If someone leaves a "stain" in the workplace toilet....

[Snapdragon]

Yep. Same when we went to Hong Kong. You had to request "western" bathrooms if you wanted a real toilet; otherwise the toilet was a hole in the ground or even worse, a concrete trench that you had to straddle.

 

[GodFearinGunTotin]

Yep. Same when we went to Hong Kong. You had to request "western" bathrooms if you wanted a real toilet; otherwise the toilet was a hole in the ground or even worse, a concrete trench that you had to straddle.

Oooooh! I missed the trenches. I missed using them that is...I think I smelled them quite often though.

We must have lucked out because all of our hotels were "western"--except they shut the AC down in the middle of the night

 

[Dr.Midnight]

I'm just thankful this topic wasn't discussed in the funny pictures thread.

 

[findingZzero]

Hey, just passing time.

If this is what you do to pass time, PM me. You need help.

 

[Crbn79]

...you would think they would grab the toilet bowl brush and take care of it.

other peoples manners=

LOL, at one of my jobs it was customary to leave a "surprise" for the next guy. One of the guys ate a pot of Kimpshi the night before, he left the biggest, stinkiest mess I've seen within CONUS! I walked in and it was like a brick wall smacked you in the face. I couldn't even make it to the toilet to flush it, I admitted defeat and got out of there.

Just after I cleared the area of guilt, our Operations Director entered from the stairway door and raced into the bathroom like his pants were going to explode. There was vomiting sounds and loud splashes, my buddies and I stood there shocked at what was happening.

After about 20mins he finally emerged from the bathroom, his face white as a sheet of paper and sweating uncontrollably. His only words were "I'll see you guys tomorrow, call the Janitor." He disappeared into the stairway just as quickly as he emerged.

 

[Dargasonus]

 

[DoggyDaddy]

Ha! Dr. Oz is on right now and the question put to the audience was, "How many of you don't sit down on public toilets?"

 

[DoggyDaddy]

Ha! Dr. Oz is on right now and the question put to the audience was, "How many of you don't sit down on public toilets?"

Huh. He also says that the stall closest to the restroom door is usually the cleanest because most people want more privacy and tend to use the one furthest away from the door more often. It usually has the most toilet paper too.

 

[ws6guy]

Don't use Cell Phones in Public Bathrooms!

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


All in all, it hadn't been a good day. Bad traffic, a
malfunctioning computer, incompetent coworkers and a
sore back all made me a seething cauldron of rage. But
more importantly for this story, it had been over
forty-eight hours since I'd last taken a dump. I'd
tried to jumpstart the process, beginning my day with
a bowl of bowel-cleansing fiber cereal, following it
with six cups of coffee at work, and adding a
bean-laden lunch at Taco Bell. As I was returning home
from work, my insides let me know with subtle rumbles
and the emission of the occasional tiny fart that Big
Things would be happening soon. Alas, I had to stop at
the mall to pick up an order for my wife. I completed
this task, and as I was walking past the stores on my
way backto the car, I noticed a large sale sign
proclaiming, "Everything Must Go!" This was prophetic,
for my colon informed me with a sudden violent cramp
and a wet, squeaky fart that everything was indeed
about to go. I hurried to the mall bathrooms. I
surveyed the five stalls, which I have numbered 0
through 4 (I write a lot of software) for your
convenience:

0.Occupied.

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

2.Poo on seat.

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

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

Clearly, it had to be Stall ..1. I trudged back,
entered, dropped trou and sat down. I'm normally a
fairly Shameful Sh1tter. I wasn't happy about being
next to the occupied stall, but Big Things were afoot.


I was just getting ready to bear down when all of a
sudden the sweet sounds of Beethoven came from next
door, followed by a fumbling, and then the sound of a
voice answering the ringing phone. As usual for a cell
phone conversation, the voice was exactly 8 dB louder
than it needed to be. Out of Shameful habit, my
sphincter slammed shut. The inane conversation went on
and on. Mr. Sh1tter was blathering to Mrs. Sh1tter
about the sh1tty day he had. I sat there, cramping and
miserable, waiting for him to finish. As the loud
conversation dragged on, I became angrier and angrier,
thinking that I, too, had a crappy day, but I was too
polite to yak about in public. My bowels let me know
in no uncertain terms that if I didn't get crapping
soon, my day would be getting even crappier.

Finally my anger reached a point that overcame
Shamefulness. I no longer cared. I gripped the toilet
paper holder with one hand, braced my other hand
against the side of the stall, and pushed with all my
might. I was rewarded with a fart of colossal
magnitude -- a cross between the sound of someone
ripping a very wet bed sheet in half and of plywood
being torn off a wall. The sound gradually
transitioned into a heavily modulated low-RPM tone,
not unlike someone firing up a Harley. I managed to
hit the resonance frequency of the stall, and it shook
gently.

Once my @ss cheeks stopped flapping in the breeze,
three things became apparent:
(1) The next-door conversation had ceased;
(2) my colon's continued seizing indicated that there
was more to come; and
(3) the bathroom was now beset by a horrible, eldritch
stench.

It was as if a gateway to Hell had been opened. The
foul miasma quickly made its way 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.

 

[rhino]

Yeah, pretty sure I can't top that story.

 

[Joe G]

 

[jmiller676]

Houston, we have lift off.

 

[GodFearinGunTotin]

 

[ws6guy]

ok one more and that's it.

The Ryan's Steakhouse Incident

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. Uncle Johnny would love it.

Wednesday night is also kid's night at Ryan's,
complete with Dizzy the Clown wandering from table to
table entertaining the little bastards. 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 was consumed that evening, I tell you - in all,
four heaping plates of the pseudo-Italian ambrosia was
shoved into my belly. I was sated. Perhaps a 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 breathing. 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 too 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 ****, but
in this case, the door lock was broken and the only
thing I hate worse than my date telling me to stop
cutting my toenails with a
pair of diagonal wire cutters is having someone walk
in on me while I am taking a ****. 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."

I know you (and definitely Uncle Johnny) understand
this (though women would not), but I'll take a moment
to explain "The Move" anyway. 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 dick is properly inserted into the front rim
of the toilet in the event that the **** stream lets
loose 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
bastards 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 crouched 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 precedence over **** no matter
what is about to come slamming out of your ass. It is
apparently an evolutionary thing since ****ting 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
**** the consistency 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 initially hit
the toilet seat. Then I sat down.

Recall that when that event occurred, 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 ****
remaining on about one-third of the seat rim which I
had now just collapsed upon.

Now, back to the vomit...

While all the ****ting 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 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 **** 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 liquid ****. All while thick ****
was spread all over my ass in a ring curiously in the
shape of a toilet seat.

And there was no 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 date to
come help me. I told him where we were sitting and he
left. At that point, I think he was probably assuming
that I had pissed just a bit in my pants or something
similarly benign.

About two minutes later, my date 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 or 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 date 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 date. 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 bastard 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 date 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.

 

[Frank_N_Stein]

The Somali cab drivers **** in the trash can in the bathroom of the Speedway at 2601 S. Lynhurst.

 

[Caleb]

 

[jmiller676]

Or how about this one-

Walking in and having to spray because the person before you did not?

Here is my system for #2 at work:
Step 1. Pre-spray
Step 2. Courtesy flush (after the waste exits, you flush immediately)
Step 3. Spray again
--------------------------------
Step 4 (optional, only applies after a night of Mexican food). Leave the fan on and close door, except for slight crack so it is obvious it's not in use.

 

[rhino]

ok one more and that's it.

The Ryan's Steakhouse Incident

I see that a new INGO Master has been born.

 

[ws6guy]

I see that a new INGO Master has been born.

nah no master here, I just think poop = funny in some situations. It's a dirty job but we all have to do it.

 

[ws6guy]

Or how about this one-

Walking in and having to spray because the person before you did not?

Here is my system for #2 at work:
Step 1. Pre-spray
Step 2. Courtesy flush (after the waste exits, you flush immediately)
Step 3. Spray again
--------------------------------
Step 4 (optional, only applies after a night of Mexican food). Leave the fan on and close door, except for slight crack so it is obvious it's not in use.

I think that the spraying just makes it worse. You end up with this unholy union of flower/poop smell. I tend to be proud and just own it.