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Farting during a show

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#544
OK, so long as this thread has gone from farts during gigs to no holds barred crap spraying...

I used to run 10Ks all of the time, and when I was living in Melbourne, FLA, I always ran the Pineapple 10K.

A good friend of mine had come into town unexpectedly the night before one such race, and of course because I was young, discretion was never the better part of valor. We ate Bratwurst, Sauerkraut and God knows what else that night, with a huge helping of dark german beer. When I awoke the next morning, I surprisingly felt very good. I had my usual pre-race meal of oatmeal and coffee and off I went to the staging area. I had actually been training pretty hard and really wanted to beat my personal best.

The race was gettig started, and I was only mildly aware that I had not yet liberated my usual pre-race mud dragon, but I was sure that things would wait until after the race.

The gun sounded, and I was off setting a very strong personal pace, ahead of anything I had ever run before. I was feeling superhuman in the way only a 22 year old stud could feel. After 2500 meters, I started feeling some internal rumblings, but again, I was sure all was fine. After all, this was going to be my best run ever!

After 5000 meters, I was farting, at first every couple of minutes, and as I went along, the frequency begin to increase dramatically. Moreover, the duration of gas expulsion until the system felt primed was beginning to dwindle. I was clearly in labor and the contractions were getting ever more frequent. I was approaching 3/4 complete, so I was still sure I could complete the race. I had to! I was way ahead of pace and this was going to be my best race ever.

When I saw the sign for 7500 meters, it hit me like a kick in the stomach. I was in full labor, the water had broken and birth was imminent. I clenched, I grimaced. Only 2000 meters left, I HAD to finish. I felt the first leak. My heart sank. I wasn't going to make it. Panic set in as I started looking frantically for a bush, a tree, an outhouse, a port o potty. But you know how Florida housing developments are. We're talking nothing but skinny palm trees! People, grandmas and grandpas and grandkids had lined both sides of the streets and smiled and clapped as I ran by them, my gate crippled by the fact that I was squeezing my butt cheeks together with enough pressure to turn coal into diamonds. I wanted to scream, PLEASE LET ME USE YOUR BATHROOM!

Just as I thought I was going to have to let fly with a public volcanic eruption of sheit the likes of which had never been witnessed on a sunny Pleasent Valley Sunday morning we turned out onto A1A and there, in front of me was the Atlantic Ocean, its beach lined with a thick covering of mangroves. Everyone turned and ran north onto A1A as I ran straight across the street. I heard some guy say, "No, this way." I yelled back, "You go your way, and I'll go mine!"

I had never been inside those mangroves before, but I dove into this thick gnarl of branches and leaves, ripped down my shorts and sprayed mud like wet concrete through a pressure washer! It was just then that I realized I was eye level with literally 25 of these little birds, all at eye and genital level, all around me. They were screaming at me, as no doubt I was spraying the ones in nests behind me.

All I could think of was that I was about to be pecked to death by a bunch of really pissed off birds! And who could blame them? I was literally spraying sewer mud all over what was just seconds before a happy and secure little home. I was scared to death, but once started, I could not stop the flow until it was done. They started dive bombing my head, and still I'm spraying and farting, and I have to say I had NEVER smelled worse than that in my entire.

Just when I thought I was about to have some very soft and highly important part of my anatomy pecked off, the expulsion stopped. I quickly wiped my butt with my sport brief, threw it down on the ground and tore out of there with birds chasing me for several hundred feet up A1A, spectators pointing at me and no doubt wondering what the hell I was doing in there in the first place.

I limped to the finish line, my legs all cramped and my intestine feeling like someone had reached in with huge hands and wrung it like a dish rag. All I could think was, it was going to be my best race ever.
 
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#546
ok I've been saving this one up... I WISH I could take credit for this gem, but nonetheless, it's a pretty amazing read...

All in all, it hadn't been a good day. Bad traffic, a malfunctioning computer, incompetent coworkers and a sore back all made me a seething cauldron of rage. But more importantly for this story, it had been over forty-eight hours since I'd last taken a dump.

I'd tried to jumpstart the process, beginning my day with a bowl of bowel-cleansing fiber cereal, following it with six cups of coffee at work, and adding a bean-laden lunch at Taco Bell. As I was returning home from work, my insides let me know with subtle rumbles and the emission of the occasional tiny fart that Big Things would be happening soon. Alas, I had to stop at the mall to go Christmas shopping.

I completed this task, and as I was walking past the stores on my way back to the car, I noticed a large sale sign proclaiming, "Everything Must Go!" This was prophetic, for my colon informed me with a sudden violent cramp and a wet, squeaky fart that everything was indeed about to go.

I hurried to the mall bathrooms. I surveyed the five stalls, which I have numbered 1 through 5 for your convenience:
1.Occupied.
2.Clean, but Bathroom Protocol forbids its use, as it's next to the occupied one.
3.Poo on seat.
4.Poo and toilet paper in bowl, unidentifiable liquid splattered on seat.
5.No toilet paper, no stall door, unidentifiable sticky object near base of toilet.

Clearly, it had to be Stall #2. I trudged back, entered, dropped trou and sat down. I'm normally a fairly Shameful S***ter. I wasn't happy about being next to the occupied stall, but Big Things were afoot. I was just getting ready to bear down when all of a sudden the sweet sounds of Beethoven came from next door, followed by a fumbling, and then the sound of a voice answering the ringing phone. As usual for a cell phone conversation, the voice was exactly 8 dB louder than it needed to be.

Out of Shameful habit, my sphincter slammed shut. The inane conversation went on and on. Mr. S***ter was blathering to Mrs. S***ter about the s***ty day he had. I sat there, cramping and miserable, waiting for him to finish. As the loud conversation dragged on, I became angrier and angrier, thinking that I, too, had a crappy day, but I was too polite to yak about in public. My bowels let me know in no uncertain terms that if I didn't get crapping soon, my day would be getting even crappier.

Finally my anger reached a point that overcame Shamefulness. I no longer cared. I gripped the toilet paper holder with one hand, braced my other hand against the side of the stall, and pushed with all my might. I was rewarded with a fart of colossal magnitude -- a cross between the sound of someone ripping a very wet bed sheet in half and of plywood being torn off a wall.

The sound gradually transitioned into a heavily modulated low-RPM tone, not unlike someone firing up a Harley. I managed to hit the resonance frequency of the stall, and it shook gently.

Once my ass cheeks stopped flapping in the breeze, three things became apparent:
1.The next-door conversation had ceased
2.My colon's continued seizing indicated that there was more to come.
and
3. The bathroom was now beset by a horrible, eldritch stench. It was as if a gateway to Hell had been opened. The foul miasma quickly made its way underthe stall and began choking my poop-mate.

This initial "herald" fart had ended his conversation in mid-sentence. "Oh my God," I heard him utter, following it with suppressed sounds of choking, and then, "No, baby, that wasn't me (cough, gag), you could hear that (gag)??"

Now there was no stopping me. I pushed for all I was worth. I could swear that in the resulting cacophony of rips, squirts, splashes, poots, and blasts, I was actually lifted slightly off the pot. The amount of stuff in me was incredible. It sprayed against the bowl with tremendous force.

Later, in surveying the damage, I'd see that liquid poop had actually managed to ricochet out of the bowl and run down the side on to the floor. But for now, all I could do was hang on for the ride.

Next door I could hear him fumbling with the paper dispenser as he desperately tried to finish his task. Little snatches of conversation made themselves heard over my anal symphony: "Gotta go... horrible... throw up... in my mouth... not... make it... tell the kids... love them... oh God..." followed by more sounds of suppressed gagging and retching.

Alas, it is evidently difficult to hold one's phone and wipe one's bum at the same time. Just as my high-pressure abuse of the toilet was winding down, I heard a plop and splash from next door, followed by string of swear words and gags. My poop-mate had dropped his phone into the toilet.

There was a lull in my production, and the restroom became deathly quiet. I could envision him standing there, wondering what to do. A final anal announcement came trumpeting from my behind, small chunks plopping noisily into the water. That must have been the last straw. I heard a flush, a fumbling with the lock, and then the stall door was thrown open. I heard him running out of the bathroom, slamming the door behind him.

After a considerable amount of paperwork, I got up and surveyed the damage. I felt bad for the janitor who'd be forced to deal with this, but I knew that flushing was not an option. No toilet in the world could handle that unholy mess. Flushing would only lead to a floor flooded with filth.

As I left, I glanced into the next-door stall. Nothing remained in the bowl. Had he flushed his phone, or had he plucked it out and left the bathroom with nasty unwashed hands? The world will never know.

I exited the bathroom, momentarily proud and Shameless, looking around for a face glaring at me. But I saw no one. I suspect that somehow my supernatural elimination has managed to transfer my Shamefulness to my anonymous poop-mate. I think it'll be a long time before he can bring himself to poop in public -- and I doubt he'll ever again answer his cell phone in the loo.
Click to expand...
 
#548
bassman314 said:
ok I've been saving this one up... I WISH I could take credit for this gem, but nonetheless, it's a pretty amazing read...
Click to expand...
OH...My...GAWD!!!!! That is just CRAZY FUNNY!!! I was literally laughing until I was in TEARS!!! :D:bawl::D My fiancee thinks I'm a total tard...she's sitting here looking at me and listening to music on her mp3 player...no idea why I was laughing like a hyena, with tears running down my face!
 
#554
We just got new chairs here at work. The kind with a mesh seat and back. Nothing to impede the circulation of poo-flavored methane. About 5 minutes ago, I let some air out of my spare tire. One of my co-workers walked by while talking to someone accross the room. Here's what I heard, "Hey man, I have a question. If a customer has... OH MY GOD, :gag: :hork: ... never mind, I'll figure it out myself."

I had to smile with pride as I watched the green cloud dissipate.
 
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