Here you can post funny and or embarrasing stories you have heard, lived, or read. :unsure:

Ok well I will get this to roaring good start, with a story i found amongst my online sources. This will have you all roaring with laughter, and shuddering with disgust as well ( those poor children :blink: )

The Time I Lost Control of My Bowels on the Water Slide

My last few months have been racked with guilt and shame over a horrible incident and the need to purge myself has become overwhelming. So I turn to you for a compassionate ear.
Last summer, I took my girlfriend, I'll call her Betty, and her son, I'll call him Matt, to a water amusement park, attempting to nurture the bond that was forming between us. After a busy morning of paddleboats and bumper cars, we took a moment to refresh ourselves with a hardy lunch of chili dogs, cheese fries, and lemonade. Relaxing under shade trees, Matt smiled a chili-smeared grin, as the sun cast its languid glow over the park. With the leisurely picnic ending, we hastily dispersed to the changing rooms, in anticipation of our next adventure—the giant water slide.
During our first run, I noticed a gnawing, internal discomfort, although the first sure signs of brown-capping weren’t apparent until Matt and I climbed the half-mile of stairs to the summit, for our second run. Unfortunately, I had taken the opportunity, to wear a most-revealing, blue Speedo, in the hope of further enamoring myself to the beautiful Betty. Lord knows, I have the body to accommodate such a blatant, public display of manhood.
However, I soon began to regret my decision, for the sharp, cut of the elastic dug into my swelling, gaseous abdomen. My intestines were bubbling like a whirlpool. By the time we reached the loading platform at the summit, I was squirming in wretched misery. Considering my options, I surmised that taking the slide was far more promising than fighting my way back down the stairs, through the crowd. Thank God I was next in line. My trouble would soon be over. The only obstacle before me was an elderly German tourist, staring pensively at the wild rapids. With obvious reservation, he shuffled slowly toward the mouth of the blue tunnel. Beyond the point of pleasantries, I bellowed, “Come on, Pops! Shake a leg!”
Turning toward the acne-pocked boy who was managing the ride that day, he made a feeble attempt in his native tongue to communicate his apprehension. I had no other choice! The brown star pulsated—nearing supernova. The manager boy recoiled in shock as I pushed the old man down the slide, headfirst. Cursing me with hostile foreign jibberish, he disappeared around the first turn. In an instant, I followed, hurling myself down the slick, plastic vortex.
The fury of the slide was incredible. Rolling and spinning, I gathered speed quickly. The angle of the chute dipped to nearly seventy degrees, increasing my velocity as I careened from side to side, the water turning to white, angry foam. Ricocheting from a high, banking wall, the impact smashed me like some fecal-laden pinata. I lost control, discharging a foul, liquid trail.
A child screamed somewhere behind me, as I slid toward certain humiliation below. Frantically, I grabbed at the back of my Speedo, in a desperate attempt to flush myself clean. To my dismay, a fetid school of dung-guppies spilled into the churning maelstrom. eww
Nearing the final turn, the old man was standing upright in the tunnel in front of me, I’m sure, to exact some sort of revenge. His sinewy muscles were tensed, rage filled his dilated eyes. But with youth, and gravity, on my side, I swiftly took him out at the ankles. A palsied hand grabbed me as we tumbled out of the chute, and into the pool.
Moments later, a wailing boy fell behind us, riding the crest of a polluted wave. Thinking fast, I collared the old man, and dragged him onto the concrete deck. A lifeguard confronted us as people ran screaming from the pool in pale-faced terror. I explained to the guard how the old man had soiled the waters, how obviously the speed and excitement had proven too much for a man of his age and condition.
Unable to comprehend my story, or explain himself, the old man could only respond with a flurry of incomprehensible shrieks, vective, and obscene gestures. I suggested that he was hysterical from embarassment and that in the best interests of everyone that he be removed from the park—immediately.
The guard eyed me with suspicion, but had no alternative but to believe my story. Fortunately, the force of the waters had washed me thoroughly of any incriminating evidence. I gathered Betty and Matt, and made a dash for the parking lot. I’m sure the truth eventually surfaced, but not until we were safely on the interstate, heading back home.

Here's another one 4 ya
I peed on my hand

So, I get to work today at about 7:30. Said hello to a few co-workers, checked e-mail, organized my day. Naturally looked through the FriendFinder posts to see what the hot young ladies were showing off this morning--always a nice way to begin your day with a smile.

Around 9:00 my bladder reminded me it was time for the morning pee break. We have the pretty standard restroom on our floor: couple of stalls, 4 urinals and two sinks---not a wharehouse, but not the private heaven some of the more senior execs are entitled to. Anyway, I saunter into our empty restroom and belly up to my favorite pisser. Unzip, left thumb hooks boxers and keeps them in the down position (I hate using the little hole) and the right hand grabs Atlas (yes, thats what I call him, and to hell with what you think) to point him in the right direction. Like any other guy, I stare blankly ahead and let er go: just aim and shoot---sometimes it is good to be a guy.

It was then I feel the warm stream running down my hand. Seems as if there was a blockage at the exit (dried pre-cum from looking at too many hotties this morning??) and it caused the stream to shoot off at the random angle that got my hand. Easy fix: clench, flick, resume pissing. But the bliss is gone, because now I have a peed-on hand. I finish up and head to the sink.

Don't get me wrong---I don't really care about a little pee on the hand--I mean, it's sterile when it comes out of your body (look it up if you don't believe me) and I AM a guy. So I'm washing up and look in the mirror to discover that Atlas not only got my hand, but my pants as well. And, as luck would have it, I wore khaki today, so the watermark shows up real nice right around the crotch area. I silently curse Atlas and topless picture posting hotties, and consider the best way to clean up the mess.

I could make a dash for my desk and sit there, but I have to move around at work quite a bit, so the chances of me drying out before I have to get up and deal with someone are slim. I could try drying it with paper towles, but have you ever tried to dry fabric with paper towles? Doesn't really work. So I go for option c: take some water from the sink and spash my crotch and upper thighs. If anyone sees me I get to tell a funny story about how I was too enthusiastic at the sink, we have a good laugh, and they never know the dirty secret my cunning strategy is hiding. Nice.

Ok: water on, wet the hands and flick some drops. Hmmm...not quite enough. Maybe a few more...nope, doesn't look right. Maybe a small handfull....SHIT!!! SMALL HANDFULL, MORON! The wet area around my crotch is now covering the size of a dinner plate and extends to mid thigh on both legs. I look like I took a super-soaker and stuck it down my pants.

Well, the paper towel option is the next best bet. For the first time I curse not having a hot air hand dryer: I hate those things, but it would be just the ticket here. I grab a handfull of paper towles and retire to the stall--god forbid someone should walk in now. I quickly start to pat and rub, hoping to soak up some of the water from the deluge and get back to the 'sink accident' story.

Funny thing about some bathroom paper towles. You don't notice it when drying your hands, but then again, your hands aren't made of cloth. They don't do so good as a clothing drying medium--they tend to come apart. As I am rubbing the towles over my pants they start to break down into their smallest element: white lint. Which is now stuck all over the front of my pants. I try to use more to wipe off the lint, and just get lintier. Now the front of my pants has a water stain the size of a dinner plate with miniature pieces of white fluff all over it.

I glance at my watch and realize I am out of time---my 2 minute jaunt to the men's room is now pushing 10, and I have to make a call soon. What I want to do is sit in here, take off my pants and pretend I am taking a half-hour duker so I can let the water dry, but have no time. I gotta chance it. One last check in the mirror, crack the door....good, no one looking, casually stroll back to the desk....good....sit and breath a sigh of relief.

So, here I am now, furtively fanning my crotch, trying to look busy so someone doesn't come by and try to get me to stand up. I've already caught a few odd looks, but hopefully they think I am just scratching (a lot...). I have a meeting in 30 min, but think I will be dried enough by then to brush the lint away...

So, fellow men: BE WARNED. If you want to check out the trim before you take a piss, make sure you give your boy a flick or two to clear the pipe. Wet, linty, and stupid is no way to start your day.
;D :lol: ;D

The Dog Ate What?

We have a dog by the name of Kismet. He came to us in the Summer of 2001 from the rescue program I was heavily involved with. For those of you who are unfamiliar with this type of adoption, imagine taking in a 10-year-old child whom you know nothing about and committing to doing your best to be a good parent.

Like a child, the dog came with his own idiosyncrasies. He will only sleep on the bed, on top of the covers, nuzzled as close to my face as he can get without actually performing a French kiss on me. Lest you think this is a bad case of no discipline, I should tell you that hubby and I tried every means to break him of this habit including locking him in a separate bedroom for several nights. The new door cost over $200. But I digress.

Five weeks ago we began remodeling our house. Although the cost of the project is downright obnoxious, it was 20 years overdue AND it got me out of cooking Thanksgiving dinner for family, extended family and a lot of friends that I like more than family most of the time. I was, however, assigned the task of preparing 124 of my famous yeast dinner rolls for a delayed celebration among friends this past weekend. I am still cursing the electrician for getting the new oven hooked up so quickly. It was the only appliance In the whole house that worked, thus the assignment.

I made the decision to cook the rolls on Friday evening to reheat on Saturday morning. Since the kitchen was freshly painted you can imagine the odor. Not wanting the rolls to smell like Sherwin Williams latex paint #586, I put the rolls on baking sheets and set them in the living room to rise for 5 hours. After 3 hours, hubby and I decided to go out to eat, returning in about an hour.

An hour later the rolls were ready to go in the oven. It was 8:30pm. When I went to the living room to retrieve the pans, much to my shock one whole pan of 12 rolls was empty. I called out to Kismet and my worst nightmare became a reality. He literally wobbled over to me. He looked like a combination of the Pillsbury dough boy and the Michelin Tire man wrapped up in fur. He groaned when he walked. I swear even his cheeks were bloated.

I ran to the phone and called our vet. After a few seconds of uproarious laughter, he told me the dog would probably be OK, however, I needed to give him Pepto Bismol every 2 hours for the rest of the night. God only knows why I thought a dog would like Pepto Bismol any more than kids do when they are sick.
Suffice to say that by the time we went to bed the dog was black, white and pink. He was so bloated we had to lift him onto the bed for the night.

Naively thinking the dog would be all better by morning was very stupid on my part. We arose at 7:30 and as we always do first thing; took the dogs out to relieve themselves. Well, Kismet was as drunk as a sailor on his first leave. He was running into walls, falling flat on his butt and most of the time when he was walking his front half was going one direction and the other half was either dragging the floor or headed 90 degrees in another direction. He couldn't lift his leg to pee, so he would just walk and pee at the same time.

When he ran down the small incline in our backyard he couldn't stop himself and nearly ended up running into the fence. His pupils were dilated and he was as dizzy as a loon. I endured another few seconds of laughter from the vet (second call within 12 hours) before he explained that the yeast had fermented in his belly and that he was indeed drunk. He assured me that, not unlike most binges we humans go through, it would wear off after about 4 or 5 hours and to keep giving him Pepto Bismol.

Afraid to leave him by himself in the house, hubby and I loaded him up and
took him with us to our friend's house. A 10 to 15 minute drive. Rolls firmly secured in the car (124 less 12) and drunk dog leaning from the back seat onto the console of the car between hubby and I, we took off.

Now I know you probably don't believe that dogs burp, but believe me when I say that after eating a tray of risen unbaked yeast rolls, DOGS WILL BURP. These burps were pure Old Charter. They would have matched or beat any smell in a drunk tank at the police station. But that's not the worst of it. Now he was beginning to fart and they smelled like baked rolls. God strike me dead if I am not telling the truth! We endured this for the entire trip, thankful she didn't live any further away than she did.

Once Kismet was firmly placed in my friend's garage with the door locked, we finally sat down to enjoy our celebration with friends. The dog was the topic of conversation all morning long and everyone made trips to the garage to witness my drunk dog, each returning with a tale of Kismet's latest endeavor to walk without running into something.

Of course, as the old adage goes, "what goes in must come out," and Kismet was no exception. Granted if it had been me that had eaten 12 risen, unbaked yeast rolls, you might as well have put a concrete block up my behind, but alas a dog's digestive system is quite different from yours or mine. I discovered this was a mixed blessing when we prepared to leave my friend's house. Having discovered his "packages" on the garage floor, we loaded him up in the car so we could hose down the floor.

This was another naive decision on our part. The blast of water from the hose hit the poop on the floor, and the poop on the floor withstood the blast from the hose. It was like Portland cement beginning to set up and cure. We finally tried to remove it with a shovel. I (obviously no one else was going to offer their services) had to get on my hands and knees with a coarse brush to get the remnants off of the floor.

And as if this wasn't degrading enough, the dog in his drunken state had walked through the poop and left paw prints all over the garage floor that had to be brushed too.

Well, by this time the dog was sobering up nicely so we took him home and dropped him off before we left for our second celebration at another friend's house.

I am happy to report that as of today (Monday) the dog is back to normal both in size and temperament. He has had a bath and is no longer tricolor. None the worse for wear I presume.

I am also happy to report that just this evening I found 2 risen unbaked yeast rolls hidden inside my closet door. It appears he must have come to his senses after eating 10 of them but decided hiding 2 of them for later would not be a bad idea.

Now, I'm doing research on the computer as to how to clean unbaked dough from the carpet, and how was your day? :lol: :lol:

Damn this one makes me sit funny, you'll see why.... ;D





Dudes, don't shower/shave with your kitten...



I have this cat whom I found as kitten, too young to have been weened properly and sick - without intervention he wouldn't have survived on his own much longer. I nursed him back to health, had to hand feed him for awhile, and I became very attatched to him. He's now really healthy, a beutiful orange tabby and we get along great, but our relationship hit a very rocky point one morning. We've patched things up, reasonably well, but memories of this particular morning will always haunt us - particularly me.


But now the point: I shave after I get out of the shower. I throw a towel around my waist, but other than that I shave naked. Like I said my kitten - let's call him Butters - is hanging out in the bathroom the whole time. At this point he's maybe 4 months old, still young, but full of energy. He's playing, doing his thing, and eventually he starts rolling and playing around my feet. 'How sweet,' I think. 'This is a great cat.'

Next thing I know i'm on the floor, curled in the foetus position with blood dripping down my chin from a razor cut and Butters is hiding out behind the porcelin throne, starring at me with huge, dialated eyes.

yeah, he went there. :(

Dangling objects + kitten = kill. :o

For those who still haven't caught on, while playing around my feet Butters must have looked up and seen the ole' twig and berries, and decide that it would be a great idea to give the danglies a swat. He had good aim - very good aim...

I don't understand masochists.

Ask a silly question...


I have 2 dogs & I was buying a large bag of Pal at Big W and standing inline at the check out.

A woman behind me asked if I had a dog.

On impulse, I told her that no, I was starting The Pal Diet again although I probably shouldn't because I'd ended up in the hospital last time, but that I'd lost 50 pounds before I awakened in an intensive care ward with tubes coming out of most of my orifices and IV's in both arms.

I told her that it was essentially a perfect diet and that the way that it works is to load your pants pockets with Pal nuggets and simply eat one or two every time you feel hungry & that the food is nutritionally complete so I was going to try it again.

I have to mention here that practically everyone in the line was by now enthralled with my story, particularly a guy who was behind her.

Horrified, she asked if I'd ended up in the hospital in that condition because I had been poisoned. I told her no; it was because I'd been sitting in the street licking my balls and a car hit me.

I thought one guy was going to have a heart attack he was laughing so hard as he staggered out the door.

DUMBASS...why else would I buy dog food??
:lol: :lol: :lol: :lol:

Firstly I have a headache and a sore throat from laughing my FARKING ass off at this next story!
Be warned it is not for the faint of heart, and it does take place in a toilet stall, not to mention makes references to final fantasy 7 and a shit dimension.
You were warned

BATTLE ASSES!!!

You are my arch nemisis. I see you wandering around as I go about my IT Computer Nerd business: Tall. Middle Eastern. Pot Belly. We catch each others eye every now and then and give each other a slight nod. I know you, I know what you do and I am on to your games.

I saw you this morning, we made eye contact. You nodded and took another bite of whatever Death-Ass producing garbage you fuel up on that makes the bathroom, smell like the inside of a dead monkey's colon, and nodded at me. I got you this time, fucker.

I give you my icey grin and nod back, then hurry back to my office. It's almost noon, and that's the time you like to run to the toilet and preform your daily ASS JIHAD on all the people just trying to wash their hands. Maybe in your country there is no commen sense that would tell you that lunch time = hand wash time. People want to get clean and eat, not be fumigated with the high octane liquid shit attack you subjigate them too.

But I got you this time. Yeah fucker I GOT SOMETHING COOKING UP FOR YOU! Two egg sandwiches with cheese. Greasy sausage patties. A couple glasses of Tang. Some leftover Chinese food. A Twix. Root Beer Soda. Some steamed brocoli I had in the fridge. A Hot Pocket with peperonni and cheese. A Chocolate Poptart. And like a cherry on top ... a McDonald's Quaterpounder with cheese.

I never eat this shit, it's all greasy and fucking nasty, but today is the day I fight back. I go out for a quick mile jog and almsot die. My stomach feels like there are two midgets fighting to the death inside there. I walk back to work, ass clenched tighter than a virgin's thighs at Church.

Great. The hot chick from next door wants to chat. She assumes the sweat on my face and arms is from running. She doesn't realize that it's a cold sweat induced by my severe sphicter trauma. She finally shuts up and I stagger to the Death Ass Arena.

You are there already in your favorite stall: The one right next to the fucking sinks. You stupid, socially retarded fuck. Fine. You have yet to begin your daily purge of Middle Eastern Ass Stew. I enter the stall next to you and drop my pants in preperation of the upcomming battle.

Your opening slavo is fired: A sloppy wet fart with a solid-shot closer. I laugh and show you the power of Advanced American Foodstuffs.

The tuba fart I unleash echos off the walls and shrinks my waistline about an inch. The guy at the urinal laughs as I slap the wall between you and I and say "Back to YOU, Kajid!". You are silent, I assume you know who I am and that the time has come for us to battle. I know you are summoning your intestinal fortitude for full out war.

You do not dissapoint me.

With a hissing "SSSShhhhhzzzzzzzzz!" you squirt out a deadly spray of ass juice that pollutes the air and makes my head swim. The pisser at the urinal is no longer laughing, he quickly zips up and runs for the door. He did not stop to wash his hands, instead opting to head for the hills. I cover my mouth and nose with my shirt and the black spots dissapear from my vision. My head clears. I am ready.

"AAaaaaaaaRRRRRGGGHHH!" I yell, as I drop Big Tim. That's short for "Big Timber" ... AKA "Mississippi Butt Log".

Quick-fire farts stutter out of my ass, as I push the monster log from the Shit Dimension into our reality. The beefy, yeasty stench easily overpowers the Indian Ass Gutter oder of your previous attack. Mega Turd hits the water in the bowl with a mighty splash, the reek is that of a dead whale slowly ripening in the hot, tropical sun. I catch my breath and wipe my brow, and start to pat myself on the back. I should have known the battle was not over.

The only thing I can think of is that you must has completly unzipped your ass to your elbow. That's the only way I could begin to explain the lumpy, creamy splashs falling out of your ass into the toilet. It sounds like you are pouring a gallon of strawberry shake with whole strawberries in it into the shitter. I see the hairs on my arms start to curl from the horrid stench wafting up from under your stall. I shudder and sway on my throne, unsure if I will survive.

I have no choice. I must employ the Deal Breaker. I hunker down and clench my hands together. My fingers twitch and entwine like a nest of snakes, almost like I am running through a series of ancient Ninja Hand Symbols. My feet lift up onto the toes and my legs start to shake.

"You want to play??" I growls. A low moaning comes from my stomach, like a dinosaur calling into a swampy, foggy night. "YOU GOT IT! AAAAAAHHHHHH!"

Like Cloud summoning The Knights of the Round in Final Fantasy 7, I summon the Excalibur of Turd Demons to destroy my enemy. Hot magma-like shit rockets out of my ass, releasing a noxious, sticky cloud of deadly recal perfume. I hear you gag and see your feet shuffle around, but you can't get away, can you? No. You can't.

Veins throb on my neck and temples as the turd monster tears itself from my bowels. My lips skin back from my now clenched teeth and I try not to scream. Your roll of toilet paper rolls into my stall. You must have torn it from the wall with numb fingers in an attempt to "Wipe and Scoot". Too late. MUCH too late!

Oders pound you with merciless fists: Rotten Fruitcake stuffed with boiled chicken assholes. Hammered shit-logs served on a bed of week old white rice. Rosie O'Donnel's racid crotch farts. The smell of your mom's dank, hairy funky armpits.

Your stall door bangs open and you stagger out. You take three unsteady steps to the door and can barely open it wide enough to slip out. I laugh at you before you leave. "Yeah! RUN, Fucker!" I yell, and laugh again. You say nothing.

It's all over except for the clean up. Fuck with me again, you shit filled Anal Terrorist. Me and my ass will be waiting. :ph43r: :ph43r:

:lol: :lol: :lol: :lol: :lol: :lol: :lol: :lol: :lol: :lol: :lol: :lol:

Damn.. I was nearly the victim of that yesterday.. I was in the the other stall, and someone was clearly in there for the big turn.. when I was at the sink, someone else was in there for the big turn.. I quickly washed my hands and dried them before the first bomb ass went off.

Crisis averted.

A funny little story about lost love

NYC people are crazy

to the beautiful woman whose dog i drop-kicked this morning
Date: Tue May 20 07:32:47 2003


i'm sorry i abused your dog. i'm really not a violent person normally. not at all.

but its been a shitty week. i lost my job. i lost my girl. i lost my apt. and there i was...trying to relax. sitting on a bench, drinking my coffee, searching the job listings of the paper. and the next thing i knew some little weasly dog was pissing on my shoe. the anger and frustration that has been pent up inside of me all week just blew up. i picked up the little sucker, looked him in the eyes, dropped him on the ground and kicked him with all my might.

i didn't stick around long enough to see if he was okay. i think i got scared he was dead or something.

but as i was running, i noticed you, this beautiful woman, rushing towards the poor heap of a dog. my attraction to you was intense. like no other i've ever felt. i wanted to say something, but i was worried you would be angry at me for drop-kicking your pup. i feel like you could help me heal. help me forget my loss of job, apt and bitch.

did you feel the connection? do you want me to?

i promise. i'm really a normal, non-violent, animal-loving guy. if you want me, i'm here.