Cruelty: Cooked Alive

From an333569@anon.penet.fi

1 Dec 1995

Ever think "I'd like to cook him alive." What a way to go (BTW the NE American Indians used to roast people alive as a torture). But how to drag it out without actually snuffing the meal immediately. Several solutions follow:

"So, you hungry?"

Meal licks his parched lips, bleeding from a round of 'meat tenderizing' with paddles and clubs. "Y-y-yes.... water."

"No, no water. Let's cook. Boys carry him to the pit!"

Ahhh, the BBQ pit! Built of black obsidian. The fire pit is glowing red with coals. Above it, the baking pit, encased in stones smokes with readiness.

"See, my tasty treat, your leg is going in the baking pit! Your screams will entertain us as we eat our appitizers!" The boys are already preparing by binding the meal's legs so one sticks out and the other is bent (painfully) back. Bubba, the fellow with the jagged teeth, piss stained polyester pants, and drooling, picks up a rusty hatchet. He looks like an ape, unsure what to do, then his eyes gleam! He swings and swings, trying to liberate the fingers from the meal. But Bubba is kinda far sighted and, well, braindamaged, and the blade has seen its better days, so the fingers are mostely pounded away from the hands and require some scraping with the edge.

We spear the fingers like hot dogs and roast them, while Doc with shaky hands administers morphine and adrenaline to the meal, and what the hell, a few of the boys too! The meal revives from his faint, groaning in pain and horror, just as his leg goes in the baking hole. More pain! Terrible heat! Eyes stinging as Bubba lets loose a load of cum from his tiny cheesy prick.

But will the meal die? OH no! Not yet! his leg is tournequetted to prevent the cooking blood from causing damage in the uncooked parts. The meal lays, well really wriths, on hot but not cooking stone. We often soak him with water to keep the body temp. down. And to keep him conscious. Now a peice of meat as large as a leg takes some hours to roast, so we have another round of shots from Doc to keep the meal conscious and us half conscious. How can anyone feel pain and horror when knocked out?

Our meal kicks and screams away the minutes. Hmmm the smell of a home cooked meal! Look at it bubble up! Of course, with all the blood trapped in the leg, it'll soon expl... well there it goes now! A pop and burst of steam and blood! Congealed blood oozes out like a pimple. Look at it sizzle. Most of the flesh is now cooked and dead, but the pain isn't over! No, no, no! The blonde is still alive and cooking. We know that our meal is ready when we hear a load crack and insane shreiks of pain when the bonecracks from the heat!

"Come on, boys! Set the table!

"Come on now, wake up! wake up! Doc, quit poking splinters in that jew and help me out! Stupid old coot still thinks he's running a camp. No, don't try to sit up (or jump rope or bycycle, HAHAHAHAHAHAHAAAAAA). Those straps will hold you tight to the dinner table.

"Bubba, come on over and carve us off a few slices!"

Mmmmmm, nothing like a hot meal! Want some? No? Is that what you are trying to tell me with all of that screaming? Are you sure? You make a fine roast, you know. Well, look here! It's fido your poodle! I forgot to feed her! Well, 'round here, we don't set much on fancy manner. Bubba, get your cock out of that dog and put her on the table."

"well looks like fido thinks you're pretty tasteless. What a bitch!"

More wine! More flesh!

KBar (or: The Writhing Somali Death Dance)

From Sgt Zeno

25 Jan 96

Here's a story that my coworker here at the Pentagon shared with me. It's an experience worthy of being posted, and also a true account. If you have any comments for Jay, just drop me a line.

BEGIN MESSAGE TEXT

Let's begin with a little background information on some of the players in our little story. We will start at the top and go down; seems logical enough. First we have Carson Horatio (not his real name ::deeeeeuh::), the man in charge-company commander. Carson hails from sunny Miami, Florida. Captain Horatio was an intense man and invariably difficult person to get along with. He began military life as a jarhead, but came to his senses and transferred to the Army. Our next character is Lee Addison, genius. Now Lee was about as smart as Forrest Gump, but he more than made up for his inept, pea-sized cerebrum with his physical prowess. Lee put his choad in everything that would let him. Finally, there's me; the principal. I'm Jay, and I'm a homicidal maniac by modern definition.

Our unit deployed to the beautiful resort community of Mogadishu, Somalia on 13 December 1992. The place was just as Dan Rather described on the news days before our arrival. Folks, keep in mind that our first glimpse of hell came after a 72 hour flight (troop seats are for kids). We were immediately assigned a sector of the capitol city and began our patrols as early as the following morning. Morning to a G.I. in the field is when the C.O. gets up and decides--too early (ex Marine, remember?)--the day should begin. Our team consisted of Horatio the commander, Addison the driver, and Jay (yours truly) the gunner from hell. We patrolled as a lone vehicle wheras the other patrols cruised around as squads--at least two vehicles. Horatio swore that we did this for speed and mobility. He wanted to be everywhere double-quick. I secretly believe the little ball-sniffer wanted the Somalis to attack our vehicle; which was 85% more likely to happen to a lone vehicle.

One fine, starry evening we were tooling down MSR Blue at a scorching 10 miles an hour looking for something to get into. We were in total blackout--by mere mortal definition anyway. I had my trusty PVS-7 NVGs on and could see all the zipperheads running around in the dark.

So anyway, this worthless Somali comes sashaying up to the Humvee as if he were totally invisible. I m staring right at him! My 9mm Beretta in hand, I jumped out of the turrett and slid down the back of the truck. I looped around behind this guy and saw that he had a rifle in his hands and he was in the process of creeping up to the commanders side of the vehicle.

I ran the rules of engagement through my mind (for good measure)...I couldn't seem to find a reason to not shoot this moron, and I raised my pistol to do so.

::crack:: ::crack:: ::crack::

The Beretta sounded like a wimpy version of a child's cap gun, but the results were astounding. I popped the mentally challenged native three times in the back of his thighs, ran up and kicked his weapon away from his flailing hands.

The Somali is screaming at the top of his lungs AIEEEEEE!! AIEEEEEEE!!

And I'm yelling at him to shut his fucking hole.

Lee stops the vehicle and they both jump out to catch a glimpse of our first blood. The look on the commander's face is nonchalant. He rolls the Somali on his back and shines a MAG LITE on the groundchuck that was once this pitiful shitball's quads. Flecks of femur speckle the open wounds and blood pumps rythmically from the one hole in his right thigh.

Ahh, the femoral artery, no doubt.

I'm quite pleased that the guy is obviously in alot of pain. If his country had their shit together, I wouldn't have been there in the first place and he'd still be a camel rapist, but at least he wouldn't be laying there dying

::big grin now::

The C.O. finally says, and I quote: "If that fucker had tried to get my commander, I would have killed him."

Then he turned, got into his seat and closed the door. Lee and I exchanged awkward glances and looked at the writhing fool at our feet. He's looking up and holding my leg as if to ask for help.

I unsheath the K-Bar strapped to my left boot and gaze at the length and width of the blade. Addison looks around like a cop might show up, which is ironic, since we were the law. The whites of the zipperhead's eyes are as visible as the headlights of an oncoming truck when I bring the blade down overhead and drive the seven inch blade into his skull about one inch.

It was harder than I d imagined--his head I mean. I figured the knife would easily pierce the skull and enter the brain. But bone proved to be thicker than water, I guess, so I used my free hand to hammer the knife home.

The Somali is convulsing now--I assumed death would be instant. I know I wouldn't want to feel anything jabbed into my head. I did the old horror movie jiggle of the knife. Amazingly the blood wasn t spurting out like in a Tarrantino film, but it was coming out fast. I ain't never seen brains like that. Blood is really warm when it comes out of a fresh kill and my mind drifted to the scene in Red Dawn when the kid kills his first deer and he drinks the blood. Sheeeeeeeut. I'd cut out Magic Johnson's colon with a butter knife and eat it before I drank Somali blood, So we just jumped in the vehicle and left.

We stay in, the three of us. Horatio doesn t like to talk about the good times we had over there, but Addison and I laugh like lunatics when we think back to the Writhing Somali Death Dance we were obliged to see that fateful night. One show only. What a hoot!

END MESSAGE TEXT

Have a tasteless day,

-Zeno.

"Actually, it's more like deliberately slamming your balls in a car door, over and over, until you realize that slamming your balls in a car door really hurts, and you stop doing it. However, when you stop slamming the car door, half of the car magically vanishes." * Michael Booye, on marriage.*

My anal fissure Bob

This is an alt.tasteless classic!

From Joe Cidoni

Part 1: 20 Oct 93

After lurking about in the wings the required 2 months I have felt the need to tell you about my anal fissure Bob.

It all started about two years ago in Thailand. I had just fired a round of green chile liquishit (patent pending) down the hole that the Asians call "toilet" when I noticed an odd sensation just inside the rim of my sphincter accompanied by a blasting spray of rich red blood.

After living in Asia for six months I thought that I had experienced nearly every digestive tract malady known to man. Worms, burning and colonic liquidity on a huge scale. Butt (hehe) this was something completely different.

It was a singularly unique feeling that I know now to have been the actual tearing of my rectum. It was Bob making himself known to me.

At first Bob wasn't so bad. Occasional itch and discomfort. Nothing that I couldn't handle. A mint flavored suppository now and again seemed to do the trick.

But then about a year ago my cruel master Bob began requiring more and more from me. Itching on a scale that can only be described as "hellish" was the order of the day. I had a permanent brown stain on my index finger from trying to scratch the inside of my colon through my troubled anus.

I had lost all sense of decorum. I no longer cared what people thought. I often walk around in public with my hand down my pants, finger firmly implanted, trying to appease the evil God Bob.

In my spare time I would daydream about modifying various farm implements to deal with the overwhelming itch. I even went so far as to order a tined hand trowel.

Finally, I went to see a doctor. He made a quick diagnosis of hemorrhoids and let me go with a prescription for some industrial strength hemlube(tm). The doc never saw Bob, who had retreated into his tear in fear of his only natural enemy, the medical practitioner.

This only made Bob more angry and he visited wanton terror upon me. I began babbling to myself and have conditioned myself so against shitting that it is only with a great gnashing of teeth that I can make my approach to the bowl. As the chocolate tube steak descends I feel my rectum tear asunder like the curtain of the holy tabernacle. Bob laughing. Bob laughing.

Now, I have finally found a doctor that can help me. She made the diagnosis with a flashlight clamped firmly in her teeth. I had met her in a bar and Bob was not expecting a midnight diagnosis on my living room floor. "No problem" she said.

I have since been scheduled for surgery on October 29th to exorcise Bob from my most tender of parts. He seems to have accepted his fate and has been more peaceful as of late. We spend our time singing and reminiscing about our last two years together. We talk about the life after this one and I comfort him with rectal salve and oatmeal.

I will post details of the operation, and details about the demise of Bob.

I hope that he will be brave.


Part 2: 10 Nov 93

KEYWORDS: YOUCH!, VIOLENT ANAL DILATION, OH JEEEESUS, HELP

Some of you may remember my previous post regarding my anal fissure, Bob.

The surgery that had been scheduled for October 29th has been postponed until December the first. Bob has had a stay of execution, a reprieve if you will.

Bob has become a holy terror of an anal fissure and my surgeon has informed me that the most effective way of dealing with Bob is a form of surgical exorcism that is know to the medical profession as VIOLENT ANAL DILATION. I am not making this up! They are going to anaesthetize both Bob and me, and then dilate my asshole to a diameter that until that moment it has never known.

My greatest fear is becoming conscious and out of the corner of my eye seeing the medical staff zipping up their trousers.

On a side note, I have met a man named Ream. This is his name. Word of honor. It just seems so appropriate that I meet him at the stage of my life when violent anal dilation is required. Maybe I should spare myself the trauma of surgery and spend more time with Ream.


Part 3: 1 Dec 93

Anal Fissure Bob Returns

As you know, my anal fissure Bob and I were due to be separated today. By that most tasteless of medical marvels, violent anal dilation, Bob was to be no more.

The hospital scheduled the dilation over a week ago. They had sent me some medicine that I was to take the night before, and the morning of the procedure. It consisted of an overdose of some kind of laxative pill and two suppositories the size of a sputnik.

Yesterday evening I had ingested the pills and inserted the Grogan Buster(tm) industrial strength stool liquefier. Around ten, I began to feel the need, and by 10:15 I was sitting on the throne enjoying one of the most massive squats of my life. Everything, and I mean EVERYTHING that was not original equipment that came with my digestive tract was madly scrambling for the exit.

Sound like fun? Well, for a while it was. Then things began to go wrong.

I had evacuated myself from stem to stern. Enough already I thought. Things slowed down, and I showered off.

This morning, I awoke at 4:00 am and as according to my physicians instructions, inserted the remaining suppository. Mistake. By 5:00 I was fully in the throws of the colonic "dry heaves." There was nothing to shit, but my colon was receiving a chemical message to evacuate at any cost. What had started out as a good time was rapidly turning into a nightmare.

I arrived at the hospital at 9:00. I was greeted by a nurse who looked as though she belonged in the WWF. I surrendered my trousers and at her command was treated to not one, but two enemas. There was some kind of chemical added to "help clean you out." I once again began desperately trying to expel the contents of my digestive system. Alas, it had been empty since the night before. I sat on the bowl, my sphincter twitching in and out as it tried to pass the phantom grogan that it thought was there. It began to hurt. Bad. For the next half hour I was in such terrible pain. My asshole felt as though it had been beaten with a baseball bat. Eventually, the pain began to subside.

I was led into an adjoining examination room. A doctor that hadn't seen or fingered me before was there. He explained that my surgery was postponed for a week because they had decided that one final test should be performed.

I should stop here to tell you that I am an American living in the country of Finland. Yeah, I speak some Finnish. But it's limited to things like "Gee, those are nice tits." So I wasn't too hip to the terminology of Finnish speaking proctologists.

If I knew what was about to happen, I never would have laid down on that table.

THE SCOPE! OUCH! OhJeesusOhJeesusOhJeesus.

Never do this! No matter what they tell you! No matter how hard they plead and cajole. Believe me, death is preferable.

What happened to me next was this: A doctor snaked a 60 cm fiber optic hose up my fundament. It had a viewing scope on one end, and a device to pump air into my colon on the other. As he manipulated it up my rectum I could feel the head move through the colon. I could imagine the bright light moving through the labyrinth of sphincters and valves. It reminded me of a motorcycle headlight racing through the Holland tunnel.

The searing pain was intense. At one point in time, I felt as if the thing was pressing on my lungs. I definitely felt it try to enter something that I was sure was some kind of door to my stomach. At that moment, I began to sweat profusely. The world began to spin. My stomach tried to retch, but again, nothing to barf. There I was, lying naked on a cold table with a scope up my air-filled colon, when a plan for revenge crept into my mind. With all my might I pressed my diaphragm down into the pressurized shit chamber. A tremendous wet fart sang around the hose and out my asshole. It was accompanied by the overwhelming stench of impacted fecal matter. A small smile crossed my lips. The doctor and nurse pretended as though nothing had happened. It was only moments later that the tube was retracted and the nurse had to wipe my liquishit smeared rectum.

Needless to say, a good time was had by all.


Part 4: 28 Dec 93

It's been a while since my violent anal dilation.

I'm afraid that I have neglected my duties by not telling you about it sooner. But I have been at some loss for words about it.

My anal fissure Bob who had plagued me for the last three years is in the process of dying.

After the violent anal dilation I had expected to awaken from my anesthetized slumber to find that Bob had been completely destroyed. Annihilated by modern medicine in a small sterile room of a hospital in Seinajoki Finland. A rich heritage of blood and pain wiped out in minutes by strangers in mask and gown.

It all started a couple of Mondays ago at 7 am. I hadn't slept much the night before. Bob was quiet, but I lay awake thinking about what was to come the next morning. I was a little worried. I was about to experience something called violent anal dilation and I was a bit concerned. I found out later that my fears about the procedure where in fact pretty close to reality.

I arrived at the hospital in good spirits. I was shown my bed and given the button up the back surgical minidress. Even though the procedure wasn't scheduled until 1:30 I was required to change into the garment. I suppose that it's a mandatory indignity to humiliate and degrade potential troublemakers. Maybe word had gotten out that I had been asking questions about the procedure. What kind of drugs that they would be giving me, if my physician had performed many of these procedures etc. Medical personnel here don't like being quizzed by foreigners with anal fissures. It had taken lots of explaining just to get permission to have a videotaped documentary of the procedure made and released to me. I had to get my local practitioner to request it. It has since been explained to me that most procedures are taped anyway. They just don't release the tapes to the public.

I was in bed dozing when I felt a sharp pain in my ass. I whirled my head around in bed to see a rather stern and matronly looking woman with a large enema bag. Presumably it was her and her nozzle o' fun that was causing the distress. I admired her technique. I was asleep. She probably figured that I would sleep right through it. What, and miss all the fun? Not likely. Besides, she was about as gentle as a bull elephant. Anal fissure Bob let out a sharp cry of pain. And so did I. She smiled and patted my head like a lap dog as she filled my rectum. As I looked around the room, I realized that we were not alone. Not 10 feet away was the wife and 2 teenage daughters of the varicose vein strip down in the bed next to me. They were all checking me out. I smiled my best grimace and tried to enjoy myself.

At 1:00 my doctor dropped by for a chat. The first thing that I noticed about him was that the hand that he extended in greeting had a slight palsy. Actually, it was more of a tremor. This is true! "Halloo," he said with a poorly forced smile that revealed his large yellow teeth. "I spoke anglish warry badney."

"Uh ... hi," I stammered. "I speak a little Finnish; we will try to talk."

"OK," he agreed.

We chatted about the usual stuff ... pain, etc. I'm trying to ask the guy about the procedure when out of the blue, he looks up and says "We will tear you a new asshole." I am not making this up. By this time, I am not feeling very confident about what's going on and am giving some serious thought to just getting up and leaving. I knew about A.F. Bob. He was something that I could understand. I could live with him. This surgeon was something else. An unknown X with a license to dilate. He gave me two tiny white pills to swallow. "For made you relax" he said. Hmmmm ... now this guy was starting to speak my language. Maybe this wouldn't be so bad after all. "Seee yuuu in da operashunn place" he said, and was gone.

I began feeling a little light-headed from whatever drug it was that he had given me when two orderlies came in. They spoke low and softly to me in Finnish. Who knows what they were talking about. I just kept nodding my head stupidly. I couldn't have answered them anyway as my tongue was stuck to the roof of my parched mouth. As they rolled me down the hall I tried to count the number of acoustic tiles in the ceiling.

Eventually, we arrived at the big swinging doors of the operating room and are met by two others in surgical greens. It is like a prisoner exchange at the Rhine. They greet each other. The two that transported me there wish me a happy dilation, hand over my file to the others, then turn and leave me with the dilation team.

As we enter the operating theatre I begin to feel quite apprehensive. My tongue is thick in my mouth. I am transferred to the main operating table. The anesthetist walks in and without so much as a hello starts tapping my forearm to find a suitable vein. I try to greet him but all that comes out is a horrible squawk.

I am relieved of my meager garment and I lay there, alone and naked. I look down in horror to see that my penis and testicles have completely withdrawn into my abdomen. Perhaps they had seen it first and were trying to warn me because there, on a stainless steel tray, nestled amongst strange looking devices is the object of my apprehension. It is some sort of anal battering ram.

It is stainless steel and is about a foot long. It has two handles bolted to it. And for all the world it looks like one of those Stanley thermoses.

By this time, a vein had been found and been hooked up to the Anesthetist. He still hasn't said anything so I find my voice. "How about a little valium to get thing started." He surprises me by speaking perfect English. "Here," he said, "Try this" and injects something into the hookup that *IMMEDIATELY* makes me feel secure and right at home. No more problems. I chuckle at the prospect of the stainless invader.

As this all was happening, the nurses were quite busy. They had stainless steel poles that they were affixing to the sides of the operating table. On top of these poles were large plastic blocks that were deeply indented to accommodate what could only be my thighs. A more compromising version of the stirrups that doctors often use to examine women. And truly, the video has born my theory out. My buttring is bright, exposed, and nearly eye level to the wielder of the dilation tool.

The chief dilator strolls in, and nods at the anesthetist. The latter hooks up a large syringe full of what looks like vaseline to my I.V. line and says "See you later." I remember trying to fight it just to see if I could. I couldn't. A monster head rush, I try to speak, and that's the last thing that I remember.

It's only now that I review the video that I realize the horror of what actually happened to me.

It's strange to see yourself lying on a cold slab, with your penis retracted, falling unconscious. Right after I go out, a nurse puts a black rubber mask over my face. Two attendants raise my thighs into the "stirrups" and scrunch me down so that my ankles are bent straight back towards my head. The camera angle is from straight overhead, so you get a weird out of body feeling watching the whole thing. One nurse manipulates what's left of my genitalia out of the way while another unceremoniously paints my asshole with some sort of red tinted disinfectant.

The doctor wastes no time and before you can say "Is he asleep?" has two of his fingers deep into my ass. He checks around and during the examination gives my prostate a mighty push. I swear that I shoot a load of something straight onto my belly where it just sits there through the rest of the procedure. The doctor gives a grunt of satisfaction and reaches for the dilator.

Nurses squirt some kind of lubricant from a large syringe into and around my ass. The surgeon then inserts the end of the dilation unit into my ass and begins rotating it left and right. Soon he has my poor asshole fully dilated. And I mean *DILATED*. There I am, out like a light, with a stainless steel thermos up my ass. Every thirty seconds or so the doctor does a 360 with the thing.

Everyone is looking pretty bored, especially me.

After about a half hour of this, the doctor removes the dilator and PUTS HIS ENTIRE HAND UP MY ASS. This is the best part of the video. If you have had a few drinks and squint a little it looks for a moment like some kind of bizarre bondage/fisting film.

A satisfied nod and the nurses move in for the clean up. Someone has the presence of mind to wipe the manually ejaculated fluid off of my belly. Someone swabs the shit and blood from my ass.

I get another syringe of something in my arm. The mask comes off my face. A nurse shakes me gently and my eyes flutter open. "Is it over?" I ask with wondrous shining eyes. Lots of nods around the room. "I dreamed" I say. "Wow, I feel fine!"

End of video.

They wheel me into the recovery room where I try to sit up. I carefully reach down in a cautious exploration of my asshole. It is confounded with a giant tampon like stuffing. "Uh oh" I think to myself and try to ignore it. It's only later when they pull the stuffing out do I realize the full extent of what's happened.

The next day, I took the first effortless shit that I had in sometime. Oh joy! Oh nirvana.

After the surgery, Bob was still his usual self. In fact, he was more terrible than usual. He had expected sudden death and when he awoke, believing that he had survived a professional ass (hehe) ass (hehe) ination attempt, he was even more pissed off and motivated than before. He had felt betrayed, and had amused himself for the first several days by visiting a torturous itching upon me, his host.

The hard part about his slow strangulation is that I can feel him dying. He groans and complains like any other terminal patient. I must take him with me wherever I go. We are like the Siamese twins Chang and Eng. Can I survive without my symbiotic buddy?

Well, at least fire and blood won't shoot out of my ass every time that I try to pop a stubborn grogan. I will no longer know the joys of crying real tears when I shit. For a long time I was told that painful elimination was unnatural. Now, I truly understand.

Now, two weeks later, Bob is only a faint echo of his former self. He is still hanging onto life, but only just. He is still there, an ugly slash of an anal fissure. But there is just the occasional itch, and even that is fading rapidly.

And oh yes ... my butthole has sprung back to a more manageable size. Your asshole really is an incredible machine.

I had a small dinner party on Christmas day. After dinner I put on the video. It took about twenty minutes before anyone realized that it was me. I guess they thought it was Nova or something. Ho Ho Ho. the end

Thank you for your interest in my anal fissure Bob.

-Joe

Re: Potential extinction - please help

Ok! Ok! I have been slacking off. Blame it on the meds, Christmas shopping, and a touch of the blahs. Normal service will resume on a more semi-regular basis - dr. grogan


From Geoff Miller
18 Dec 1995

Speaking of worms, is there any information about whether eating lots of spicy food helps to prevent tapeworm infestation? I'm not terribly afraid of contracting a tapeworm, but since I'm a devotee of extremely spicy food, the thought *had* occurred to me.

ObT: When I was about nine or ten, I was checking out one of the piles of crap left in the backyard by our German shepherd, and I saw what I later learned were roundworms writhing around in the grogan-heaps. I mentioned this to my mom, who ordered some worm medication from the veterinarian. Looking back on it a few years later, I thought it was kind of odd that she never asked me what the fuck I was doing looking so closely at the dog's shit to begin with.

Then there was the time, during the same approximate period in my life, when I discovered that *I* had worms. I could feel the little bastards crawling around just inside my asshole, and it sometimes itched like crazy. So one time while I was taking a dump, I thought "fuck it" and jammed a finger up my ass. It came out with a small white nematode writhing on the tip. I found this fascinating in a detached, scientific sort of way, so I took it in to show my mother.

She was on the phone at the time, yakking to one of her friends, absorbed in conversation as women will often be when captives of Mr. Bell's invention. And I was still of an age where my mother hadn't yet acquired that sense of her child's privacy that mothers only seem to absorb via traumatic, emotional arguments when their kids hit adolescence. She was still at that stage where she was blabbing everything that I did and said to every other woman of child-bearing age in the goddam neighborhood, the word "discreet" not yet having entered her vocabulary as far as I was concerned.

I showed the worm to her as she stood talking on the kitchen telephone, and the resulting conversation, I have to admit, was pretty humorous from a tasteless point of view. "Geoff just showed me this little worm," she volunteered to her friend at the other end of the line (I had no idea who she was even talking to). "I asked him where it came from, and he pointed to his rear end!"

A couple of days later, my mother brought home a bottle of pills that were supposed to de-worm me. She passed along the doctor's warning that the medication would turn my shit bright red, and not to be alarmed if I noticed that. (My mother, Ghod rest her soul, was in stark contrast to my father when it came to matters scatological. I remember being emotionally berated by my dad when, as a budding ATer of five or so, he caught me looking at the paper after I'd wiped my ass. Then again, that bathroom farting incident I wrote about several years ago really did happen, so he isn't totally prudish.) Anyway, the medication's side effects were a let-down. I turned and looked eagerly into the bowl whenever I took a shit for the next week or so, but the most interesting thing I ever saw was a normal grogan surrounded by a faint, aqueous miasma of crimson. Big deal -- and that was just one time. If that happened today, I'd probably sue the doctor for false advertising.

Geoff

--
"Mother Teresa haiku:
Selflessness is a
Ploy that gets me
Laid almost enough." -- Jim Kister

Placenta a la Carte

From big-iain

Date: Sun, 3 Nov 1996

Found this in a major UK paper, admittedly reprinting it from another publication. Any other recipes ?

"THE FIRST time, I fried it in olive oil with a bit of seasoning and disguised it with afew vegetables. The second time, it looked a lot more like a piece of liver and so I just flash fried it for a couple of minutes and heaped on the mustard." Greg a stock-broker, is describing a take-away meal with a difference - his wife's placenta. No longer just hippie health fad, placenta cookery has a new following. Polenta people are getting into placenta, nature's very own raspberry coulis.

Forget ladies who lunch; there are an increasing number of ladies who put people off their lunch. "I'd describe the taste as gamey," Greg's wife, Jane, says nonchalantly. "I think the biggest mistake Greg made first time round was putting it into the freezer whole. He got through three hacksaw blades trying to cut off a bit each day. The last thing he felt like when he got back home was cutting it into portions."

This mistake was not repeated when Greg's second daughter was born recently. Once again, freezer bag at the ready, he took the placenta home -- "it was half the size of a rugby ball'' -- but this time he immediately cut it up into individual oven-ready portions which he froze and then served up to his wife over eight days with pasta or salad on the side.

The growth in popularity of this pseudo-cannibalistic practice is due to the increasingly widespread belief that it can ward off post-natal depression. Given that baby blues are not contagious, most men have a ready-made excuse not to treat it as a dinner-for-two experience, although Sting apparently tucked in when Trudie Styler gave birth.

Placenta cookery is not for the fainthearted. "It looks like something you would refuse if the butcher handed it to you," says Claire, another enthusiast. Merely hearing about it can be enough for some people. "Our unwanted guest of several weeks instantly announced,'I really must be going,' " adds Claire. "The line 'let's see what's in the freezer. Oh dear, we're down to placenta or fish fingers' will get rid of the most insensitive or the totally drunk. "

Anthony Worrell Thompson's Crostini of Placenta with Vin Santo: Cook with olive oil, onion, Vin Santo, capers and anchovies. Blend in a food processor and spread on toasted crostini. The perfect canape for a christening party.

Yummy !

ObT: If Clinton wins again, next time round will you have a choice of voting for 4 more years of Gore ? Or will the Repub's put forward a candidate of Lionel Squicking... "Vote for Sqicking". Tricky choice ! ...and all I get in the UK is the choice of John Major, Tony Blair or "Screaming Lord Sutch" (Official Monster Raving Loony Party)

--

Big-Iain

"Awkward Beasts, Winkles. My Brother Hubert Uses them as Ear-plugs !" Sir Henry Rawlinson

Boogers

From Steven J. Crisp

Date: 18 Dec 1995

Dr. Mellow wrote: "I like it and look forward to hearing about the after effects of his Christmas Dinner."

It was truly magnificent. Val and I entertained two friends who recently got engaged (can't say yet who it is since they want to tell the families first prior to going public.) Anyway, I fixed chicken tenderloins fried to perfection accompanied with tiger shrimp in my own special batter. Now, you must realize that our friends are in their early 20s as is Val. I, on the other hand, am 39 and my internal digestive organs are rapidly deteriorating.

As I said, dinner was wonderful...all the fried food with green beans, white corn, wheat rolls, and some of the finest hot-horseradish shrimp sauce on the planet. The after effects left much to be desired...

You see, the fried food mixed with the horseradish and such began the heartburn. I thought four Rolaids would take care of that problem and it certainly did. Unfortunately, the Rolaids mixed with the corn and began producing gas. Now, that would have been fine and dandy if it were not for the green beans and the fiber in the wheat rolls.

As the mass churned in my stomach, it began mixing with the hydrochloric gastric juices along with a bit of mucus (you know, the type that kinda forces its way out of your salivary glands right before you hurl.) So here I've got the acid combining with the Rolaids producing more gas on top of the beans and the corn interacting with the grease as well as the salivary enzymes breaking down the wheat bread into basic sugars with a non-digestible fiber residue.

Well, my stomach began to swell and since there wasn't any room for it to go upward (lungs, heart, and all that) it moved right toward my liver. That action squeezed my already active gall bladder (since activated by the first drools of fat slipping into the duodenum) and the bile began gushing forth into the intestines. At the same time, I started to feel the then now putty-like food mass squish through the pyloric valve. At first it was a little "squirt-squirt" but it quickly developed into a torrent that sounded like a wino vomiting on the street corner. Then the pancreas kicked in...

So now I've got raw fiber, gas, salivary enzymes, grease, bile, acid, corn, and bean mush getting dumped on by trypsinogen from the pancreas and the protein begins to digest.

All of a sudden, I wanted a glass of chocolate milk.

Now, normally I would rarely drink milk since I have a rather vicious lactose intolerance, but on occasion, I get this craving and I say "what the heck." So I go for the Nestle's Quik and the milk over Val's vehement objections and find that, though we have plenty of Quik, the milk is a bit out of date. December 9th to be precise. Anyway, I sniff the milk and it smells OK, so I pour myself a big glass and mix in my usual ten or 12 tablespoons of Quik. I probably should have remembered at that point that my sinuses had been acting up what with all the warm weather this week and I really couldn't smell much. The little milk clots should have tipped me off as well.

The milk goes down and immediately my stomach yells "fuck it." Normally, I would have just leaned over and did some pretty cool projectile vomiting, but all the gas pressure apparently was forcing the top of my stomach into my diaphragm and, though it was obvious that my stomach was trying desperately to heave out the contents, all it was doing was forcing basically undigested, rotten milk through the pyloric valve into the duodenum with all the rest of the stuff that was already sloshing around in the bile and such.

It seems that at that point, the lactose intolerance kicked in full force and produced a prodigious quantity of gas. It wasn't going up so the force just pushed everything down through the intestine at full bore. At one point, something got tied up in a loop cause I got this real painful cramp, you know, the one where you try to fart but the gas is really no where near your asshole, but is actually still in the small intestine getting ready to pass into the large intestine?

Then the neatest thing happened...I could feel this wad that now had the consistency of wet concrete ramming its way up the large intestine back toward the liver. It moved across - back under the diaphragm and then slammed downward to the anus (didn't want to say asshole again just in case there are kids reading this.)

In a typical event of this type, I would simply get to the toilet and let go, but I was having problems. The hemorrhoids have really been flaring up this week. See, at my age you have a tendency to develop these little hemorrhoids from time to time - perfectly normal and usually not a problem. Just a bit of an itch then they go away in a day or two. Every once in a while, though, the little boogers really flair up and produce these protruding and pustulant boil-like things around your ass. Those develop adhesions and when you try to shit everything gets rather violently pulled apart. If they are young hemorrhoids, its not much of a problem; just a lot of blood and you hope the venous pressure is maintained to the extent that shit does not get forced into your bloodstream. But when they get to festering like these did, you get this vile pus that bursts out. Has a ph of about 2.5 and smells like the sour milk would have if my nose were not stopped up.

Anyway, this stuff is much stronger than the milk so it broke through the stuffed nose and the smell kinda embedded itself way up in my sinuses and ear canals. And even though I'll probably be smelling that for several more hours, that was the least of my problems at the moment. For what was causing the expansion of my ass and the emptying of the roids to begin with was the pressurized hose of shit that was pumping out of my ass.

Have you ever seen a garden hose at full bore? Well, that is about what was coming out of my ass. A thick stream of greenish, brown, mucus infiltrated stream was jetting out of the now pus-laden hole and pumping into the toilet. Oh, and there was corn in there, as well as partially digested bean mass. I guess the beans just got shoved through so quickly that they didn't have the time to fully decompose (although they did just enough to add to the gas.) Speaking of which...

I never realized that it was possible to spray a fart like that. But wait, I'm getting a bit ahead of myself. The whole process took about six or seven minutes and the bulk of the pressure was off. I flushed the toilet, got up, and slipped over to the sink. Looking in the mirror, I realized that I had built up a healthy sweat from the ordeal and leaned over slightly to splash water on my face. At that very moment, I remembered that if one leans over, the large intestine, rather than having to make a ninety degree turn to get to the asshole, then become a virtually straight pipe out. And obviously not all the gas had dissipated yet.

Recall the garden hose? Well take that solid stream and put it on full pressure spray. Must have been another half-gallon of liquid green/brown shit plugging up a large gas pocket because all of it decided to come out at that moment. Lucky for me that when I am bent over at the sink my bathtub is directly behind my ass. I was rather surprised, though, that I had that kind of artistic ability in me; the shit-splatter pattern on the back wall of the tub was stunning. I hadn't noticed that little slug that had crawled into the bathroom until that moment. And I never realized that they liked to eat shit so much.

I just hope in all this ordeal that my inguinal hernia did not let some of the liquid shit through into my nuts. If that happened then over the next several days I can look forward to having a case of epididymitis flare up. Normally that would not bother me since it just takes a few days of antibiotics to knock out, but I get real embarrassed when I have to give a urine test and the piss comes out looking like a combination of juicy shit and the stuff that drains out your ears after a really bad infection. Oh well, such is life...

Steve Crisp

Self-Circumcision

From Greg Bernath

I once chopped pieces of foreskin off my penis with a pair of cuticle scissors.

Now that I've got your attention, I'll go back and tell the whole story. Apologies if it gets a little lengthy, but this yarn deserves to be spun well.

BACKGROUND

After I was circumcised as an infant, the wound was not taken care of with sufficient diligence, and it healed incorrectly. Portions of the raw edge of the remaining foreskin bonded to the glans, a little bit above the lower edge of the glans. This left a series of "skin bridges", basically sections of foreskin which can't be retracted, because they are fused to the glans at one end and the shaft at the other. These varied in width from about 1/16" to 1/4", and were attached off and on over about 2/3 of the circumference.

This was never a major problem. It was a long time before I even realized it was abnormal. Everything functioned properly, but there were a few minor problems with it which made me wish I could fix it. Mainly,

1. It was a cosmetic defect -- it didn't look good.

2. It was tough to keep clean under the bridges -- I had to swab it with a Q-tip now and then to knock down smegma buildup.

3. Some of the most sensitive parts of the glans were hidden under relatively insensitive chunks of foreskin, robbing me of the proper stimulation which was mine and every man's birthright.

Over the past few years, I'd been thinking of getting it corrected, but there were problems. Doctors cost money, and I didn't have it, and student insurance sure wasn't gonna cover it. Plus, the thought of some strange doctor chopping at my peepeehead gives me chills.

Now, all a doctor would do it sterilize it, numb it, cut it and bandage it. "Hell, maybe I can do that!", I thought. The problem was how to kill the pain. I experimented with cutting myself (with an x-acto knife), but seeing as it always hurt like hell before I even cut anything, I never went through with it.

Recently, I came back and studied the situation. Again, the problem with the self-surgery approach was dealing with pain. There had to be some way of numbing the area, but how? One winter day, it hit me. If cold can make fingers go numb, then cold can also make a ManTool[tm] go numb. With this in mind, I pioneered a the "home penile self-surgery procedure".

SURGERY KIT

Cuticle scissors (1 pair)
Rubbing alcohol (1 bottle)
Antibiotic ointment (1 tube)
Anti-bacterial soap (1 bottle)
Gauze pads (lots, various sizes)
Ice cubes (iodine added to water for sterility)
Clean Washcloth (freshly laundered with lots'o bleach)
Well-lit work area (the kitchen table)

PROCEDURE

Wipe down work area with alcohol. Clean penis with soap and water, then with alcohol. Wash hands thoroughly. Soak scissors in alcohol.

Holding the ice cube with the washcloth (to prevent your fingers from going numb), apply the ice cube to the target area. Hold for 5 to 10 minutes, until area is numb.

Using the cuticle scissors, sever the skin bridge as closely as possible to its connection with the glans. Then sever the foreskin end of the bridge in such a location as to leave an even edge on the foreskin.

Use gauze pads and direct pressure to stop the bleeding, then apply antibiotic ointment and bandage.

THE OPERATIONS

Though the operations are not painful if done correctly, the healing process is a real pain in the ass. It also takes a certain state of mind to be able to cut your own flesh. I would kind of put myself into robo-man zombie mode for the operations, in that I never dwelled on what I was doing, I just mechanically plodded through all the steps without thinking about how totally gross it was. Since the ice cube could only numb a small portion of the penis, and since I could only tolerate so much trauma to my dick in one session, it took 6 separate operations, spread out over a two week period, to cut/remove all of the skin bridges.

Operation #1 (Day 1)

The test cut. I chose a small thin skin bridge, about 1/16" across. I held the ice cube on for 5 minutes. The ice caused a peculiar kind of "cold ache", but it wasn't that bad. I gingerly made the cuts, and sliced through with no pain at all. There was some minor bleeding, but because of the speed at which I worked, I had finished and had the gauze on it before the wound had any chance to bleed significantly. After about 10 minutes the bleeding was stopped and I bandaged it up, no problem at all. Only a tiny little speck of flesh had been removed, rather unimpressive looking.

Operation #2 (Day 3)

Operation #1 turned out so well, I decided to go for big game this time. The target was the mother of all skin bridges, about 1/4" across and very thick and meaty. Again, I made the preparations and applied ice for 5 minutes.

I made the first cut along the glans, and was surprised at how much I had to bear down on the scissors. This skin was surprisingly tough. I finished that cut, and then turned my attention to the cut on the foreskin side. Wanting to get it done quickly, I decided that two large, powerful snips should do the job. I bore down and made the first cut, and realized with a shock that IT HURT LIKE HELL.

Well, it turns out that due to the thickness of the skin bridge on that end, the cold hadn't penetrated deeply enough, and it hadn't gone numb. So, I was left with a problem. I had a half severed bit of foreskin hanging off me, and no anesthetic. My only recourse was to finish the cut. I thought, "Shit. This will hurt.". So I lined up the scissors, closed my eyes, and as quickly and powerfully as I could, I made the snip. My prediction was correct; it did hurt (don't you hate when you're right about things like that?). I managed to avoid shouting out, instead opting for a few simple gasps and whimpers.

I resolved to hold the ice on for much longer in future operations.

Being that this was a bigger cut than the first, it bled much more profusely. It took about 20 minutes of direct pressure and a lot of gauze until I could staunch the main flow. Even then it kept oozing blood for a few hours. I spent the rest of the evening with nothing on below the waist, sitting in front of the TV with a few brews (this became standard procedure for all forthcoming operations). Any motion tended to make it break open and bleed again, so I moved around very little. I was functioning (that is, walking) almost normally again by the next day, but it took about 5 days before this one completely stopped oozing blood.

As I gingerly hobbled back into the kitchen for another brew, I spotted IT, the severed hunk-o-foreskin that I had left on the table. It was of fairly good size, about 1/2" by 1/4" and maybe as thick as a piece of bacon. Suddenly, strange thoughts entered my skull, and a raging mental battle between good and evil ensued.

EVIL: "Eat the foreskin."
GOOD: "Don't do it!! That's gross!!"
EVIL: "Eat the foreskin."
GOOD: "Stop thinking about it!!"
EVIL: "You know what you must do. Eat it. It is your destiny."
GOOD: "But that's cannibalism!"
EVIL: "So what?"
GOOD: "Cannibalism is shunned for a reason! It spreads diseases!"
EVIL: "Look dipshit. It's your own fucking flesh. Any diseases in there, you already got."
GOOD: "But it's SELF-cannibalism!"
EVIL: "So is chewing on the piece of skin you bit off your fingertip. BFD."
GOOD: "But this is weird, deranged and perverted!"
EVIL: "Exactly"
GOOD: (Hauls its sorry whupped ass away and shuts up)

So, I ate it. Turns out it was very tough and chewy, kind of like biting a little piece of rubber. I chewed for about 5 minutes, but didn't make any progress on breaking it down, so I swallowed it. It had a little bit of blood flavor at first, but after that it had no flavor at all; rather disappointing in that respect. Maybe I should have cooked it.

Operation #3 (Day 10)

A medium sized cut. I held the ice cube on much longer (10 minutes instead of 5), so there was no problem with pain. Not nearly as much bleeding, but still a respectable amount.

A word about erections: they were a bad thing. Any hard-on would tear the wounds open and start them bleeding again. This would be a problem for about 3 or 4 days until the wounds had healed sufficiently. Basically, I had to spend a long, long time without even thinking a nasty thought. Of course, when I was asleep I had no control over the process, which would always result in me waking up with a dick that hurt and bloody bandages. I was really lovin' life at moments like these.

Operation #4 (Day 12)

Another medium sized cut, but with the added bonus of having a small vein (about 1 mm in diameter) running through the skin bridge. Now, the blood supply for the penis mainly runs through blood vessels buried deep inside. When you get down the the small vessels, the circulatory system becomes more of a spiderweb, with redundant paths going to every point. So I knew it wasn't actually dangerous to cut it, but it was still a kind of psychological obstacle. I expected this one to be a heavy bleeder, and I wasn't disappointed. It took about a full hour of direct pressure to get the severed ends of the vein to close up. Otherwise, not too much of a problem.

Operation #5 (Day 14)

I was planning on more time to let the others heal, but due to changes in the way skin tension was being applied to the remaining bridges (because I'd cut some others away), one small bridge was getting a lot of stress and starting to hurt. So I chopped it quick and easy, no real problems.

Operation #6 (Day 15)

The problem with operation #5 was that it just transferred the stress to the next bridge down the line. So even though I had about 3/4" of flesh left to cut, I resolved to do it all at once in one last cutting frenzy.

Due to the size of the operation, it took a while to complete (maybe 1 minute total), which gave the blood a chance to flow. I had to stop a few times and wipe away blood so I could see what I was doing. Strangely, this didn't bother me at all. It seemed perfectly normal that I should be wiping up copious amounts of blood flowing from my bleeding pecker which I had sliced open myself. Actually, it seemed kind of cool at the time, which led me to speculate at the time that I had gone insane, which I also thought was pretty cool.

Anyway, except for the excess blood which had dripped on to the chair, it went quite well. The only thing that really grossed me out was when I noticed I had blood all over my hands. If any psychoanalysts want to analyze that tidbit for me, feel free, though I really don't care.


The wounds are now completely healed, and the results are good. Mainly:

1. There are no scars to speak of, just a few bumps on the glans. This is because I didn't trim the flesh quite close enough in a few spots. They kind of resembling little warts. I thought about going back and trimming them off, but I kind of like 'em now. After all, it's not everyone who has the privilege of appearing to have warts, without actually being diseased.
2. Without the skin tension holding things back, total dick length has increased by 1/4". (Of course I've measured the length of my dick. Like you haven't?)
3. It's a great topic for dinnertime conversation. Women generally seem to find it quite interesting. Men generally turn kind of pale.
   

With my newfound surgical skills, I've been contemplating a few more self-surgical procedures. You know, mole removal, wart removal, nose jobs, the whole vista of cosmetic surgery. I'll need some help for that mole on my back, which means training an assistant. Ah, the future looks interesting indeed ...

Anything for a bet 'Fecal George'

From Rob Vaughn


PRELUDE

During my freshman year at Purdue, some idiot living on my floor of our residence hall foolishly stated that he would allow his head to be shaved for $100 -- right down to the scalp. A few of the guys on the floor organized a collection process and quickly raised the money. The event became what we termed "a floor function" and guests were invited to attend. The whole thing took place one evening around 7 o'clock or so with about 30 guests in attendance. It was a real popular floor function and no real harm was done to anyones image or pride. But that's not the story.

Here's the story:

THE SETUP

About a year later, I was a sophomore living on that same floor and we starting talking about tasteless things we'd do if the money was right. Some guy mentions that the previous year we had a great floor function wherein a floor member shaved his head (allowed it to be shaved, actually) for $100. Other guys stated that there's no way in hell they'd shave their head for a scant $100; it would take hundreds or thousands of dollars for them to do it. Then some guy (me!) says, "What would it take for you to eat a spoonful of shit?" Huge sums of money were now being discussed for this tasteless feat. A million dollars was a real common figure. So my friend, George, decides to open his big, stupid mouth (opps! foreshadowing). George says something along the lines of, "I'd never let somebody shave my head but I'd probably eat a spoonful of shit for $50." Really, George? $50?? Are you serious?

LOGISTICAL MATTERS

Yep, George was serious. And before George had a chance to change his mind, the fund raising gears were set in motion. Word went out that another floor function was being planned for next week sometime. A "lottery" or sorts was held. (The Feces Lottery was my idea. We were faced with two problems: we didn't have $50 for George and we didn't have any shit for him to eat. I solved both problems in one brilliant moment. :-) For the low, low price of just $1, you could buy one chance at winning the Feces Lottery. (For $5, you got 6 chances.) After we had the $50 in hand, we placed the names of the contributors in a hat (actually it was a trash can). We drew out 2 names. One of the "winners" declined his prize and we drew another name. We now had our two lottery winners and, you guessed it, those two winners got to be the Feces Donors.)

George made us agree that the feces in question had to be of a somewhat "normal" variety. Nothing green and runny, no diarrhea, nothing with high corn-content, ... standard requests for this sort of thing, I guess. That's why we had two lottery winners; we decided to give George his choice. We told the lottery winners they couldn't do things like eat a bunch of prunes, have Taco Bell for five days straight, etc. This was, after all, a floor function and we would to keep things friendly.

The day before the floor function was to take place, the two lottery winners were escorted from their rooms (one at a time) by part of the fund raising committee. Each was sent into a bathroom that had been certified "feces free" with only a medium-sized cup (we had to be sure that no illegal feces made it to the big event). After each of the winners completed his assigned task and departed the bathroom, the cup was sealed and placed into the refrigerator of the most honest guy living on the floor for overnight safe-keeping. [BTW, one of the winners had a little trouble on his first trip to the bathroom and ended up having to give it a second try a couple of ours later. He came through like a real trooper the second time around. ;-) ]

THE STAGE IS SET

Although attendance was strictly by invitation only, we had a huge crowd -- well over 100. George was escorted into the elevator lobby (where all of our floor functions took place) as if he was a king. The crowd shouted and cheered upon his entrance. George was placed center stage complete with homemade bib and a big glass of water. [He was sober, upon insistence of the fund raising committee.] After giving George about 5 minutes to sweat in front of the crowd, The Feces Fetcher made his way into the lobby - with one cup in each hand held proudly over his head. The crowd went wild. The chants of GEORGE!! GEORGE!! GEORGE!! GEORGE!! reached a deafening level. The spoon (a soup spoon!) was brought forward by another member of the fund raising committee. In accordance with the rules, the two cups of feces were presented to George for his perusal and, ultimately, his decision. [This is where I became somewhat concerned about George -- about his physical well being, not his mental well being. Mentally, I knew he was already scarred for life and nothing could change that now. I thought if he could live until morning we could get him home to his parents at the end of the semester and they could deal with the long-term mental damage.]

After a hesitation of about 10 seconds [I thought he was going to pass out], George, pale-faced and covered with sweat, selected the cup on his left. The crowd roared again: GEORGE!! GEORGE!! GEORGE!! GEORGE!! Still in accordance with the rules, The Feces Fetcher spooned up a nice helping for George. (The rules stated that this helping would be a "healthy spoonful" but not a "heaping spoonful.") The spoon was then handed to George, who was still wearing his bib and still had his big glass of water in his other hand. (The rules stated that George had to do the following in order to get his $50 reward: insert spoon w/ feces into mouth, remove spoon from mouth clean of feces, show the crowd the clean spoon, swallow feces so as to remove it from mouth, display empty mouth to crowd by sticking out tongue and saying "awwww" like you do at the doctor's office. After that he could then eat or drink as he wished. He also had to keep it down for at least 10 minutes -- we figured after 10 minutes if he wanted to send it back through his mouth the other way, that was fine with us, but he didn't get any extra money for it.)

George then raised the spoon w/ feces up to eye level at arms length from his body. He made a couple of wide sweeping arcs in front of his body with the spoon so that everyone in the crowd could get a good look at the winning feces. [It was at this point that I could tell George *really* didn't want to go through with this thing. He was wondering about the consistency. "Will it be like pudding or more like ... what? Will I notice the smell? How much of it will get stuck between by teeth? Will I have bad breath the rest of the night. Am I going to double over and throw up saliva covered human feces in front of all these people who don't really even know me? How did I get myself into this mess? Can I possibly get out of this?" Well, George took a long, hard look at the crowd and knew that there was simply no way to back down. I almost felt sorry for the guy. Just thinking of what he was about to do actually made my stomach queasy and my knees a little bit weak -- and I used to deliver roadkill to my "friends" back when I was in high school.]

After everyone had a good look at the feces covered spoon, George held it straight in front of his face, about a foot from the tip of his nose. He took a deep breath and brought the spoon toward his opened mouth -- and stopped. The spoon went back to being a foot from the tip of his nose and his eyes sort of rolled up toward the top of his head. [I thought he was gone for sure...] He then steadied himself, took another deep breath, forced the spoon into his mouth, (flash! flash! flash! from all the cameras in the lobby) closed his mouth and his eyes, and then withdrew a nice, clean soup spoon from his mouth. We all held our breath and just watched. He inhaled more air through his nose and swallowed hard. [I'm sure I imagined it, but I thought I heard the lump go down -- just like in the cartoons.] Then in one instant, his eyes opened, his mouth opened, his tongue stuck out of his mouth and he rolled his head back so we could see inside his mouth. 8-() It was empty. George then took another deep breath and gulped down the entire glass of water. Two people in the crowd got sick and had to go outside. George made his way down to the bathroom where he had toothbrush and toothpaste waiting.

THE EPILOGUE

My friends and I made our way back to our end of the floor. We couldn't really believe that he had done it -- and only for $50, we said. What an idiot, we said. We were then discussing whether or not he would get sick before morning. Or would he kill himself tonight while we slept? Would he ever do anything that stupid again? Would he ever eat shit again for $50? Certainly not, we decided. We could tell it had been a traumatic experience for him. And we knew he'd never be the same.

Then as four or five of us are standing around talking outside our rooms, George comes out of the bathroom and starts walking toward us (his room was at the other end of the floor). He comes down and leans up against the wall next to us. Everyone is speechless. Silence. Then I finally say, "George, I can't believe ..."

But I'm cutoff in mid-sentence as George belches (BUURRP!) and says, "Oh, excuse me."

That was all I could take. I had to go in my room and sit down for a few minutes. I'm just glad I couldn't smell it.

dutch fire dump

From scary

20 Nov 1995

I have read alt.tasteless the requisite 2 months, and have been thoroughly grossed out many, many times. thank you all

here is my contribution

I was working in amsterdam, netherlands for a few months, installing a computer network and teaching the folks there how to use it

I was in the middle of a client meeting in the boss's elegant offices with half a dozen people, and I felt a righteous shit coming on, so I excused myself at an appropriate point and retired to the adjoining executive bathroom (which was quite small, actually - a sink and a toilet)

they have these toilets in amsterdam (and I have heard they are elsewhere in europe, as well) that have a shelf that sits high and dry above the sump, so that when you shit, it sits on this shelf, presumably so that you can examine it after you are through. I like it, especially since it prevents getting toilet water splashed on your ass. since the shit is exposed it makes more of a smell, but that's okay by me - sight and smell evaluation of your dumps are an important part of hygiene

I made a rather large pile on the shelf, and used three handfuls of toilet paper to wipe (sequence: back to front, check, front to back, check, back to front again) and was about to get up when I felt a second wave coming on. oh well. it happens

the second wave was going to be more difficult, a hard shit following a soft shit. as I contemplated what I could have eaten the last day to bring about this sequence, I lit a cigarette to mask the prodigious miasma wafting out of the bowl. about halfway into the painful second dump I felt the need for some sort of mild sedation to help dull the pain, so I tossed the half-smoked cigarette into the bowl (from behind, being careful not to burn my ass) and lit a joint instead

as the fine dutch cannabis began curling around my brain, I became aware of a second, sharp pain on my ass. heat. I glanced around and saw flames licking out of the bowl, singeing my butt crack hairs and making my shirttail smoulder. the cigarette had caught the used toilet paper on fire. I jumped up and spun, shouting. the stalactite of poop which was hanging out of my sphincter whipped around and broke off, sticking to the wall momentarily before gracefully sliding to the floor, leaving a long, brown smear

the fire was merrily blazing away on the toilet shelf, and I reached around it to flush and put the fire out. nothing. the toilet was not functioning. I panicked, and flung the door open to the office, pants around my ankles, shit smeared on my ass, a joint in my hand, and shouted "FIRE!!"

six pairs of eyes were riveted on me and the fire in the toilet. there was no laughter as they scrambled. one of my co-workers (bless him) had the presence of mind to grab a chemical fire extinguisher and shoot it, first on the back of my smouldering shirt, and then on the pile of burning shit and toilet paper

in the quiet aftermath, I started laughing, and gradually the rest of the group joined in. I had a slight burn on my ass crack, the hairs were all singed away, and my shirt was ruined. we opened windows to clear out the foul-smelling smoke, cleaned up a bit, and resumed the meeting

when the meeting was through, the clients thanked me for the inadvertent entertainment. later that week, they sent me a brand new dress shirt to replace the one that was burned

all in the line of duty

--------------
caution: pressing the pause button may cause your machine to pause
--------------

Some random thinkings

From NIKOLAUS MAACK

2 Nov 1995

Ever since I mentioned to my girlfriend that I read here in good ole alt.tasteless that the average person farts 14 times a day, we've been counting our farts religiously. It makes for strange conversation.

"So as I was saying to so-and-so..."

"Five."

"Five? What do you..." *sniff sniff* "Oh."

And then, later that night, I lay naked on my girlfriend's bed while she popped all the pimples on my body. On my face, my arms, my back, my ass, my legs. Shit, who knew there were so many pimples on a person? She would cackle with glee as she would come across one, and then squeeze it with her finger nails. There's be that nice jab of pain, followed by release. Like a mini orgasm.

[The following is a fictional add on to make this worthy of being in alt.tasteless. If you don't understand the difference between fiction and reality, then you're probably a fundemantalist christian, and should be praying instead of reading this garbage.]

While hunting all over my girlfriend's body for pimples, I came across her clitoris, and, in the madness of the moment, mistaking it for a pimple, I tried to pop it. And I did. It popped open, and bits of clitoris flew everywhere. My girlfriend began to scream, and I flashed back to first aid class. What does one do to stop bleeding? Direct pressure!

Well, I thought to myself, last week when we had sex in a certain way, she really enjoyed it because my pelvic bone put "direct pressure" on her clitoris.

So being the clever sort of guy that I am, I moved my girlfriend about so that my pelvic bone would do just that. Then, while fucking her, I dialled 911.

"What's the matter?" the 911 operator asked.

"I blew up my girlfriend's clitoris like a pimple, and now I'm fucking her to stop the bleeding. Please hurry, I may cum soon."

So fire trucks and ambulances and police cars all arrived at my girlfriend's place (scaring the hell out of her parents). The ambulance attendants decided that I should keep on applying pressure, so the two of us were slipped naked on to the stretcher, and carried out of my girlfriend's home. Her mom fainted upon seeing my recently de-pimpled derriere shaking about as I thrusted in and out of what she thought was her daughter's *virgin* cunt. (I was supposed to be teaching her algebra, not fucking her, or popping her pimples.)

In any case, the police decided not to press charges for any of my crimes, (statutory rape, impromptu clitorendectomy, etc) as I blew them. Cops sure do cum quick when you suck on their nightsticks and fondle their balls. Guess that's why the join the force: to take out their aggressions in some way other than sex and beating their wives.

I wouldn't want to leave you all with the impression that police officers are mad, violent, crazed neanderthals with a bloodthirsty sense of aggression. Some cops got real tender after I blew them, and wanted to cuddle for a while. It was so cute. I felt real guilty when I handcuffed them, made them perform oral sex on their guns (after first fucking them up the ass with those same guns) and the used their steel batons to beat their testicles like they were eggs. Ayep. Sure felt guilty. For about 5 minutes.

Ah, morals. You slip and slide out of my heart like a big greasy cock out of a screaming tight little rectum.

Nik

---
If you flame me, you are really flaming yourself. Think about it.
Thought about it? Now go fuck yourself.

My Poor Ol' Lazy Dick

From Dr Sonya

Sat, 11 Nov 1995

Jeff Smith writes: "Having a bladder roughly the size of a peach pit, I get up to whizz a few times a night. "

Hmmmm....well, unless you've been drinking a quart of water, coffee, or beer prior to going to bed, nocturia (pissing at night) ain't particularly normal. Most often, it's a sign of diabetes mellitus. A quick n' tasteless way to tell: taste your urine; if it has a sweet taste, you best be visiting your local quack. Historical tasteless note: this is the way that diabetes was diagnosed Way Back When - a "doctor" would taste the patient's urine for a sweet taste. The name "mellitus" comes from the Greek word *mililotos*, which means "sweet clover". Hollister - do you like to prime your diabetic boys with some candy or Coke prior to partaking in their golden offerings?

Okay, 'nuff of that little sidetrack - now on to the "meat" of the matter ...

"Could I be stretching the tendons or supporting muscles by bending my schween three times a night -- hastening my inevitable sexual incompetence? Tae? (gulp) Sonya? Anybody? "

[grabs Netter's Atlas of Human Anatomy off bookshelf]

Well, for starters, there are no muscles per se that are responsible for an erect choad. The muscles in the base of the penis are the bulbospongiosus muscle, which is found at the base underneath the choad. It appears to wrap around the base only (therefore, not onto the shaft). The other is the ischiocavernosus muscle which again covers the corpora cavernosa part of the choad at the base. These muscles are very thin, and lie between several layers of fascia covering the choad and nutsack. I don't think you have to worry about bending your ManTool when you wiz with an erection.

While we're at it, there are some other fun anatomical facts about the anatomy of this area that must be mentioned. The next time you have your face, PissPump, or favorite foreign object in someone's perineal area, you can say you read about it on a.t.!

Perineum: basically the area between the pubic symphysis and tip of the coccyx (tailbone), with the sides being formed by the ischial tuberosities (your "sit-bones"). Those geometry wizzes out there will see that these areas will form a trapezoid. A line carried across the ischial tuberosites will form two triangles:

Urogenital triangle: In women, this includes the WhiskerBiscuit (tm Zeno) and all associated structures. In men, it's pretty much the area commonly referred to as the "taint". Nothing really exciting (i.e. - no orifice) 'cept the base of the nutsack. Is a great place to apply some serious tongue action in either sex.

Anal triangle: A favorite area of our buddy Spike and all other anophiles. This obviously contains the A.T. Chosen Orifice - the anus, leather donut, chocolate starfish, brown eye, etc. Also contains the "taint" in women.

Here is a little ASCII to give you an idea; assume your partner (or mother, in the case of mcDouch) is lying with his/her legs apart (yum, yum!):

\ / <----inner thigh
\00/ <----nutsack (yeah, it's small - so?)
/||\ <----pubic symphysis/base of choad
/ `\ <----urogenital triangle
<-------> <----left ischial tuberosity
\ / <----anal triangle
\(*)/ <----anus (aka "Bane's tunnel 'o love")
`\/ <----tip of coccyx
__/\__ <---bottom of ass


If you don't like the diagram, you can kiss my (*). I'm a fuckin' doctor, not an ASCII artist.

"ObPiss: After drinking coffee, my urine smells like straw."

Hmmmm...sorry, Jeff - I don't know what to say about this. Other than to wonder if it is expresso or regular coffee...bwhahahah! If you ever cart your sorry ass out this way like you've *promised*, we can do some piss taste/smell tests on you with various ingested fluids.

BTW - thanks for all those that wrote with requests for the "Tasteless Medical Condition of the week"; I've gotten enough requests to last a few mos, and I will add my own as I come across them. Stay tuned....

ObTeaser: I checked out an amazingly greaH^H^H^H^oss book of macropathology (that is, pics of the entire diseased organ, etc). I knew I had to share it with you scumbags when I saw Chapter 18 - Malformations Definition: "Malformations are permanent defomities of the entire body or parts thereof....Monsters are infants born with pronounced malformations; less severe deviations from the norm are called anomalies." Woo hoo - you would not *believe* the pictures of these abominations! Anybody got a scanner they wanna let me borrow?

-Dr. S. , again bringing you the best that tasteless medicine has to offer!

Decapitation

From Sgt Zeno

Tue, 1 Aug 1995

From the NandO Times online newspaper:

Two Saudis beheaded for murder in kingdom

DUBAI, UAE - Two convicted Saudi murderers were beheaded Tuesday, bringing the number of executions in Saudi Arabia this year to 116, according to an unofficial count. A Saudi Interior Ministry statement, reported by Gulf news agencies, said the two were found guilty of beating a Pakistani taxi driver to death. Since July 12, 10 Saudi men have been beheaded in the kingdom, including two for raping a 12-year-old girl.

Saudi Arabia, which implements strict Sharia Islamic law, executes by the sword, and in public, rapists, murderers, drug smugglers and those convicted of violent armed robberies. Many of those beheaded this year were Asians and Africans convicted of drug smuggling. According to unofficial counts, 53 people were beheaded in Saudi Arabia in 1994 and 85 in the previous year.

ObTastelessShortStory:

This reminds me of what happened about a year-and-a-half ago. I lived in Dhahran, Saudi Arabia, and I got to know a lot of the locals. Actually I partied with the locals and drank their highly illegal moonshine that everybody drinks (stupid laws...nobody cares...everybody does it).

I hung out with this Filipino dude during most of my residence there. He was a cool guy, and he always knew how to get ahold of single, Filipina nurses (ha cha cha). His name was Victor (obviously a traditional Filipino name).

Every once in awhile, Joseph would hang out with us at these speakeasy parties. He was kind of a dweeb, and he never got laid. He was small and scrawny, and he had really bad breath. But he did blow a decent snot-rocket.

But one night (at the Halloween party at Al-Gazaibi's) he met a married Filipina girl whose husband was not with her. I guess the poor sot had terrible hours or something. She was butt-ugly (perfect match).

Well, that got rid of Joseph (thank Allah). He didn't attach his ass-licking personality to any more of our great exploits that he tended to ruin (more often than not).

I didn't think about him for a couple months, and Victor and I continued our good old game of Russian Roulette with Your Dick. One day Victor and I got together, and he said to me:

"Hey, dude, you'll never believe what happened. Remember Joseph? He's in jail...Evidently, old snaggletooth made it a habit of coming over to his apartment for evening plumbing work. Something went wrong one night, and she just up and died...Heart condition or something of the sort...Anyway, she died, and Joseph didn't know what the hell to do....So he put her in the closet...6 days, man...Who knows what the hell Mr. Snaggletooth had been doing all along...Anyway, Joseph gives up and calls the police and tells them that Mrs. Buttface is in the apartment, and she's dead.

"Well the cops come and instantly arrest him. [Saudi cops are more likely to shoot first, ask q's later.] They tossed him in the slammer to rot."

Well, that's how I found out that Joseph got arrested. It was about a month later when they held the trial for him. They found him guilty of adultery, hiding evidence, having a woman in the house, drinking alcohol, and generally being an infidel.

He was given the death penalty.


I talked to another friend of mine. He worked in the Ministry of Justice or some other place like that. He was a Saudi and loved Americans (a lot). He liked to touch Americans (a lot). I usually tried to avoid him, but I decided to ask him a favor.

"Mohammed," I said (because that was his name), "Someone I know just got the death penalty..."

He gave me a strange look like I was about to ask the impossible.

"No, I don't want you to free him, I want to know when they're gonna chop his head off."

He gave a sigh of relief and said, "Yes, my friend, I find out for you... I will give you a call tomorrow and let you know...and maybe you can come to my place for a party..."

I wasn't that happy about him finding out info for me, I just nodded and grinned and said "maybe" a lot....just like they do.

Anyway, the moment of truth approached. I planned it out...I took the day off, I got some Riyals out of the bank, and planned my route the night before.

I parked about five blocks from Chop Chop Square (nickname that ExPats gave the place where this was going to occur). And I walked the rest of the way.

A small crowd of people was already gathered when I arrived, and some guards were already escorting somebody out. Several Saudis looked at me and saw that I was an American and shoved me ahead of them in the square. They started shouting "Amriki! Amriki!" and everybody pushed me to the front. When I got there, I could see that two other curious Americans were already there. They looked rather stunned already, and when I looked at the riser, I saw a gleaming pool of blood. Obviously the last guy had just left.

The guards dragged their prisoner out to the square and put him on his knees. Some official read some statement aloud in Arabic (which I have only a small grasp of), the only word I understood was "inshallah" and that means "if god wills it."

They laid his arm out on the block and "THWACK" with the sword, his hand popped right off. One guy grabbed it up, and another applied a tourniquet to his arm/stump/wrist. A little blood splashed during this episode, and the guy grimaced in pain and let out a bleat like a suffocating sheep. It was obvious that the guy had been drugged before they chopped off his right hand...I guess it's merciful...and rather disappointing.

It seemed like forever before they brought the next prisoner out. Actually they brought out two prisoners. And one of them was good-old Joseph. I hope he learned his lesson about screwing ugly, married women.

They made the two guys kneel down for the punishment. The executioner approached with his big, shiny sword and stood between the two prisoners. The official read some sort of decree that probably stated that the two men you now see before you are filthy, infidel swine, we spit upon their heathen ways...blah blah blah.

At that, the official sort of looked down at me...making a weird kind of eye contact that made me extremely uneasy. To the side, I could see the executioner turn to the second prisoner who I didn't know. The death-verdict reader continued to hold his gaze with me, and I started to shake a little, and I could feel my heart pumping blood straight to my temples.

The executioner raised his sword into the sunlight, and brought it down "THWUP" not decapitating the man. In the same motion, he swung the sword down, around, and up as he turned to Joseph "THWUP" cutting into the skin on the back of his neck.

He turned to the first guy "THWUP" back to Joseph "THWUP" and "THWUP" and "THWUP" and the two head landed on the ground in front of the bodies like some sort of ritual sacrifice. Blood pumped out of their bodies rhythmically and pooled about the heads that lay motionless on the riser.

The other guy's body sort of slid to the side of the chopping block in slow motion and hit with a soft thump. Blood splashed out into the crowd. One of the Americans near me gagged and ran out of the crowd, and some of the Saudis laughed at him.

I looked back up at the official who had so disturbed me with his stare, but he was already walking quickly back to the building as four men cleaned up the mess.

As I turned and walked out of the square, all I could hear was the blood rushing in my ears. I barely noticed the locals who stared at me to see my reaction. I guess it wasn't very note-worthy, as they turned away in boredom to see what the third "Amriki" was doing.

I drove home with a different outlook on death. It's one thing to shoot enemy tanks at 3000 yards and kick around dead bodies that have been lying in the desert for a few days, and dragging airplane crash victims out of the river. But it sure is something when someone you know gets their head chopped off in front of you.

"I dig no shallow graves."

Setting Fire to my Armpit Hair

From Tim Hayward

Tue, 28 Nov 1995

OK. Enough of the British reserve. This is a final act of shameless self-publicity - a final vain attempt for a lowly place in a dark corner of the janitor's cupboard in the basement of the AT Hall of Fame.

I have regaled you with 'Losing my Virginity in a Clown Suit', 'My Cornish Pasty Dick', the immortal 'Worst Date of All Time' and now it is time to reveal my ultimate humiliation 'Setting Fire to my Armpit Hair'.

I work for a TV company in London, a repository for the very worst in Armani Suited, Gucci Booted, ponytailed cliches. I was, at this early point in my career, much taken with a young research assistant who had recently joined the company, and decided to impress her with dinner at one of Soho's more pretentious watering holes.

'Est' has a clean, well lit Scandinavian interior, with blonde wood everywhere and a long, 'L' shaped bar. The front is all glass and just inside the door is a coat-rack (a ludicrously costly confection, looking much like a bundle of oversized Cervical swab sticks, probably designed by an unimaginative German with a Gynaecological fetish). The restaurant was crowded and the stools along the bar were draped with expensively black-clad women with immaculate nails and bored looks. Over the tooth-grindingly tasteful background music could be detected the persistent sussuration of silk against cashmere. Suits stood, two-deep around the women, humming seductive mantras of expensive designer names and unimaginable sums of money. The perfect place to seduce an impressionable young pezzonovante in the TV world. Needless to say, I looked immaculate in my unstructured linen suit. The scene, as they say, was set.

The meal, as expected, was perfect. Its exquisite flavours exceeded only by its extreme smallness. Each plate was lovingly assembled by a highly paid art director with a tunnelling electron microscope. The cuisine was so nouvelle, it was unlikely to be invented until 1998. My seduction technique was perfect and my date was beginning to audibly moisten.

Emboldened by her melting looks and the obvious promise of radically athletic sex, I began to consume more wine (a particularly splendid Merlot, as I recall) and the evening began to take on a warm and quite delightful haze. (Readers of my previous posts will hear warning bells at this point). Conversation tripped lightly from my tongue in a sparkling stream of bon mots when suddenly my eye was drawn to the door. A man had reached his hand around the door and was taking a ridiculously expensive leather jacket from the coat rack.

I am not a man easily aroused to anger, but this was a clear felony and, of course, an opportunity to further impress upon my date that I was not merely a well rounded raconteur, wit, chef, entrepeneur and outstanding lover, but also a man of action, a Very Parfit Gentil Knight, as schooled in the arts of war as in the arts of love. I leapt to my feet, knocking over my chair and depositing two glasses of Merlot in my date's lap, lunged across the room, hurling customers hither and yon and grabbed the felon by the arm, yanking him through the door and twisting his arm up his back.

'Is that your coat'? I cried, as every man in the room gazed at me in awe and every woman suffered an involuntary uterine twitch.

'Yes' he replied, calmly.

Fortunately, the English are not a demonstrative people and, as I made my mumbled apologies, most of them had the decency to stare into their drinks in embarrassment. I returned to my table and my date, who had by now adopted a strangely cold attitude. The manager approached the table and sweetly thanked me for 'at least trying' and although the man I had assaulted was a valued customer, would I care to come to the bar after my meal, for a drink at her expense.

I drank more at the table, mainly to hide my utter shame and slid gently from the second bottle of wine into the port without pause. Finally my date pointed out two vacant seats at the end of the bar and we adjourned there. From our seats I could see the lifeless, fishlike eyes of every yuppie, boring into my in a finely wrought combination of contempt and pity. There was nothing for it but to drink more.

When the Manager arrived to serve us I ordered a Sambuca which was promptly served, already lit and merrily flaming. At this point several things crossed my drink addled mind....

1. You are supposed to extinguish a flaming Sambuca by cutting off the air to the flames with a coaster.

2. I had been taught an old chef's trick of pouring brandy over the hand and lighting it without burning myself.

3. I needed to pull off something fairly spectacular if I hoped to get laid.

..So with James Bond like nonchalance, I placed the palm of my hand firmly over the mouth of the glass.

I suppose it was fortunate that I was drunk, because the smell of cooking flesh hit me before the pain did. I raised my hand to see the glass, firmly stuck to my palm by suction and very, very hot blue flames lapping from the tips of my fingers. I, and the barful of yuppies, gazed in stupified wonderment at this human incendiary as I reached up, with my other hand to snap off the glass. It was actually cooked into my palm and it took a couple of second before I was able to break the suction, sending a stream of flaming Sambuca down my arm, up the sleeve of my loose jacket and directly into the hair of my right armpit.

I leapt to my feet and tried to beat out my own armpit, screaming as I did, subsiding into silence only when I realized that every eye in the room was on me.

I spent the rest of the evening with my hand in the ice bucket, my addled brain replaying how delightful her ass had looked as she stormed out of the door.

That's it. If that doesn't warrant at least an 'honourable mention' then I'm fucked. Remember that if I don't make the list, I may neglect to give you 'Butt-fucking the 400lb Woman' or 'Trail of Blood - My Night as a Tequila Slammer Girl'.

Yours in Christ

Rt Rvd Ruprecht Cinnamon-Chive

Unholy Shit [fiction]

From St. Catheter

Fri, 3 Nov 1995

The rain was getting harder. It was now precisely 11:51 PM, and Mark was into his fifth beer. He was feeling pretty invincible but the night was young, and he intended to get wasted before it was all over. He had put in a rough week at work and he deserved it.

He lit another cigarette. He and his drinkin' buddies sat in their traditional circle, in Ian's apartment. The talk wandered from sex to work, back to sex, to basketball, finally settling on sex. Mark had eaten lunch at Taco Bell, and had drunk four cups of coffee between lunchtime and quitting. In addition, the beers were beginning to settle in. And now, at 11:51 PM, Mark had to take a shit. He stood up. "Shit break," he announced. It was customary among this group to make such an announcement.

Mark walked to the bathroom. As he locked the door behind him, thunder boomed. It was storming out there.

He pulled his pants down and sat on the toilet. Ian's bathroom was a mess. He counted five empty toilet paper rolls, two paperbacks, and yesterday's newspaper. His friends laughed about something. The lights flickered for a moment, and the pre-shit growl came from within. He could feel the product lined up inside him for disposal. Then, he began to push.

Plop. The first piece fell to the water. Then some movement, and Mark felt the main feature inside him, the mother lode. He grunted softly as he squeezed it out. It crackled past his sphincter, and splashed neatly into the bowl.

Then another one queued up, and came out. It was almost as big as its predecessor. Mark would have well-purged bowels tonight, he realized with a smirk. He heard thunder again, closer this time.

Another one? Jeez, he thought. When was my last shit? It ventured forth, Mark's muscles helping it out. It was the biggest one so far. The shit's passage through his anus, that rarest mix of pain and pleasure, was longer than any he could remember. Ahhhh...the stout log advanced with conviction. This was definitely going to be his finest creation; this was a huge one. Still grinning, he wondered if Ian had a camera.

He pushed. Peering between his legs, past his genitals, he saw that it had reached the water. This was like seeing the longest freight train ever. Damn, it was a wide one. And it was still attached! And there was more! He pushed more, harder. It kept coming. He couldn't even feel the end of this one yet; soon it was bending, folding on itself like a sundae topping. Mark stopped pushing and caught his breath. He was sweating; he realized that however long this piece of shit was, it wasn't nearly all the way out yet. He still couldn't feel the end.

He pushed, he strained, it kept coming. His intestines couldn't be that damn long, but this shit just wouldn't quit. In fact, he was feeling the diarrhoeal urgency of *having* to shit. He dutifully answered nature's call, and pushed harder. His efforts were rewarded with more shit. His sphincter was too strained to even pinch the loaf off. It was whole and complete.

He couldn't feel the end.

Fear now came to Mark. He flushed the toilet to make room for more. Even as the bowl refilled, the cramps rose up, and he pushed. Within seconds, the shit extended from his anus to bottom of the bowl. The harder he pushed, the more he had to shit. And it was getting worse. He scarcely had time to catch his breath; his face was quite red as he grunted and struggled to keep up. The shit seemed endless. He looked between his legs again, and gasped as he saw that the bowl was fully a quarter filled with his product, the water dangerously high. The tank wasn't even done filling, but he flushed again. Unfortunately, the plumbing was unable to handle the volume of feces, and the toilet backed up. Mark jumped when the cold water touched his buttocks.

It was now 11:57. Thunder roared outside as water and shit particles flowed onto the tile.

Mark's pants were bunched about his ankles, and he was in pain. The shit advanced relentlessly as he stumbled into the bathtub. He was almost panicking now, and didn't notice the trail of solid feces he had left. Gripping the tub for support, he squatted and kept pushing.

The conversation in the front room had stopped. Eddie smelled it first, and blamed a fart on Ian, but this was no fart. This was pure and concentrated; this was the smell that only the freshest shit can make. The four looked at each other, puzzled. Then they heard Mark's groaning from the bathroom.

"Mark, are you beating off again?" Doug asked. No answer.

The smell was worse. Brian sniffed deeply and gagged. "Jesus H. ...". Ian grimaced. "Goddamn...". They all went for the bathroom door at the same time. Ian jiggled the locked doorknob. Brian pounded on the door. "Dude, what the FUCK did you eat today?" No answer. Mark groaned. "You all right in there, Mark?"

They looked at each other again. Eddie sniffed and winced. There was no answer from inside. Brian knocked again. "Hey man, you OK?" No answer. A short scream came from within the bathroom.

Brian kicked the door open. Nobody spoke.

The odor was intense, feces was piled on the floor and in the bathtub. Mark was squatting next to the wall, his face impossibly red, his eyes helpless and terrified. Firm stool thrust forward from his anus like meat from a grinder. It landed in his pants bunched about his ankles, spilling over and piling up. He gritted his teeth and strained; all he could do was keep pushing. There was a sound like a ripping sheet and Mark's colon came loose from his now shapeless sphincter, oozing to the floor. His friends watched as the slimy organ descended, with shit still flowing from it. Mark screamed again, and somebody's watch beeped.

Brian got the worst of it, since he was closest to the door. He would later tell the police that he thought he had seen Mark's abdomen expand for an instant before it happened. None of the others had reported this. But they had all described the sound as a "dull thud", they had all been splattered with innards and feces as Mark's torso separated from the rest of his body.

"Massive gastrointestinal rupture/trauma secondary to indeterminate blockage" was noted in the medical examiner's report. An "unusually large amount of fecal matter" is also recorded, though the amount was not measured.

The funeral was closed-casket. Brian and Eddie seem to have recovered pretty well, though they never talk about Mark. Doug moved away, and nobody has heard from him lately. Sometimes, when he has to shit, Ian waits until the rain stops.