perfect Dump

Every once in a while everyone experiences the perfect dump. It's rare but a real thing of beauty. You sit down expecting the worse, but what you get is a smooth sliding, fart-less masterpiece that breaks the water with the splash-less grace of an Olympic high-diving champion. You use the toilet tissue to find that it was totally unnecessary. It makes you feel that all is right in the world and that you are in perfect harmony with it.

The Beer Dump

Nasty! Depends upon the dumper's tolerance and is the result of too many beers - doesn't matter if it was 2 or 22. What you get is a sinister,lengthy, noisy dump accompanied by an odious malevolent fog that could close the bathroom for days. Naked flames are ill advised.....

The Chilli Dump (aka The Japanese Flag)

Hot when it goes in and napalm when it comes out. It stays with you all day stinging yer ring and generally making your choccie starfish feel like the Shuttle's heat shield. Also makes your ass look like "a Japanese Flag".

The Empty Roll Dump

Relief - you've finished and reach for the tissue only to find an empty cardboard cylinder staring back at you. Panic overcomes you. You could use the curtains but then someone would ask "where are the curtains?" Use the rug? Nah, too bulky and cumbersome.
You then come to the same conclusion that every "empty roll dumper " must face.....pull up yer kecks, tighten yer cheeks and shuffle yourself to the nearest loo roll. Failing that you could always use your shirt-tail or one of your socks!

The Splash Back Dump

This one drops like a depth charge creating a column of cold water that washes your sphincter with a startlingly unpleasant shock. Now your wet - and embarrassed if the column of water went half way up your back. Tip of the day: blot instead of wiping.

The Childbirth Dump

This one is just too big to go through the aperture provided by nature for this purpose. You sit there thinking over your dilemma. First it hurts, and then gets no better. You sweat violently and wonder if you'll ever see your loved ones again. You imagine the newspaper headlines screaming "Man dies trying to hatch monster loaf!" There are only three things you can do:
1. Scream 2. Call an Obstetrician 3. Hope to hell you've got some Vaseline to help you get through it.

The Machine Gun Dump

Best utilized in public conveniences. You sit there in sublime peace when suddenly you emit a group of noisy gassy bursts that break the tranquility like machine gun fire. The guy in the next cubicle hits the floor like a Vietnam veteran, cradling his umbrella like a M16....damn commies.

The Sound Effect Dump

You feel a noisy one coming on but relatives, friends or work mates are within earshot. So, you must employ some clever techniques to cover the disgusting sounds you are about to emit. Timing is of the essence. At the precise moment of release, try the following: 1. Flush the toilet 2. Drop lose change on the floor, 3. Sing the first two stanzas of your favorite opera.

The Cling-On Dump

You've finished but there's one damn morsel that refuses to drop. You grip the seat with both hands and wriggle. You twist and pump but the little bastard just hangs there, suspended, clinging like a canned peach between you and the water below. If only you had some scissors.......

The Whole Roll Dump

No matter how much you wipe, it just isn't enough. You blow the whole roll and have to flush at least a dozen times. The whole episode is consumer waste. Eventually if your toilet paper runs into minimal supply anything will do, towels, wash clothes, carpet, walls, whatever it takes.

The Encore Dump

Ahhh, you're done, so you wipe, dress, flush, wash hands and are about to leave the auditorium when you feel another dump coming on. You must therefore return for a curtain call. The world record is seven encores.....

The Houdini Dump

You go, you stand to flush and it has disappeared! Did it creep down the pipe or did you dream the whole thing? Should you flush? Oh yes as you can guarantee that if you don't, it will reappear and smile at the next person who comes in.

15th Apr 2002, 11:54
Seven encores? I'm sure I've managed more than that :eek:

Excellent post! :D :D :D


15th Apr 2002, 12:25
Variation on a theme

'The so desperate to go I didnt care if there was a bog roll or not dump'

As using public conveniences for 'dumping' is one of my pet hates I try to avoid this activity if at all possible, but there was the fateful day when push came to shove ... as it were ;)

Mission accomplished and thank god for the veritable rain forests worth of old visa receipts still in my wallet ..... saved the day a treat :D

Big Tudor
15th Apr 2002, 16:01
The one that, with sphincter at max stretch, finds your colon in desparate need of flatulence expulsion. So, with orifice stretched to capacity your body then manages to squeeze a fart through the tiniest of gaps giving a rare impression of Roger Whittaker whistling a selection of Mozart operetta's.

15th Apr 2002, 21:13
As we are on the subject of toilet humour, here's a story that has been doing the rounds. I don't know if it is true but for the life of me couldn't figure why he would make this one up....

Funniest damn thing that has ever happened to me. A couple of weeks ago we decided to cruise out to Ryan's Steakhouse for dinner. It was a
Wednesday night which means that macaroni and beef was on the hot bar,
indeed the only night of the week that it is served.
Wednesday night is also kid's night at Ryan's, complete with Dizzy the
Clown wandering from table to table entertaining the little bazzards.
It may seem that the events about to be told have little connection to
those two circumstances, but all will be clear in a moment.
We went through the line and placed our orders for the all-you-can-eat hot bar then sat down as far away from the front of the restaurant as possible in order to keep the density of kids down a bit. Then I started my move to the hot bar. Plate after plate of macaroni and beef were consumed that evening, I tell you -- in all, four heaping plates of the pseudo-Italian ambrosia were shoved into my belly. I was sated.
Perhaps bit too much, however. I had not really been feeling well all day, what with a bit of gas and such. By the time I had eaten four overwhelmed plates of food, I was in real trouble.
There was so much pressure on my diaphragm that I was having trouble
At the same time, the downward pressure was building. At first, I thought it was only gas which could have been passed in batches right at the table without to much concern.
Unfortunately, that was not to be.
After a minute or so it was clear that I was dealing with explosive
diarrhea. It's amazing how grease can make its way through your intestines far faster than the food which spawned the grease to begin with, but I digress...
I got up from the table and made my way to the bathroom. Upon entering, I saw two sinks immediately inside the door, two urinals just to the right of the sinks, and two toilet stalls against the back wall.
One of them was a handicapped bathroom. Now, normally I would have gone to the handicapped stall since I like to stretch out a bit when I take a good dump, but in this case, the door lock was broken and the only thing I hate worse than my wife telling me to stop cutting my toenails with a pair of diagional wirecutters is having someone walk in on me while I am taking a dump.
I went to the normal stall.
In retrospect, I probably should have gone to the large, handicapped stall even though the door would not lock because that bit of time lost in making the stall switch proved to be a bit too long under the
circumstances. By the time I had walked into the regular stall, the
pressure on my ass was reaching Biblical proportions.
I began "The Move."
For those women who may be reading this, let me take a moment to explain "The Move."
Men know exactly what their bowels are up to at any given second. And when the time comes to empty the cache, a sequence of physiological events occur that can not be stopped under any circumstances. There is a move men make that involves simultaneously approaching the toilet, beginning the body turn to position ones ass toward said toilet, hooking ones fingers into ones waistline, and pulling down the pants while beginning the squat at the same time.
It is a very fluid motion that, when performed properly, results in the flawless expulsion of **** at the exact same second that ones ass is properly placed on the toilet seat. Done properly, it even assures that the choad is properly inserted into the front rim of the toilet in the event that the **** stream lets lose at the same time; it is truly a picture of coordination rivaling that of a skilled ballet dancer.
I was about half-way into "The Move" when I looked down at the floor and saw a pile of vomit that had been previously expelled by one of those little bazzards attending kids night; it was mounded up in the corner so I did not notice it when I had first walked into the stall.
Normally, I would not have been bothered by such a thing, but I had eaten so much and the pressure upward was so intense, that I hit a rarely experienced gag reflex. And once that reflex started, combined with the intense pressure upward caused by the bloated stomach, four plates of macaroni and beef started coming up for a rematch.
What happened next was so quick that the exact sequence of events are a bit fuzzy, but I will try to reconstruct them as best I can.
In that moment of impending projectile vomiting, my attention was diverted from the goings-on at the other end.
To put a freeze frame on the situation, I was half crotched down to the toilet, pants pulled down to my knees, with a load of vomit coming up my esophagus. Now, most of you know that vomiting takes precidence over a dump no matter what is about to come slamming out of your ass. It is apparently an evolutionary thing since dumping will not kill you, but vomiting takes a presence of mind to accomplish so that you do not aspirate any food into the bronchial tubes and perhaps choke to death. My attention was thus diverted.
At that very split second, my ass exploded in what can only be described as a wake...you know, as in a newspaper headline along the lines of "30,000 Killed In Wake of Typhoon Fifi" or something similar. In what seemed to be most suitably measured in cubic feet, an enormous plug of s41t the consistancy of thick mud with embedded pockets of greasy liquid came flying out of my ass. But remember, I was only half-way down on the toilet at that moment. The **** wave was of such force and of just such an angle in relation to the back curve of the toilet seat that it ricocheted off the back of the seat and slammed into the wall at an angle of incidence equal to the angle at which it initally hit the toilet seat.
Then I sat down.
Recall that when that event occured, I was already half-way to sitting
anyway and had actually reached the point of no return. I have always
considered myself as relatively stable gravitationally, but when you get beyond a certain point, you're going down no matter how limber you may be. Needless to say, the **** wave, though of considerable force, was not so sufficient so as to completely glance off the toilet seat and deposit itself on the walls, unlike what you would see when hitting a puddle with a high-pressure water hose; even though you throw water at the puddle, the puddle gets moved and no water is left to re-form a puddle. There was a significant amount of s41t remaining on about one-third of the seat rim which I had now just collapsed upon.
Now, back to the vomit...
While all the dumping was going on, the vomit was still on its way up. By the time I had actually collapsed on the toilet, my mouth had filled up with a goodly portion of the macaroni and beef I had just consumed.
OK, so what does the human body instinctively do when vomiting?
One bends over. So I bent over. I was still sitting on the toilet, though.
Therefore, bending over resulted in me placing my head above my now
slightly- opened legs, positioned in between my knees and waist. Also
directly above my pants which were now pulled down to a point just midway between my knees and my ankles. Oh, did I mention that I was wearing not just pants, but sweat pants with elastic on the ankles?
In one mighty push, some three pounds of macaroni and beef, two or three Cokes, and a couple of Big, Fat Yeast Rolls were deposited in my
pants...on the inside...with no ready exit at the bottom down by my feet.
In the next several seconds, there were a handful of farts, a couple of turds, and the event ended, yet I was now sitting there with my pants full of vomit, my back covered in s41t that had bounced off the toilet, spattered on three ceramic-tiled walls to a height of about five feet, and still had enough force to come back at me, covering the back of my shirt with droplets of liquid s41t. All while thick s41t was spread all over my ass in a ring curiously in the shape of a toilet seat.
And there was no ''kin toilet paper.
What could I do but laugh. I must have sounded like a complete maniac to the guy who then wandered into the bathroom. He actually asked if I was OK since I was laughing so hard I must have sounded like I was crying hysterically. I calmed down just enough to ask him if he would get the manager. And told him to have the manager bring some toilet paper. When the manager walked in, he brought the toilet paper with him, but in no way was prepared for what happened next. I simply told him that there was no way I was going to explain what was happening in the stall, but that I needed several wet towels and I needed him to go ask my wife to come help me. I told him where we were sitting and he left. ...end of part one

15th Apr 2002, 21:15
continued from part one

At that point, I think he was probably assuming that I had peed just a bit in my pants or something similarly benign.
About two minutes later, my wife came into the bathroom not knowing what was wrong and with a certain amount of worry in her voice. I explained to her (still laughing and having trouble getting out words) that I had a slight accident and needed her help. Knowing that I had experienced some close calls in the past, she probably assumed that I had laid down a small turd or something and just needed to being the car around so we could bolt immediately.
Until I asked her, I'm sure she had no idea that she was about to go
across the street and purchase me new underwear, new socks, new pants, a new shirt, and (by that time due to considerable leakage around the elastic ankles thingies) new sneakers.
And she then started to laugh herself since I was still laughing. She
began to ask for an explanation as to what had happened when I promised her that I would tell her later, but that I just needed to handle damage control for the time being.
She left.
The manager then came back in with a half-dozen wet towels and a few dry ones. I asked him to also bring a mop and bucket upon which he assured me that they would clean up anything that needed to be cleaned.
Without giving him specific details, I explained that what was going on in that stall that night was far in excess of what I would expect anyone to deal with, what with most of the folks working at Ryan's making minimum wage of just slightly above.
At that moment, I think it dawned on him exactly the gravity of the
situation. Then that manager went so far above the call of duty that I
will be eternally grateful for his actions. He hooked up a hose.
Fortunately, commercial bathrooms are constructed with tile walls and tile floors and have a drain in the middle of the room in order to make clean up easy. Fortunately, I was in a commercial bathroom.
He hooked up the hose to the spigot located under the sink as I began
cleaning myself up with the wet towels. Just as I was finishing, my wife got back with the new clothes and passed them into the stall, whereupon I stuffed the previously worn clothing into the plastic bag that came from the store, handing the bag to my wife. I finished cleaning myself off and carefully put on my new clothes, still stuck in the stall since I figured that it would be in bad taste to go out of the stall to get redressed in the event I happened to be standing there naked and some little bazzard kid walked in. At that point, I had only made a mess; I had not yet committed a felony and intended to keep it that way.
When I finished getting dressed, I picked up the hose and cleaned up the entire stall, washing down the remains toward the drain in the center of the room. I put down the hose and walked out of the bathroom. I had intended to go to the manager and thank him for all he had done, but when I walked out, three of the management staff were there to greet me with a standing ovation. I started laughing so hard that I thought I was going to throw up again, but managed to scurry out to the car where my wife was now waiting to pick me up by the front door.
The upshot of all this is that I strongly recommend eating dinner at
Ryan's Steak House. They have, by far, the nicest management staff of any restaurant in which I have eaten.

Sorry it's so long but it's not my story and I couldn't figure out how to cut it down.

15th Apr 2002, 21:24
whiz: Always remember, if you have no paper receipts the visa cards make great scrapers!

somewhatconcerned: your username says it all. :eek: :D

The Greaser
15th Apr 2002, 22:20
Somewhatconcerned : I hope that story is apocryphal, but I have not laughed so bloody hard in a long long time.

16th Apr 2002, 02:20
'Kin great somewhatconcerned. Classic.:D :p

15th Jan 2003, 10:00
Seen this story on another message board:

"In all the 15 years I’ve been eating from the street food vendors in the Realm, it has only been one time that the Thailand Twostep did hit me with a vengeance.

The night before I was due to leave BKK for Japan via Hong Kong to see my business associate, I had been eating Lao food with my steady teerak at a small food stand near the Siam Hotel. The food was hot and delicious and did cost the enormous sum of 195B all together including 3 Singha’s and a couple of Mehkongs and all signs were indicating we were on our way to Sanuk heaven, nothing better than a hot Isan meal, a hot Isan chick and a nice comfortable hotel
I made one terrible mistake however.... I accepted some of the hoys (oysters) my teerak offered me during the meal. The consequences were disastrous......

Later that night I woke up from a terrible rumbling in my belly. It seems an international conflict had just started in my intestinal tubes and I perceived a serie of explosions building up to an enormous eruption which I was able to negotiate by jumping out of my bed, diving into the CR and landing on the lavatory just in time to release a stream of lava that had such a thrust that I almost lifted from the bowl.

In the 4 hours that followed after until we had to go to Don Muang, I had to dash 6 times to the CR and by the time we left the hotel I thought I had disposed all of my internal organs into the lavatory, except my heart because that was still beating. Luckily I didn’t discover any blood so I decided to go ahead with my trip to Japan and postpone my visit to a doctor upon my arival there. I popped some Imodium and this allowed me to make the trip from the hotel to the airport by taxi without polluting the inside of the car. There were still noices from my inner tubes audible, which led the driver to the conclusion that he had to replace his exhaust at short notice, at least that’s what he told my teerak during the drive.

The medicin seem to work fine and my boarding/immigration procedures were uneventfull and even the 3 hour flight to HKG passed without any major incident, so I thought that everything was under control.

At least....that’s what I thought... until I felt suddenly a pressure building up in my lower body region during my shopping at Chek Lap Kok airport. Thinking that the medicin would take care of this minor discomfort I proceeded to procure the whisky my Japanse relation likes so much. In the meantime the pressure was increasing rapidly and reaching the red zone and my safety valve was about to give way to it must be at least 5000 psi pressure from my internal volcano. In short I was on the point of another eruption in the middle of Hong Kong Airport Duty Free.

The sales assistant of course took all her time in order to register my purchase in the meantime yapping with her collegue, thereby shortening more valuable time I needed to reach the nearest toilet. Finally I was ready to run to the toilet, but running had become impossible by then, I could only walk like a lame duck with my buttocks squeezed together desperately trying to control the inevitable explosion.

Fortunately I know HKG airport quite well and knew the retrieval was just around the corner......and.....SH!T!! (pun intended)..... The toilet was out of service and I was directed to another which was at least at a 300 meters distance... I never make that, I told myself... Oh my God, I never make that......

In total panic I tried to run, whilst still trying to control the flood with my squeezed buttocks. It must have been a ridiculous sight I now realise. Not then, because I was entirely focused on the 300 meter sh!t run to the next toilet which I made with it must have been a superhuman accomplishment. To my luck there was a lavatory free and I dived into it thinking I was saved......NOT!

Exactly at the moment I dropped my pants my mind ordered to open the safety valve and everything that was left behind in my body was unleashed 0,5 secs before I hit the lavatory pan.....
It seems only a very short time, but the consequenses were catastrophic. The sh!t was literaly hitting the fan because of the built up pressure! It was everywhere... from my upper middle to dripping down my legs into my shoes, on the floor and back wall.

The smell was repugnant, it seems Buddha’s Revenge has found an internal reservoir with contents that must have been there already for years, we’re talking here of total putrefaction.

I looked at the damage, no way I could use again my pants, underpants, socks, shirt, they were totally drained. The only undamaged part of my dress was the jacket of the pin striped suit I’d just bought a coupla days before on Silom St.

So this was my situation, totally be-sh!tted, in a CR on HKG airport, 35 mins before take-off... (sign „boarding“ has already lit up) , with no other flights that night and an important business relation waiting for me in Japan....

Here’s where my bad luck turned into luck, I knew the Gate (3) was very close to the Business Class lounge and I had a business class ticket on the HKG-NRT leg. I knew that there are showers available in the business lounge where I could take a shower and change clothes. Change cloths, which? Now I had to buy cloths, go to the business lounge, shower and board the plane, all within 20 mins, how the hell could I make that? Well I had to.......

Wiped as much sh!t from my pants, shirt and shoes, dropped my underpants behind the toilet bowl, put on the cloths which were sh!t drained on the inside and ran again to the duty free shopping area, smelling like BKK’s sewerage on a very busy day. Grabbed some overpriced Thimberland leasure wear (one size too small, because odd enough all the cloths sizes are Asian people oriented) and sport shoes, paid them while the shop-assistant look at me with a mix of abhorrence and disgust.

Anyway, got to the showers and I made it just in time, must have been about the last person boarding the plane.

I’m sure my Japanese business relation was rather suprised to see me arrive in undersized jeans, T-shirt and pin striped jacket. I mumbled something about spilling food by the flight attendents, but I could still see the doubt in his eyes. That awful aroma was still in olfactory organ for days......

Eversince I’ve NEVER touched a single hoy, oyster or mussel again."

15th Jan 2003, 16:26
:eek: This is far and away the most disgusting, graphic and revolting post I have ever had the pleasure of reading on PPRUNE.
The explanation of various types of dumps had me in stitches. The exquisite detail provided in the recounting of one man's battle against his intestine after a night of overeating held me captive. I was repulsed, yet I could not stop reading. I had to see were it all ended! Would he live to see his family? Would the police have to call in the HazMat team before they could examine the corpse? The imagery of one oyster causing a man to be almost blown off the toilet left me in fear of my next trip to a raw bar. PPRUNE is truly the breeding ground for the next great, contemporay writer.
Thank one and all.:D

16th Jan 2003, 00:55
Vaguely on the original subject, there is an issue with long duration glider flights, which have led people to a number of solutions.

A classic tale is by one Gary Boggs (I'm not making this up). His in-flight relief system started with an external catheter, and he wrote as follows:

"My first attempt at a pee system was to hook up a catheter directly to a fitting right under the seat on my Jantar, which worked pretty well until I inspected my undercarriage and discovered just how corrosive urine is.

About this time there was an article in Soaring that said that if you run the tube back to the gear door, when you lower the gear, it gets the pee away from the plane and not on it. It also said that if you put a T in the line, you could blow the remaining pee out of the tube keeping it from becoming incredibly foul.

Sounded good to me , so I hooked it all up and tested it on the ground by pouring water through it and it worked fine, so up I went. I waited until I really had to go, of course, lowered the gear, and let'er rip.

Well the pee started coming out of my blow tube and getting all over me. You know how hard it is to stop once you get going, so in haste, I pinched the tube off which caused the catheter to start filling like a water balloon. I then stuck the blow tube out the vent, blowing hot **** out all over my wings and tail.

I figured that the exit tube had some kind of blockage in it so maybe I could fix it by blowing on it. The tube was still filled with pee, so I pulled it back in, wiped it off as good as I could and blew. This forced all the pee in the tube back into the catheter and again blew it up like a balloon. Not think again I took the tube out of my mouth which then covered me with a shower of pee right in the face. I can honestly say that it just doesn't taste all that bad."

He ended by saying it worked fine when fixed.

Disbelievers may be able to check the original if they can make anything of this link:

http://groups.google.com/groups?hl=en&lr=&ie=UTF-8&threadm=8bgj0n%2493t%241%40glisan.hevanet.com&rnum=11&prev=/groups%3Fq%3Durine%2Bgroup:rec.aviation.soaring%26hl%3Den%26 lr%3D%26ie%3DUTF-8%26start%3D10%26sa%3DN

Another from the same thread concerned . . .

" . . . a gentleman who rigged a catheter system in a 1-26 glider
with the drain tube exiting next to the wheel. One day after
landing people noticed he just sat there on the runway with the
canopy closed. A few ground crew members approached the 1-26
and opened the canopy to see if he was alright. In a weak,
strained voice he wimpered "Roll me backwards". It seemed the
tube had caught in the wheel and wrapped itself around the
axel. The catheter acted like a Chinese finger trap. I guess
after that episode the locals around the gliderport just called
him "Slim"."

Circuit Basher
4th Dec 2003, 17:17

Came across this thread whilst looking for something else and have just been sitting here at work with tears rolling down my cheeks!! :ok:

Thought I'd add this little tale which was once recounted to me, on a similar subject:

Flying across the Channel in my Grob 109b - I could only look in admiration at my new girlfriend sitting there with her long flowing hair, Wayfarers, crop-top and all the other bits and pieces.

What is it with my bladder?

Suddenly caught bustingly short and with no prospect of relief for another hour or so I found a tatty barf bag in the pocket.

Why did I glug the whole carton of apple-juice just before we set off?

'Avert your gaze my dear and hold this' (the stick! the stick!)

There I was, filling up this paper bag to the brim whilst doing some horrible contortions in order to achieve it, whilst all the time she was doing a reasonable job of the straight and level bit whilst peering through the cloud of steam out of the stbd. window .


I folded the bag, intending to place it on the floor when, horror of horrors, it started to leak quite badly. It really was creased, old and - well - should have been used long before.

Nothing for it - out of the window it had to go.

I slid the CV panel open, slowed the thing up and, base first, pushed the bag through the window.


It was as if somebody had put a high-pressure hose through the panel and blasted my girlfriend. She was absolutely drenched - the cockpit was a mess - we groped around for a towel in a bag behind.

I will always remember her licking her lips with great composure saying - 'I can definitely taste the apple-juice.....' :D :ok:

4th Dec 2003, 20:49
A man caught short dived at speed into a public toilet and proceeded to do the needful to the accompaniment of high-volume noise and stink. On emerging he caught the eye of the elderly attendant and thought he should apologise.

The attendant said, "Sir, in that one there are two men doing a drugs deal; in that one there is a man scribbling graffiti; over there are two 'omosexuals doing unspeakable things to each other, so when a gentleman like yourself comes in for a decent honest sh!t it's a pleasure."

4th Dec 2003, 21:19
The late Spike Milligan had a great story that is worth recounting.

A city gent was waiting for his train home when he was quite unable to prevent a "follow through" of simply biblical proportions while he was standing on the platform.

Fortunately there was a clothing shop on the station concours and he managed to get there and indicate his desire for replacement trousers, pants and socks - in a rush to catch his train, and also to prevent anyone noticing the detritus starting to drip round his ankles, he grabbed the carrier bag off the counter and headed back to the platform as fast as his desperately clenched buttocks would allow.

Fortunately he was in time, and with great relief he climbed aboard and immediately locked himself in the toilet. As the train pulled away, he removed all his putrid lower garments, and, with nothing else available other than a few sheets of BR toilet paper, used them to clean himself up as best he could..........with this they were beyond hope of any further use, and with nowhere else to put them he threw them out of a gap in the window.

With a sigh of relief, he then turned to his carrier-bag, to find that it contained - a ladies' pink v-neck cashmere sweater.

By now he was approaching his station - and naked from the waist down, there was no alternative. He put his legs down the sleeves of the sweater, and pulled it up round his waist.

Being a v-neck, he then found that this resulted in all his wedding-tackle being on prominent and unavoidable display.

His only remaining option was to remove his trilby hat, and tuck the brim in around the neck opening of the sweater.

Thus attired, with a pink cashmere sweater, and a trilby hat like an enormous codpiece, he stepped confidently off the train.........

Onan the Clumsy
4th Dec 2003, 22:13

On a similar note, I was hiking one time and the guy I teamed up with told me a story about once him and a party of seven got stuck in a storm for a couple of days. They made camp, two to a tent and prepared to wait it out.

Well, it being too cold to go outside, they decided to sacrifice a one quart water bottle for sanitary purposes (bottle, quart, 1, urinating for the use of) and as these things do, a healthy competitive atmoshpere soon developed.

They devised a game to see which tent could fill the bottle the highest and it soon became evident that there was one person, whose system was so prodigious, that he could fill the entire bottle himself ( I think there was a little artistic license displayed in the telling of this story).

The upshot of this of course was that this singular person was offered all kinds of bribes: chocolate, sandwiches, snow etc, to switch tents.

It was starting to get ugly when fortunately the storm lifted and they were all able to rejoin society with its myriad rules and requirements. But deep down, each one of them felt something that set them apart. They had known wildness, nature at its rawest. They were different from ordinary men.

4th Dec 2003, 22:49
The aptly-named Gruntie has just reminded me of an incident which occurred to my goodself on a train from London Bridge to South Norwood many moons ago.

I had a day off and naturally spent some hours of it drinking with pals in the City. As I walked across London Bridge my gut started to ache a bit and I realised I needed to use Thomas Crapper's marvellous invention.

At the station a train awaited. My gut-ache had died down and since this was a train equipped with loos I got on it, rather than use the station loos.

Of course, five minutes into the (15 minute) journey the ache came back with a vengeance.

Okay then, off to the loo. Blast, out of service! Totter down the train to the other lav with sphincter beginning to pucker. Aaaaghhh, out of service!

Crump. Oh dear.

I found an empty first class compartment whipped me trousers and cacks off, cleaned up as best I could with the cacks and chucked them out of the window.

I had a sticky, uncomfortable 'commando' walk home to the shower.....

4th Dec 2003, 23:15
Most of my tales involve jogging, which I do several times a week. The incidents are few and far between, but when you've got to go, you've got to go. It's amazing how resourceful you can be when the spinchter calls...

The crowning glory was in S. California a couple of years back. One evening, I left the hotel to go jogging. Headed down the main road, through the local resort area and was a good 3mi from the hotel when the cramps began. Foolishly, I stuck to my route.

By the time I knew I wasn't going to make it, I was in an affluent neighbourhood, no empty plots nor back alleys, just countless signs warning of armed security. Pulling up wasn't an option. I braced for the worst.

Suddenly, I was saved - on the next corner stood a cafe. An upmarket place, liberally sprinkled with happy diners. I upped the pace and ran inside.

The place was quiet to begin with. The sight of a sweaty runner, clearly in distress, darting for the restroom reduced the low chatter to a murmer. I slammed the door behind me, tore off my shorts and let rip. What followed was the earthiest show of discharge, moaning, leg-waggling and squealing I have ever produced.

I flushed repeatedly, washed my hands and opened the door to leave. I glanced around. Talk about suspended animation. Every head was pointed in my direction. Every mouth was agape. Every limb was still. You could hear a pin drop.

Trying to avoid eye contact, I muttered an apology and left with the same speed I'd arrived. Two blocks away, I realised my keycard and ID were back in the restroom...

5th Dec 2003, 07:21
This posting should "Run and Run" :ok:
we aim to please, it keeps the cleaners happy

5th Dec 2003, 07:31
Having been laid low by a very nasty gastric virus for the last 24 hours, and being over the worst, I struggled back to the computer to see what I'd missed on pprune and the very last thing I expected was to find such a thread as this, so closely matching my own situation - only at least I was at home during the whole shocking experience.

Reading this I've laughed and laughed, despite the risk in such an action during such an early phase of my recovery, and no longer feel quite so alone as I've felt since this wretched attack began.

5th Dec 2003, 08:15
Fantastic thread, absolutely hilarious.

Having a 'clear out' is a great leveller.... Best on proon for ages!!!

Papa Charlie
5th Dec 2003, 16:22
I've gotta stop reading this thread, my sides are splitting......

:D :ok:

5th Dec 2003, 17:34
This has probably appeared on another thread somewhere sometime....however:

15 Easy Steps to Sh*t like a Woman:

1. Under no circumstances use any other toilet than your own,
regardless of any stomach pain may be caused whilst waiting to get home.

2. With the toilet-brush, clean any residue left on the pan by your boyfriend/husband. Also wipe his pubes off the seat with some toilet paper.

3. Flush the toilet before starting. Then wash your hands.

4. Line the toilet seat with toilet paper (as other people may have sat on the toilet since it was last bleached).

5. Stuff toilet paper inside the pan to prevent splash-back.

6. Pull panties down and sit. Some women may still prefer to squat over the seat as opposed to taking the risk of touching it with bare flesh.

7. Release solids, but strain to avoid making any sounds.

8. Rise and quickly flush before direct eye-contact is made with any faeces.

9. Take a length of toilet paper and fold it several times to
positively guarantee that no residue will touch bare skin (about five or six applications per role).

10. Wipe once and throw paper into the pan. Do not look at the paper.

11. Repeat steps 9 and 10 at least thirty times. It may be necessary to yell for your boyfriend/husband to find some more rolls to pass through the door while promising not to open his eyes or pass any comments. It is traditional to do this while he is trying to watch sport.

12. Flush the toilet and replace the lid.

13. Wash hands at least three times with disinfectant soap.

14. Open all windows and spray approximately half-a-can of air

15. Pick up all reading material left behind by your boyfriend/husband and leave bathroom, closing the door firmly behind you.

Now for the guys version:

15 Easy Steps to Sh*t like a Man:

1. Select reading material (can be anything except a porn-mag; tried by every man once, but never repeated - see step 4).

2. Tell everyone along the way, "Just going for a dump, okay?" Always tell girlfriend/wife, especially when she has visitors.

3. Pull pants and trousers around ankles, then sit down.

4. Adjust penis and testicles to hang comfortably without touching the toilet rim.

5. Open reading material and relax.

6. Whilst waiting, it is traditional to audibly fart.

7. Sigh loudly as the first one bullets out. It is quite normal to
experience a cold jet of water rocket up your anus as a result of the first bomb. This is to be endured if you want to be a real man.

8. Remain sitting and reading until pins-and-needles set in to your legs and buttocks.

9. Rise and look at the poo. Make mental notes of any irregularities to report to friends and girlfriend/wife, e.g. colour,consistency,any visible traces of peanuts, etc. You must tell people about it.

10. Take long length of paper and wipe anus. You must look at the paper before throwing it into the pan.

11. Repeat step 10 until there is no longer any evidence of faeces on the paper.

12. Flush. If there is any residue left on the pan, under no
circumstances attempt to clean it off. In due course, it will come away by itself. Or when your girlfriend/wife next uses the loo.

13. Leave the seat up. Leave the reading material on the floor (you can use it again later).

14. Wash your hands once.

15. Vacate the bathroom, leaving the door open. It is important to a man's self-esteem that other people smell his produce.

Circuit Basher
5th Dec 2003, 17:58
TC450 - oh, how true!!! A copy will have to be shown to MrsCB!!! :D :D

5th Dec 2003, 18:03
Great thread.!!

You have forgotten the "Wedgie" !!. This is the one that always seems to happen when you least want it, like around a girlfriends house or her parents or if you are an old married git like me, at a dinner party when people know where you have gone.

As the name suggests, it is so large and so long, that it just cannot get around the U bend, no matter how many time you flush or chuck buckets of water on it. You look in desperation for a bog brush to break it up with and there isn't one. This of course gives you the option of 'stick ya hand in' or if it is a dinner party given by people you don't like, just leaving it and returning to the table grinning!!

I don't go to many dinner parties!!

Skid Marx Rule

5th Dec 2003, 20:28
The worst, the absolute feckin worst is the liquishit (TM) fart. Been there, done that, got the t-shirt. You know how it feels, you sense the grumbling, beginning in the lower gut. The burbling, the groaning, and you look forward to letting fly and letting rip a loud flatulent wind breaker. You hold it in until the last possible second and then you grind down on yer muscles to force out the air mass.....only too late, you find it isn't gas but the totally nefarious liquishit. Kegs splattered and a very quick waddle to the toilet....:}


5th Dec 2003, 21:07
A few years ago on hols in Turkey I succumbed to the dreaded Turkey Trots. One day I had to do a two hour bus journey. All was well for the first hour, but the rumblings started and I knew there would be an eruption.

Managed to make it to the destination, and found the bus station bog. It's incredibly difficult to run with clenched buttocks. Entered said bog, and discerned in that brief nano second that it hadn't been cleaned since the days of the Byzantine Empire. Dropped the shorts and squatted over the hole, and ......relief !!!

Looked around vainly for paper. Unsurprisingly none. Thank god for small denomination Turkish Banknotes. It was worth it!


Circuit Basher
5th Dec 2003, 22:02
curmudgeon - been there and got the T shirt! On a day trip from Brunei on one of the 'bum boats' down to Limbang to top up on alchohol stocks, got caught short and had to use a fairly unpleasant facility on the jetty. No amount of Mr Muscle or Domestos would have ever got that shining bright again!! Luckily, they had at least had the decency to leave the little shower hose in there, so had to 'Go Muslim' (no offence intended to anyone of that persuasion - honest!) and was definitely *VERY* sure that I only used my right hand for eating until I managed to return to somehwere with soap and hot water!!!

5th Dec 2003, 22:49
Crump. Oh dear.

"Crump". What a great word. 5 simple letters that sum up the agony of mankind................I'm still laughing.

Onan the Clumsy
5th Dec 2003, 22:57
Ozzy I know the feeling, I followed through in freefall once.

6th Dec 2003, 03:52
Thank you, thank you, thank you!!! It can sometimes be quite tedious plodding through each and every post in JB as a mod, just in case there may be something that is objectionable that needs some form of action. This thread has made everything worthwhile!!! I have laughed so much that I shall probably have to go off to PC World tomorrow to buy a new chair as I have definitely wet myself on several occasions whilst reading this. Again ----- THANK YOU!:ok:

6th Dec 2003, 04:15
Another gliding tale,as told to me,
Flying high over the Scottish Highlands on a crisp winters day,many other gliders in close proximity,oh the joy of free flight,good thermals,up there for hours.Whats this,time for a Jimmy Riddle,no problem,all prepared for this expected act of nature.The container is positioned,the flow of relief starts,ahh bliss....ohhhhh ***k,instant condensation,instant yellowish ice on the inside canopy.Scraping begins immediately,the rest you can imagine!!!

Ascend Charlie
6th Dec 2003, 11:23
A fighter pilot friend told me of his fun while ferrying a Mirage from Darwin to Mount Isa. He was number four, they had the big jugs fitted, and it would be a long flight. Unfortunately, it had been a booze-up the previous night, so all were a bit hung over.

Kick the tyres, light the fires, all are airborne and heading for the first checkpoint abou an hour away. They are in loose formation, and my mate realises he is not going to make it to the first stop for a needed dump. He hangs on as long as possible, but sees he has to do something NOW or really suffer.

So, he pulls back a bit further so Number 3 can't see what is going on, trims the Mirage as best he can to fly hands-off, and starts to unstrap. Mirage cockpits are rather snug, so getting the straps off is difficult. Even harder is unzipping the g-suit and wriggling it down, and unzipping the one-piece flying suit and jocks and sliding them down far enough to expose the action centre.

Then it is off with one flying glove, and fill it up. Off with the other glove to clean up, stow the offensive gloves, then squeeze back into the flying suit, then the g-suit, then do the straps up again. When all was complete, he looks up to rejoin his formation - and they are not there! He had been busy when they got to the checkpoint and didn't notice the rest taking a 30-degree turn.

A frantic call on the radio and a search on the radar showed his mates 60 miles away, and it was a fuel-consuming burn to rejoin, and his face burned the rest of the way home!:\

Barbers Pole
6th Dec 2003, 11:50
[email protected] beautifull!!

7th Dec 2003, 02:50
Flying to Bamako in Mali one night from Dakar. Hear shrieks of laughter on company frequency from plane we are to meet that is routing from Abidjan. No further word until we land and meet the other crew.

One guy is rolling around on the apron laughing while the other is sheepishly discarding his lovely leather flight bag behind a disused airstair.

Turns out they had sampled the roadside wares of Abidjan prior to flight, and about 2 hours into the 4 hour flight the worst happend. With cargo packed to the roof immediatly behind the pilots, there was nothing for it but to empty the flight bag, line it with a few pages stripped from the FHM, position it strategically on the seat and let rip. All this while the other pilot is gagging/laughing hysterically, and trying to get his nose as far out the storm window as possible.

The hillarity subsided, and with refuelling and loading done, we set off on the return flight. Not long after getting airbourne, the whole drama repeats itself. Except this time, he who was rolling around on the floor laughing, was now soiling HIS lovely flightbag with the remnants of west african cuisine!

Circuit Basher
11th Dec 2003, 21:03
Just to keep the thread alive, here's another which always gives me a smile - this story originally appeared in Airways magazine.

Oct. 3, 2002 - here is a tired old adage that defines the business of flying planes as long stretches of boredom punctuated by moments of sheer terror. Moments of sheer ridiculousness may be equally as harrowing. One young pilot, when he was 22 and trying to impress the pretty Christine Collingworth by taking her up for a twilight sightseeing circuit in a friend's Cessna, highlighted the seduction by whacking his forehead into the jutting metal pitot tube hanging from the 172's wing. Earning himself a famous "Cessna dimple," so he chose to think, would be the stupidest thing he'd ever do in or around an airplane.

That was more than a decade ago, and a long way from this same pilot's mind during a recent cargo flight. It's 11 p.m. and the airplane, an old DC-8 freighter loaded with 50 thousand pounds of pineapples, is somewhere over the Bermuda Triangle, bound from San Juan, Puerto Rico, to Cincinnati. The night is dark and quiet, void of moonlight, conversation, and for that matter worry. The crew of three are tired, and this will be their last leg in a week's rotation that has sent them from New York to Belgium and back again, onward to Mexico, and then to the Caribbean.

They are mesmerized by the calming drone of high-bypass turbofans and the deceptively peaceful noise of 500 knots of sub-zero air cleaving past the cockpit windows. Such a setting, when you really think about it, ought to be enough to scare the living shit out of any sensible person. We have no business, maybe, being up there, participants in such an inherently dangerous balance between naive solitude and instant death, distracted by paperwork and chicken sandwiches while screaming along, higher than Mount Everest and at the speed of sound, in a 40-year-old assemblage of machinery. But such philosophizing is for poets, not pilots, and also makes for exceptionally bad karma. Neither poetry nor any kind of mystical rumination is in the job description for these three airmen, consummate professionals who long ago sold their souls to the gods of technology and luck.

One of these consummate professionals is a 34-year-old from Massachusetts. He's been flying planes since he was 16 but has seen his career stray oddly from its intended course, his ambitions of flying gleaming new passenger jets to exotic ports-of-call have given way to the much coarser world of air cargo, to sleepless, back-of-the-clock timetables, the greasy glare of warehouse lights, and the roar of forklifts -- realities that have aroused a low note of disappointment that rings constantly in the back of his brain. He is the second officer. His station, a sideways-turned chair and a great, blackboard-size panel of instruments, is set against the starboard wall behind the captain and first officer.

He stands up from the second officer's seat and walks out of the cockpit, closing the door behind him. Here he enters the only other area of the plane accessible to the pilots in flight, the small vestibule adjacent to the main cabin door. It contains a life raft, an oven, a cooler, some storage space and the lavatory. His plan is simple enough -- to get himself a Diet Coke or, to be international about things, since we're coming from the land of paycheck-fattening "override" pay and a king's-ransom's worth of per diem, a Coca-Cola Light -- the extra-saccharined, less-carbonated version of our own domestic product.

The soft drinks are in a cardboard box on the floor, in a six-pack strapped together with one of those clear plastic harnesses so dangerous to sea turtles and small children. These plastic rings are banned at home, but apparently perfectly legal in the Caribbean, where there are, of course, lots of sea turtles and small children. The pilot is thinking about this as he reaches for a can, weighing the injustices of the world, philosophizing, daydreaming, ruminating -- things that, again, his manuals neither command nor endorse for perhaps good reason.

He unstraps a Coke and decides to put the remaining ones in the cooler to chill. The cooler, a red lift-top Coleman that you'd buy in Sears, sits in front of the lavatory and is packed with bags of ice. The pilot drops in the cans, but now the cooler will not close. There's too much ice. One of the bags will have to go. So he pulls one out and shuts the lid. Decisions, decisions: Which checklist does he initiate? Which shutoff valve does he yank closed? Which circuit breakers does he pull? Which buttons does he press to keep everyone alive and this contraption intact? And what to do, now, with an extra, sopping-wet bag of ice? The pilot will do what he always does with an extra bag of ice. He will open the bag and dump it down the toilet. This he has done so often that the sound of a hundred cubes hitting the metal bowl is a familiar one.

This time, though, for reasons he hasn't realized yet, there are no cubes; or, more correctly, there is one huge cube. He rips open the bag, which is greenish and slightly opaque, and out slides a long, single block of ice, probably two pounds' worth, that clatters off the rim and splashes into the bowl. There it is met, of course, by the caustic blue liquid one always finds in airplane toilets, the strange chemical cocktail that so efficiently, and brightly, neutralizes our usual organic contributions. The fluid washes over the ice. He hits the flush lever and it's drawn into the hole and out of sight. He turns, clutching the empty bag, worrying still about the dangers of plastic rings and turtles, picturing some poor endangered hawksbill choking to death. It just isn't fair.

And it's now that the noise begins. As he steps away, the pilot hears a deep and powerful burble, which immediately repeats itself and seems to emanate from somewhere in the bowels of the plane. How to describe it? It's similar to the sound your own innards might make if you've eaten an entire pizza or, perhaps, swallowed Drano, amplified a thousand times over. The pilot stops and a quick shot of adrenaline pulses into his veins. What was that? It grows louder. Then there's a rumble, a vibration passes up through his feet, and from behind him comes a loud swishing noise.

He turns and looks at the toilet. But it has, for all practical purposes, disappeared, and where it once rested he now finds what he will later describe only as a vision. In place of the commode roars a fluorescent blue waterfall, a huge, heaving cascade of toilet fluid thrust waist-high into the air and splashing into all four corners of the lavatory. Pouring from the top of this volcano, like smoke out of a factory chimney, is a rapidly spreading pall of what looks like steam. He closes his eyes tight for a second, then reopens them. He does this not for the benefit of unwitnessed theatrics, or even to create an embellishing detail for eventual use in a story. He does so because, for the first time in his life, he truly does not believe what has cast itself before him.

The fountain grows taller, and he sees now that the toilet is not actually spraying, but bubbling -- a geyser of boiling, lathering blue foam topped with a thick white fog. And suddenly he realizes what has happened. It was not a block of ice, exactly, that he fed to the toilet. It was a block of dry ice.

To combine dry ice with any sort of liquid is to initiate the turbulent, and rather unstoppable, chemical reaction now underway in front of our unfortunate friend. The effect, though in our case on a much grander scale, is similar to the mixing of baking soda with vinegar, or dumping water into a Fryolator, an exciting experiment those of you who've worked in restaurants have probably experienced: The boiling oil will have nothing to do with the water, discharging its elements in a violent surge of bubbles. Normally, on those rare occasions when the caterers employ dry ice, it's packed apart in smaller, square-shaped bags you can't miss.

Today, though, an extra-large allotment was stuffed into a regular old ice-cube bag -- two pounds of solid carbon dioxide mixing quite unhappily with a tankful of acid.

Within seconds a wide blue river begins to flow out of the lav and across the floor, where a series of tracks, panels, and gullies promptly splits it into several smaller rivers, each leading away to a different nether region beneath the main deck of the DC-8. The liquid moves rapidly along these paths, spilling off into the corners and crevasses. It's your worst bathroom nightmare at home or in a hotel -- clogging up the shitter at midnight and watching it overflow. Except this time it's a Technicolor eruption of flesh-eating poison, dribbling between the floor seams of an airplane at 33,000 feet, down into the entrails of the beast to freeze itself around cables or short out bundles of vital wiring. Our pilot once read a report about a toilet reservoir somehow becoming frozen in the back of a 727. A chunk of blue ice was ejected overboard and sucked into an engine, causing the entire engine, pylon and all, to tear away and drop to earth.

And the pilot knows this cataract is not going to stop until either the CO2 is entirely evaporated or the tank of blue death is entirely drained. Meanwhile, the white steam, the evaporating carbon dioxide, is filling the cabin with vapor like the smoke show at a rock concert. He decides to get the captain.

Our captain tonight, as fate would have it, is a boisterous and slightly crazy Scandinavian. Let's call him Jens. Jens is tall and square-jawed, with graying, closely cropped curls and an animated air of fiery, charismatic cocksure. Jens is one of those guys who make everybody laugh simply by walking into a room, though whether he's trying to is never made entirely clear. He is sitting in the captain's chair. The sun has set hours ago but he is still wearing mirrored Ray-Bans.

"Jens, come here fast! I need your help."

<to be continued>.....


Jens nods to the first officer, unbuckles his belt, and moves quickly toward the cockpit door. This is an airline captain, a confident four-striper trained and ready for any assortment of airborne calamity - engine failures, fires, bombs, wind shear. What will he find back there? Jens steps into the entryway and is greeted not by any of a thousand different training scenarios but by a psychedelic fantasy of color and smoke, a wall of white fog and a fuming blue witch's cauldron, the outfall from which now covers the entire floor, from the entrance of the cockpit to the enormous nylon safety net that separates the crew from its load of pineapples.

Jens stares. Then he turns to his young second officer and puts a hand on his shoulder, a gesture of both fatherly comfort and surrendering camaraderie, as if to say, "Don't worry son, I'll clean all this up," or maybe, "Down with the ship we go, my friend." He sighs, gestures toward the fizzing, angrily disgorging bowl and says, with a tone of surprisingly unironic pride: "She's got quite a head on her, doesn't she?"

But what can they do? In one of those dreaded realizations that pilots are advised to avoid, the insulation between cockpit calm and atmospheric anarchy looks thin indeed. An extrapolated vision of horror: the riveted aluminum planks bending apart, the wind rushing in, explosive depressurization, death, the first airliner - no, the first vehicle - in history to crash because of an overflowing toilet. Into the sea, where divers and salvage ships will haul up the wreckage, detritus trailing from mauled, unrecognizable pieces while investigators shake their heads. At least, the pilot thinks, odds are nobody will ever know the truth; the cold ocean will carry away the evidence. He's as good as dead but saved, maybe, from immortal embarrassment. A dash of mystique awaits him, the same that met St. Exupery at the dark bottom of the Mediterranean, another lousy pilot who got philosophical and paid the price. Maybe he blew up the toilet too. Probable cause: unknown.

"Call flight control," commands Jens, hoping a dose of authority will inject some clarity into a scene that is obviously and hopelessly absurd. "Get a patch with maintenance and explain what happened."

The pilot rushes back to the cockpit to call the company's maintenance staff. He fires up the HF radios, small black boxes that can bounce the human voice, and any of its associated embarrassments, up off the ionosphere and halfway around the world if need be. He will announce his predicament to the mechanics, but also to any of dozens of other crews who happen to be monitoring the same frequency. Even before keying the mike he can see the looks and hear the wisecracks from the Delta and United pilots in their state-of-the-art 777s, Mozart soothing their passengers through Bose headsets, flight attendants wiping down the basins while somewhere in the night sky three poor souls in a Cold War relic are trapped in a blue scatological hell, struggling helplessly with a flood of shit and chemicals.

"You say the toilet exploded?" Maintenance is on the line, incredulous but not particularly helpful. "Well, um, not sure. Should be OK. Nothing below the cabin there to worry about. Press on, I guess." Thanks. Click.

Jens has now grabbed the extension wand for the fire extinguisher - a hollow metal pole the length of a harpoon - and is shoving it down into the bowl trying to agitate the mixture to a stop. Several minutes have passed, and a good 10 gallons have streamed their way onto the floor and beyond. Up front, the first officer has no idea what's going on. Looking behind him, his view mostly blocked by the circuit-breaker panels and cockpit door, this is what he sees: a haze of white odorless smoke, and his captain yelping with laughter and thrusting at something with a long metal pole.

The pilot stands aside, watching Jens do battle. This was a little kid who dreamed of becoming a 747 captain for Pan Am, the embodiment of all that was, and could still be, elegant and glamorous about aviation. And poor Jens, whose ancestors plowed this same Atlantic in longboats, ravenous for adventure and conquest, a 21st century Viking jousting with a broken toilet.

So it goes, and by the time the airplane touches down safely, its plumbing finally at rest, each and every employee at the cargo hub, clued in by the amused mechanics who received our distress call, already knows the story of the idiot who poured dry ice into the crapper. His socks and hundred-dollar Rockports have been badly damaged, while the cargo net, walls, panels and placards aboard aircraft 806 are forever dyed a heavenly azure.

The crew bus pulls up to the stairs, and as the pilots step aboard the driver looks up and says excitedly, "So which one of you did it?"

:D :D

11th Dec 2003, 21:56
Thanks for bringing it back to the top Circuit!

As luck would have it I had a very close shave at London Bridge station this morning.

I must avoid that place, it has bad karma -- or should I say korma since that's what I ate last night.

I commute in from SE London, and usually arrive at London Bridge at around 0550 zulu. I had a hedonistic night yesterday and slept in briefly. Therefore I had no time for the usual for the usual morning ablutions. No shite, no shave, no shower.

Got the normal train, but by the time I got to London Bridge 'the ache' had started. If I go to the loo, I'll miss my bus and have to get a cab -- pricey.

I thought of this very thread and realised what I had to do. I had a dump in the proper place this time. Cheaper than buying a new suit.

I still got the bus, it turned up late!


Bob Upndown
12th Dec 2003, 00:53
What is it about girls and loos? OK, rhetorical question as far as girls are concerned!

I only got to hear about this behaviour when the current Mrs Bob explained how she got some form of horrible kidney didease when she was travelling some years ago because she didn't offload from one week to the next :confused: :confused: :confused:

So, there's logic then: Potentially die or suffer long term consequences from kidney damage/failure becase the plumbing's backed right up, or take the opportunity to divest ones self of waste with (what's really) minimal risk to one's health in a public/semi-public loo.

She's just as bad now, when we go on holiday it's like an NBC decontamination excercise (and this in a 5* plus :rolleyes: )