K
ohhh you got JOKES???
nc4life
+1y
Got this from one of the guys in the club.
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 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 (I write a lot of software) for your
convenience:
Occupied.
Clean, but Bathroom Protocol forbids its use, as it's next to the
occupied one.
Poo on seat.
Poo and toilet paper in bowl, unidentifiable liquid splattered on
seat.
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 Shitter. 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. Shitter was blathering to
Mrs. Shitter about the shitty 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 ass 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;
(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. Do your business and get out.
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 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 (I write a lot of software) for your
convenience:
Occupied.
Clean, but Bathroom Protocol forbids its use, as it's next to the
occupied one.
Poo on seat.
Poo and toilet paper in bowl, unidentifiable liquid splattered on
seat.
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 Shitter. 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. Shitter was blathering to
Mrs. Shitter about the shitty 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 ass 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;
(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. Do your business and get out.
p3arlb2200
+1y
Oh NC4LIFE that was one of thee greatest stories ever! It brought a tear to my eye. the moral of the story is great!
jester
+1y
Wow, I haven't laughed that hard in a long time, I actually just woke my wife up from laughing so hard!!
speedster93b
+1y
They say the most common sex position these days for married couples is Doggy style: where the husband sits and begs for it, and the wife rolls over and plays dead
plumbous blimp
+1y
holy shit NC4LIFE, that was the most descriptive shitting scenario ever, i was laughing my ass off.
Here's one (no offence to blondes)
-a blonde lady is driving her VW Bug down the highway doing about 130km/h (i live in canada) in a 100km/h zone
-not long after one of ontario's finest cops, who happens to also be blonde, pulls over the lady in the Beetle
-The blonde cop steps up to the VW and tells the driver that she was caught speeding and that the cop needed to see the drivers license, ownership and registration
-the driver hands over the ownership and registration, but can't remember what her license looks like
-the blonde cop tells the VW driver to look through her purse for a rectangular thing with her picture on it
-the driver rumaGges through her purse and pulls out a mirror, noting that it's rectanuglar and it she could see her picture in it.
-she then hands the mirror to the blonde cop
-the cop looks at and says, "oh, i didn't realize you were a cop, drive safe then and have a good day."
---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
-a blonde walks into a department store and asks a sales clerk how much a TV on display is
-the sales clerk tells the lady that the store doesn't sell to blondes and asks her to leave
-the blonde lady shows up next day dressed as a brunnette and asks a sales clerk how much a TV on display is
-the sales clerk tells the lady that the store doesn't sell to blondes and asks her to leave
-the blonde lady shows up next day dressed as a red head and asks a sales clerk how much a TV on display is
-the sales clerk tells the lady that the store doesn't sell to blondes and asks her to leave
-the blonde lady shows up next day dressed up with a black wig and asks a sales clerk how much a TV on display is
-the sales clerk tells the lady that the store doesn't sell to blondes and asks her to leave
-the blonde lady asks the clerk how he knows that she is blonde even though she's had so many disguises
-the sales clerk says, "well, that's a microwave."
----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
three guys walk into a bar
the forth guy ducked
Here's one (no offence to blondes)
-a blonde lady is driving her VW Bug down the highway doing about 130km/h (i live in canada) in a 100km/h zone
-not long after one of ontario's finest cops, who happens to also be blonde, pulls over the lady in the Beetle
-The blonde cop steps up to the VW and tells the driver that she was caught speeding and that the cop needed to see the drivers license, ownership and registration
-the driver hands over the ownership and registration, but can't remember what her license looks like
-the blonde cop tells the VW driver to look through her purse for a rectangular thing with her picture on it
-the driver rumaGges through her purse and pulls out a mirror, noting that it's rectanuglar and it she could see her picture in it.
-she then hands the mirror to the blonde cop
-the cop looks at and says, "oh, i didn't realize you were a cop, drive safe then and have a good day."
---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
-a blonde walks into a department store and asks a sales clerk how much a TV on display is
-the sales clerk tells the lady that the store doesn't sell to blondes and asks her to leave
-the blonde lady shows up next day dressed as a brunnette and asks a sales clerk how much a TV on display is
-the sales clerk tells the lady that the store doesn't sell to blondes and asks her to leave
-the blonde lady shows up next day dressed as a red head and asks a sales clerk how much a TV on display is
-the sales clerk tells the lady that the store doesn't sell to blondes and asks her to leave
-the blonde lady shows up next day dressed up with a black wig and asks a sales clerk how much a TV on display is
-the sales clerk tells the lady that the store doesn't sell to blondes and asks her to leave
-the blonde lady asks the clerk how he knows that she is blonde even though she's had so many disguises
-the sales clerk says, "well, that's a microwave."
----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
three guys walk into a bar
the forth guy ducked
speedster93b
+1y
not sure if this one's okay or not(i know if you have to ask the answer is 'no'), but i heard it at the comedy store in hollywood on new years and its my fav.
a mexican, asian, black, and a jew all go up in a plane to go sky diving.
they jump out and none of the parachutes open.
Who hits the ground first?
Who cares?
a mexican, asian, black, and a jew all go up in a plane to go sky diving.
they jump out and none of the parachutes open.
Who hits the ground first?
Who cares?
p3arlb2200
+1y
aw you son of a bitch lol took me a while but thats funny
sosatheshark
+1y
lmao
paparoach1983
+1y
wow guys this is a funny thread man.
midnightcamaro
+1y
how fast can a women screw?
68mph when she hits 69 she flips over and blows a rod!
68mph when she hits 69 she flips over and blows a rod!