Hey, that’s MY poo

A relative of mine went to feed the toilet at work some time ago. Careful not to touch her dainty, germ-free tush on the “disgusting” toilet seat, she was half squatting over the seat when she released one of her brown bomblets from her open bomb-bay doors.

Unfortunately her bombadier was a bit cock-eyed, and she missed her target. Her firm jobby bounced off the seat onto the floor, and rolled under the wall into the next cubicle.

Horrified that someone might steal it, she quickly grabbed some loo paper and snatched it back.

She THINKS no one saw…

Anaconda

It was a bumpy ride in the back of the 1962 ex-army Landrover.

We bumped and slid along the wet North Queensland rainforest track in search of that not so elusive Nirvana of natural existence. Found in the plush dripping rainforest surrounds of a fresh pool of water and gushing waterfalls. We were off to do some exploring and camping for a few days.

Earlier that day, two 4wds departed Cairns and snake their way north heading towards Daintree River, the crossroads into the northern wilderness being “The Daintree”.

Drinking started early in the day as was the tradition. And so we bounced along in the back of the canopy covered Landrover and enjoyed our ice cold beverages in the summer heat.
The importance of getting an early start on the caboose of inebriation cannot be under-estimated. Before long this was one wagon I was well and truly aboard.

Some time after crossing into “you’re on your own” territory in The Daintree jungle, the other 4wd accompanying us blew its differential due to the rough terrain. This was serious. This vehicle was going nowhere.

Being the resilient bunch that we were, we set about the challenge of going forward. This meant pushing, pulling, towing and generally walking this lump of metal on wheels up and down the jungle hills for miles, and miles, and miles.
All the while I gleefully downed can after can after can of beer. Was I the only one?

Hours later, by around 10.00pm and in pitch black darkness we finally found a suitable camp site consisting of good ground, and fresh running water.

After hours of sweaty exhausting work hauling the 4wd, I collapsed where I was in the back of the Landrover. My work was done. I was exhausted. I fell asleep.

Now being inebriated is one thing. Being dehydrated and extremely inebriated is another. The likelihood of being woken for something seemingly minor during the course of this deep sleep just wasn’t going to happen.

Waking in the stillness at 2.00am in the back of a cramped Landrover, hung-over and my head spinning was not pleasant.
Especially upon discovering a steaming Anaconda turd in my pants. This was big and a real surprise in every way.
The realization of my predicament came slowly to me. More quickly as the stench drifted to my nostrils. My eye balls grew larger with terror.

I couldn’t stay like this. I had to do something.

Trying to maneuver out of the back of the 4wd, I successfully “pant wrestled” the creature precariously to the ground.

I was left with little choice but to dispose of my underwear. I bid that nappy load of excrement goodbye. Tossing it unceremoniously beyond the boundaries of the camp site and being extra careful not to wake anyone else in doing so.

The problem with jungles now-a-days is that they come with a distinct lack of amenities. I am positive that there was some paper somewhere in the camp, but the Gods of hygiene did not reveal this item of salvation to me in the darkness.

I was forced to wear the remnants of my indiscretion on my skin. Like a smear of wet vegemite, the whole jar of it.

And so it was, being left with no choice, I retreated back to my original position in the back of the 4wd. Continuing my smelly slumber, I dreamt of white porcelain and clean sheets.

Waking now some time after first light, it wasn’t a dream. It was real. I had shit myself and stank like a sheep’s ass in the hot sun. I was almost flyblown. Fly’s were buzzing my ass, no doubt telling all of their friends.

None of my friends yet knew and I had to keep it that way. I made my way to the near-by waterhole being careful to stay downwind. When the offending stink happened across the nose of one of the party, “it wasn’t me” I would say indignantly.

Allowing the flowing waters to do its work and remove the unclean abomination, I was clean at last.
I continued on the journey and no-one else was the wiser.

What happened to Anaconda is anyone’s guess. Rumor has it that it has been sighted slinking through the bushes somewhere in Far North Queensland. Maybe searching for some sanitation…..

This story was brought to you by Victoria Bitter and a lack of hygiene. With a little effort you too can enjoy a pants load full of Anaconda..…..

The impooster

Some of the best poo stories come from impoosters – runny poos masquerading as farts. 

Here’s how NOT to impress your new, hygiene-freak flatmate.

Several years ago I arrived in Sydney and found an apartment with a fairly stand-offish girl who was a germ Nazi.

One night I was finalising a work project for which the deadline was the next morning. Feeling green around the gills, I went to bed at midnight, hoping to feel better the next morning so I could finish the job off.

Early in the morning I was still feeling sick, so had a shower to freshen up. I was standing naked at the washbasin brushing my teeth, when I felt a bellyful of a fart brewing.

Looking forward to the relief, I let my wind fly free. But to my shock, it wasn’t all wind. Carried along with the forceful blart was at least a gallon of foul-smelling, brown bacterial porridge that sprayed everything behind me in a wide cone of terror.

Under normal circumstances, the new pattern on my flatmate’s towel may have passed as an early Pro Hart. But to me, it looked like an eviction notice. That, and the sloppy mess on the wall, floor, bathmat and my legs, told me I might not meet my work deadline.

Although feeling dreadful now, with cold sweats and dizziness, I started cleaning. Out came the disinfectant and mop, and in went her towels and bathmat into the washing machine. And I had another shower.

I ended up meeting my deadline. Then I went to bed. And my flatmate never asked why her bathroom smelled like a hospital, or why I’d replaced her towel.

The moral? BEWARE of impoosters!