King Shit

King Shit (by Checkered Demon 1, circa 1991)

All these excrement stories are stirring up memories of a fine foul day, some 12 years ago, when my little brother decided to give anal birth to the biggest turd I have ever seen.

I was raised, in typical appalachian style, as poor white trash without running water. The outhouse is the center of many fond and wondrous memories for me; spiders, the combination of summer heat and the overpowering stench of centuries-old feces and urine allowed to fester, wasps, billions of biting flies, freezing cold winters, and little or no privacy available. But then, I am tasteless. My brother is not.

To his little-kid brain, the outhouse was a place of great terror and fear. He had been stung, as I remember, one time while trying his first on-my-own poop. He was terrified, and decided that the shitter was a BAD place, and little kids didn't even poop in bad places. So, with that knowledge, he decided. "I am not going to poop anymore."

My parents and I first noticed his odd behavior four days into his Ironman Sphincterclench Endurance Competition. He seemed to be sick, as he would occasionally get glassy-eyed and stand in deep concentration. Mom was concerned, but didn't say much other than "Are you feeling well? Are you sick?"

He was fine, he just hadn't shit in four days. And, his little-kid brain had neglected to realize that if you don't want to shit anymore, you must AT LEAST cut down on the amount of food you intake. If anything, he doubled the amount of food he ate, since he was not going to have to poop anymore.

He tells me now that day four was the worst day. After that, his butt seemed to enjoy the vacation, and didn't mind letting its work pile up, so to speak. Days five and six passed without much difference, but his odd attacks seemed to be more frequent and of a little more intensity than before, but a lot briefer. Mom really began to get worried. She thought he might be epileptic.

Day seven rolls around with a force that would not be denied much longer. Struggle and strain though he did, my brother decided that it was better to do that than ever have to dump anymore. He tells me that at this point, he had decided to poop again, but was afraid to, because of what might actually come out of his butt. (His brain, most likely). And the final clincher, he has an anal spasm during a vacation bible school meeting, and they bring him home because THEY think he is having an epileptic fit. I would wager that my anus would have puckered up about that time as well. Also, I'll bet that several of them thought he was going to speak in tongues, and kiss a rattlesnake, or somethinglike that.

Mom would not let him talk his way out of this; the truth had to come out. He confessed his crime against nature, and said he would start shitting again if Mom swore she wouldn't punish him, and that she would take him to the doctor if anything... unusual happened to him while he was excreting. She agreed, under the condition that he use a potty chair in the house, so that we could run to his side and laugh hysterically if something happened. That last bit wasn't strictly a part of the negotiations, but that is what happened.

By God's grace, I happened to be in earshot when the ThunderFudge(tm) decided to part company with my brother. The actual sounds went something like; " oh. Oh. OH. ow. Ow. OWWWWWWWWWW! OWWWWWWWWW!OWWWWWWWW! OWWWWWWWW!!!"



Oh, the humanity of it all.

I knew that he could hear me if I snickered, so I tried to suppress the urge, which, as we have seen in the last few paragraphs or so, urge suppression does not run in my genes.

I laughed out loud.

Repeatedly.

Louder each time.

He was pissed, but then, I wasn't the one who had decided to pinch a loaf for the rest of my life.

He and Mom then left to apply some medication to the area, leaving me wondering if I ever had children, would I ever have the inner strength to cope with a son as brain-dead as this one?

I snuck a peek into the storage room they had been in. What I saw astounded me. The butt-monster had run the length of the pot, a good seven inches, and then formed an L-shape and continued upwards for another solid (heh) foot. Towards the end of the process, my brother must have stood, to be able to fully excrete this DungO'Death (tm). It was smooth-surfaced, and looked like it was about five inches around. It was about the same color as mahogany.

It was taken to the outhouse, and laid to rest 15 feet below the surface of the seat. It didn't even break when it impacted with the mound; instead, it just sank in, like the King Shit that it truly was, ruling over all the other worthless pieces of shit around it. Nobility suited it well.

My brother recovered, eventually developed something similar to intelligence, and later on we both moved out of the house. That particular outhouse was abandoned, and another was constructed. But I still think of King Shit, covered now by many others, still the greatest one of all time.

A spot of the old ultra-violence...

From: misc061@csc.somewhere.ac.nz
Subject: A spot of the old ultra-violence...
Date: 16 Sep 94 23:14:17 +1200
Lines: 114

A spot of the old ultra-violence
--------------------------------

Last weekend I lost and maimed a friend--but that's OK, because I learnt a moronic beer trick in the process. It's the kind of thing that you see oily twentysomething boys doing in cheap night clubs while they work on their nascent beer-guts. Lots of fun.

What you do is this: grasp your stubbie (Australasian for 12oz beer bottle) firmly by the middle, wait until your friend is deeply in the midst of a pick-up speech (this is an important point of etiquette), listen for some particularly witty line (that is, wait until the pompous git squeezes out something that obviously needs deflation), and smack the top of his stubbie, hard, with the bottom of yours. This should be done with a minimum of arm movement and a blank lookon the face; ideally the woman shouldn't notice. Your victim's beer will "cum" vigorously all over his delicate proceedings. Repeat often during larger promotions.

The best way to save face when this happens to you is to jam the bottle firmly in your mouth, suck hard, and hope your eyes stay in your head. This is especially effective if you can keep a straight face while sinking vast quantities of warm, foamy beer, but does tend to come unstuck a little if you blow chunks all over the person you're trying to pick up.

John, the friend I mentioned at the beginning, taught me this in a bar. It was near the end of the night... we (John, me and a few friends) had been drinking for eight hours. Our faces were red and glistening with sweat, we were talking too loud and had somehow formed the idea that we were the funniest people on the planet. We had been smacking each others beers incessantly, so our shirt fronts, and the surrounding floor, were soaked. The bouncers had started to edge closer, trying to pick the delicate point at which we would be costing them more than they were making out of us--or maybe they just wanted to pound seven shades of shit out of us. One of them looked pretty excited; had a hard-on, even.

Being a keen spotter, and veteran cause, of the sort of bad craziness that involves large quantities of alcohol and huge bouncers, I went to negotiate peace with the doormen. As I'm a spotty little gimp, my usual negotiation technique involves lying on my back and pissing
myself like a crippled dog. However, eight hours of drinking will bestow a little courage on even the lowliest little shit, and so I begged time for another round. Regrettably.

By this stage of the evening we had given up all pretensions to normal drinking etiquette (no pointing, no showing of teeth, no use of consonants... that sort of pratty crap) and had started to lunge and flail wildly whenever we saw an unprotected bottle. John barely got his last beer off the bar before I hit it. He was expecting this, though, and immediately stuffed the stubbie in his mouth. Fair rammed it home, he did. Which was unfortunate, because the top had busted
off.

His eyes went wide as the glass slit through his top and bottom lip, and sank into his tongue. He fell to his knees, trying to hold the bottle still, but the foaming beer forced its way into his wind-pipe and he coughed explosively, spraying us with a fine mist of blood. He dropped the bottle and clamped his hands to his mouth, letting out a loud, low wail. The whole bar went silent. Even the arsehole bouncers were staring white faced at the mess. He was bleeding rivers. In about fifteen seconds his hands had been covered in slick red gloves, and the front of his shirt, once a cheerful shade of larger, had turned a violent crimson. He just knelt there, staring at me with enormous yellow eyes, making pathetic mewling noises and letting out small coughs whenever blood ran down the back of his throat. Blood was dripping off his elbows.

Two of us picked him up and hauled him out the door, pulled him into the back seat of his car and drove to Accident and Emergency. On the way there he went into deep shock. The bits of his face that weren't dark red were white. His fingernails were showing dark blue through
the coagulating blood, he was shivering uncontrollably. By the time we got to the hospital he couldn't walk, so we carried him inside.

Saturday night in A&E is one of New Zealand's national institutions; drinking and fighting is one of our national sports. When you walk through the doors of a hospital's emergency department in the weekend you're greeted by the smell of freshly processed alcohol; the cloying funk of acetone and vomit. The lobby is generally crammed with groaning rednecks and blue, spew-choked corpses. Still, John received attention fairly promptly, probably because of his cute injury.

The attending doctor soon worked out that he wasn't in a life threatening condition, but was concerned about giving him anaesthetic because he was so pissed. She did give him a few injections, but he still started whimpering and shaking when she began to stitch him up.
She started mumbling a few platitudes to encourage him to stay still, but hadn't got far when, Quite abruptly, he stopped shivering and his eyes lost their focus. He burped. A weird, hollow, relaxed burp. The doctor went all quiet and stared at John, her nostrils flaring slightly with fear. Suddenly John's entire lower body convulsed, unloading a couple of litres of warm beer and clotted blood down the young doctor's front. She jumped backwards, swearing, and leaving the
needle dangling from the suture in John's lip.

A few litres later, John heaved himself upright, blowing vomit out his nose to clear his airway. He gawped at me accusingly before his eyes rolled back into his head and he fainted, rolling sideways off the gurney. His head hit the ground with a sickening squeak, the sound of skull plates sliding against each other, and his arm folded under his body unnaturally. Rather than stunning him, this seemed to bring him out of his faint. He rolled his head around to look at me
and vomited again. His cuts had reopened; the sutures had torn out. After a few rough breaths he fixed me with his best "fuck off and die" stare, and started to spit black blood and ill-formed words: "I'll 'ill 'ou, 'ou 'uck. 'Ou 'ick 'uck. 'Ou 'uck. 'Ou 'uck. 'Ou 'uck..."

I left.

--Will (w.hoyle@csc.somewhere.ac.nz)

Pyrotechnic schoolboy prank

Subject: Pyrotechnic schoolboy prank
From: David.Cockburn@somewhere.edu (David Cockburn)
Date: 2 Aug 1994 03:52:19 -0500
Lines: 78

Story starts in a Chemistry lesson, with Teacher demonstrating that when you bubble acetylene gas through some standard lab reagent (can't remember what I'm afraid! - maybe I'll x-post this to the rec.pyrotechnics mob for comment) you get a black precipitate of god-knows-what, which when dried out, forms an exceedingly unstable powder which explodes with a helluva crack at the slightest provocation. Not surprisingly, Rick the class boffin leaves the lesson at the end with a bottle of said reagent and a bag of calcium carbide (+ water = acetylene, y'know) in his school-bag.

So Rick shortly goes into production of this stuff in a big way, and is soon to discover that for optimum effect it can be detonated by packing it v-e-r-y gently around a short length of eureta wire, and hooking this up to a 9-volt battery via a nice long cable (battery heats up eureta wire,
causing detonation). Much mirth is then had by hiding tiny packets of the magic powder along the road and rendering innocent passers-by almost airborne by remote control from behind a nearby wall or wherever.

But this isn't enough to fulfil Rick's creative urges. Final refinement of the technique comes with the realization that by tightly wrapping the powder and wire with cling-film (saran-wrap in 'Merkan-speak?) it can probably be rendered waterproof, and then...

But unfortunately supplies of raw materials are by this stage running pretty low, so there is no opportunity to test the theory before putting it into practice. Rick therefore packs his entire remaining stash around the detonator, and tightly wraps the whole lot in clingfilm.

The stunt was to be staged in the school crapper after lunch one day, when an unsuspecting kiddie could be predicted to arrive promptly to plant a post-prandial pooh with a reasonable degree of certainty. Rick locks himself in a cubicle with his kit, and carefully sets his charge inside the porcelain, well below the water-line. The very thin cable is led up
the side, under the seat and through to the adjacent cubicle. Removal of all the light bulbs in the area ensures that illumination is low enough for the trap to be invisible to a cursory inspection. Rick shuts all the cubicle doors except the booby-trapped one, installs himself on the adjacent crapper, and waits...

The rest of us wait outside, watching from an overlooking balcony. Sure enough, not long to wait before some kid saunters in for a nice relaxing dump. So picture if you will Rick sitting there on the next bog with a wire in each hand, with a half-crazed expression on his face like Anthony
Hopkins in 'Juggernaut', waiting for precisely the optimum moment...

Door shuts... lock clicks home. Belt undone... trousers down... buttock touchdown... bladder voids... sphincter dilation commences... CONTACT!!! Rick touches his wires together. For just a second, nothing happens. Rats - the stuff must have got wet. Then K-A-B-O-O-M!! there's the most almighty explosion... and then: complete, utter, total silence.

Pretty shocked by what's just happened, Rick hops down from his perch and makes rapidly for the exit. What now? We all heard the bang and were all now more than a little worried as to the potential consequences... "Oh shit..." "Well it was *your* idea..." "I *told* you there was too much charge there..." etc etc. In retrospect, God knows why nobody went in to administer first aid or whatever, but no one did: we just hung about ouside nervously biting fingernails. But eventually the youth totters out of the lavvy, and amidst much relief, everyone crowds round to find out what had happened.

Apparently the poor kid had just sat down and 'opened up' when the thing detonated. Subsequent examination of the crimescene revealed what had happened. The porcelain was covered in soot from the rim to the waterline - not that there was the slightest trace of any water left in the bowl. The cubicle walls were soaked to about waist-height, but most notable was the wet line which ran from straight up the door almost top the top - resulting from the piss-stream still emerging from the lad's flapping tool as he went flying into the air upon detonation.

Mercifully and miraculously, it turned out that no damage had been done to the boy or his wedding tackle. He hadn't had a clue what had happened to him - he'd thought there'd been some sort of explosion in the sewers. Afterwards he'd just sat there quaking in terror, unable to move himself, let alone his bowels. In fact the word was that the poor little sod was
constipated for a fortnight afterwards... funny, that.


David Cockburn (who *always* checks before sitting down)