“It Didn’t Know It Yet But It Was Already Dead.” Your Scariest Poop Stories
1:01 PM EST on February 2, 2023
Drew Magary’s Thursday Afternoon NFL Dick Joke Jamboroo runs every Thursday at Defector during the NFL season. Got something you wanna contribute? Email the Roo. And buy Drew’s book, The Night The Lights Went Out, through here.
This is the end. We have now fully digested the entire NFL season … masticating every ball, tee, and penalty flag, feeding these games into our system, extracting all of their vital nutrients while gathering the waste-product teams into a single, firm bolus that, as I write this, is ready for voiding. Soon, the Super Bowl will arrive and a great, swelling pucker will open, releasing us all from the NFL’s mucus-lined tract and back out in to the great wide world.
But until that singular, cathartic moment arrives, let’s hear some stories about you guys shitting your pants. Time for the annual POOPOROO! Read now these tales of fecal woe from the Defector readership. You'll never look at scallions the same way again!
I have a ritual that may seem odd to many people, but to me is a natural and inoffensive expression of manhood: enjoying a good outdoor pee first thing in the morning now and then. My house lot is private enough to do this safely, and being the first one up in my household I do not think it causes any harm: 5:30 AM, out in the frosty darkness, maybe getting a little bit of starlight on my junk.
This particular morning began like any other. I quietly get out of bed, put on the bathrobe and slippers, start the coffee and step outside. It's below 10 degrees. Perfect. As I start to pee into some mulch, I realize I have a few farts ready to go. Pretty standard. Now, another nice thing about being outside alone at this time is I can just let them rip. Sometimes I imagine another man outside having his morning pee, and answering my fart with a distant fart of his own. For that brief moment in time we will be connected through the lonesome wail of our farts in the darkness. This has never happened. Anyway.
Now I know what you’re thinking. Here is the part where I tell you I spent the previous three days on a bachelor party bender, chugging Steel Reserve Ceviche Daiquiris or whatever, and at that moment my boss drives up, my family comes outside, a bus full of school children appears at the same time my body convulses in agony as I projectile shit black liquid death all over myself. That'd be some nice schadenfreude wouldn't it? Pretty entertaining for you all?
Well, this is not that kind of a poop story, I'm sorry to disappoint.
Oh, I poop. I felt a ....presence pass down my leg, and I turn around mid-stream to see a small but well-formed turd a few inches from my slipper on the frozen concrete of the walkway. It was smaller than an egg, a bit lumpy. Not having a better idea, I finish my pee, gingerly nudge the turd off the walkway into some mulch under a bush, and go inside to clean myself. Except there was nothing to clean. I swear I washed up very thoroughly, but there was no poop residue anywhere. I got on with my day, pausing now and then to marvel about how I, a hale mid 30's man at the height of my physical and mental powers, had just shit myself on my doorstep for absolutely no reason.
When I left for work an hour later, I searched the mulch very carefully for the turd and eventually picked it out. It blended in very well with the color of the bark and was now frozen quite solid. For the next two weeks or so it did not get above freezing, and every time I left the house or returned home I would see my little poop, where only I would know to see it. There seemed to be no point in dealing with it, and no one was the wiser. Finally a warm winter rain made it disappear, disintegrating and passing into the soil to nourish the earth...but I remember that poop.
Long time reader, longer time pooper.
My story begins in Africa. We were visiting friends who happened to be Swiss and were very into fondue and beer, into which we all indulged until late into the night. I am also an amateur marathoner who was excited about running during our visit. I had already mapped out a 10-mile run on a brand new road being built across a rice paddy. It was a good starter run in the country since there was no way to get lost, and my friends assured me I would meet a lot of locals and see the countryside.
I embarked at about 6am after a nice morning cup of coffee. The road was absolutely bustling with foot traffic: people carrying wares to market and back. Since the road hadn't been opened to vehicles yet, I didn’t have to worry about getting hit by a bus. It was a five miles out and five miles back. Wouldn't you know it: at exactly five miles out, it hit me. I had to purge the previous night's fondue and beer from my body RIGHT NOW. The only problem was that there were no buildings, shade, trees, or even shoulders. The shoulder was literally someone's rice to sell or eat...
I stared down the road past my turnaround spot. Not even a shanty or a bush graced the shoulder. Not knowing what remained that direction, I turned around and ran wistfully down the busy road towards home. I made it a mile before the clenching didn't work anymore. Hot emmental cheese erupted from my bowels and slid past my sphincter in much the same shape as it did when it went from the pot to my stomach...
I made it another mile before my pace quickened to the fastest speed a man can move while holding his butt cheeks shut with both hands and waddling. I made it another mile before people started avoiding me. My face and walk must have been a signal for the crowd to part. Finally, I saw it. One glorious bush. It offered protection from just one direction. Resistance was futile. I squatted down, at that point fairly certain I would never get up, and the resulting stream of cheese and oil that came out instantly wilted that lonely bush. It didn't know it yet but it was already dead.
Fewer people noticed than I expected. I would have assumed a white man crouching completely bottomless on the side of the road would be a far less common sight than perhaps it was. I left the underwear, just another casualty of the fondue wars. Every step thereafter was sticky: lubricated but just adding to the friction. I had never sweated so badly and I swear it was just cheese oil pouring out of my pores.
When I got back to the hotel I immediately showered. It didn't matter. I had a rash that didn't go away for several weeks. Still put those miles on Strava though!
We had some plumbing issues at our house in late ’22. The shower and tub in the master bathroom weren’t draining properly. Many hours into repairs, the plumber had to cut a hole in the kitchen ceiling to get more directly at the pipe. This was unsuccessful, and we went several days with a hole in our ceiling and a cut PVC pipe looming above the kitchen sink. All parts of the bathroom were off limits until we could resolve the issue.
Now, I was in London on business while much of this was going on, but was certainly up to speed when I returned home late one Thursday evening. My wife let me sleep off some of the jet lag as she got the kids ready for school the next day. I stumbled out of bed mid-morning and, of course, took a massive dump in the master bathroom. Four days of chicken tikka masala and random pub food had consolidated power in my gut and turned into what I could only describe as an Akula class submarine. Same shape, hardness, size. As soon as I flushed, a wave of panic hit me as I remembered our plumbing situation. I finished up without further flushing and ran downstairs in a cold sweat.
Sure enough, in the middle of the kitchen floor sat a decent size pool of water. And the Akula.
My wife was still gone with the kids, so I made a hasty cleanup, using every single Lysol product in the house. Thankfully, the poop barely broke up on impact, so splatter was minimal. I picked it up with a plastic grocery bag and then went upstairs and taped the toilet seat shut. Never again.
My house in Los Angeles is around the corner from the city's finest purveyor of carne asada. In the summer, people line up to buy pounds of the thinly-sliced beef, which is layered with marinade, sliced white onions and whole scallions. There's nothing better than firing up my flat top in the backyard, cooking up some asada and serving tacos topped with the (now) grilled onions and scallions. So last summer, we invited over a bunch of friends, threw some Modelos in the cooler and everyone chilled in the yard.
The next day, I sit down for a morning poop, do my business, clean myself up and flush. Standing up, I feel a copious amount of liquid just running down my leg. What the fuck? I whirl around to see what's going on and spray a stream of liquid poop against the wall. I'm fucking leaking and have no idea why.
Without thinking, I reach around to grab my own butt and—no shit—there is a whole, undigested scallion half in and half out of my butthole. It was effectively propping me open, allowing the liquefied contents of my digestive tract to leak all over the fucking place.
I had to pull the scallion out of my ass to stop the leaking. You haven't lived until you've pulled five inches of whole, undigested scallion out of your ass. I then spent God knows how long cleaning myself up. My bathroom looked like a sewage pipe had burst.
There is no moral to this story, no epiphany. I still like asada tacos but I no longer eat the whole, grilled scallions.
Back in 2016, I was one of the people who got really into Pokemon Go. I got into it so much that I was one of the eight people still playing it a year later. On the night in question, I had just gotten back to my hometown for a family event. The first night home always includes going out to my favorite restaurant with my dad and getting the best boneless wings (extra hot with blue cheese) in the city and having some beers.
After dinner, my dad quickly went to bed. I was still wide awake, looking at the local Pokemon scene. I decided I could conquer some local gyms. I took a beer or two in to-go container and hit the road to catch monsters. I end up walking around my neighborhood for about an hour before feeling a familiar twinge in my gut… I had to pee. No problem I think, I’m about a mile and a half away from home. I’ll turn around. Worst case, I can pee in some alley. Within about one block of my parents’ house, I get another, infinitely more distressing twinge in my stomach. The extra-hot sauce and hazy IPAs are brewing a demon inside of me. My pace quickens.
I’m probably 300 yards away from the door to my parents’ house. At this point, I’m walking past the semi-gated mansion of a local 1900s industry baron that has since been turned into a museum. I’m shakily getting the keys out of my pocket, but I’m feeling good. I’m feeling confident. I have survived the extra hot buffalo bites.
Then, in a move that I doubt anyone could ever repeat no matter how hard they tried, the reptilian part of my brain instinctively said, “Nah, we ain’t making it.” In one perfectly fluid movement I undid my belt, pulled down my pants, dipped into the open gate of the museum ground, let out a stream of molten hot shit, pulled my pants up, and kept walking. The whole process probably took less than 2.5 seconds. I finished my last 150 yards of walking, managed to get the rest out on a toilet like a civilized person, took a shower, and tried not to think about it till the next day.
I volunteered to take the dog for a walk so I could check out the scene of the crime. I couldn’t get a good look, so I have no idea the total damage done. But in situations like this, it might be best to just move on and forget the time you came within an inch of shitting your pants to catch Pokemon.
One night, during my Navy days (in the 80’s), Donald, Barry, Mike and I decided to go to an upscale restaurant, because our time in port coincided with an AYCE prime rib special they did a few times a year. By “upscale” I mean much better than a TGI Fridays, but not quite fancy. The wait staff didn’t hate themselves, and the food was cooked like people cared.
Early in the meal, Donald, who didn’t drink alcohol and always drank milk, informed us he had never experienced “milk noodles,” when someone makes you laugh so hard the milk (or other beverage) you have just taken a sip of comes out your nose. The table took this as a challenge and sure enough, halfway through the meal, someone said something funny enough at exactly the right moment to cause Donald to experience milk shooting through his nose and on to his food and the sleeves of his shirt. Embarrassed, and wearing a shirt stained with milk, Donald vowed each of us would pay.
It turns out I would be the first.
The meal continued without any additional incidents, and was seemingly at an end when Barry realized he had tied the record for the most prime rib consumed in a sitting. He ordered another slab to make the record his. At this moment I must report on two things. First, our waitress was wonderful. She not only put up with four sailors, but she coyly dished out a little smack of her own and managed to make our table feel like we were her favorite customers that evening. Second, prior to Barry consuming his final slab of prime rib, the table decided that our waitress liked me and started giving me the type of grief only your friends can. They kept at it, and I started believing (hoping) it might be true.
So I was feeling good about myself as the evening wound down. It took longer than expected, but Barry secured the prime rib record, and it was time for us to head back to the boat. And then I felt not a rumble, but some pressure in the bowel area. To be safe, I began to get up to go to the restroom, but alas, our waitress was approaching the table with our check. I stayed in my seat and clenched my cheeks as she moved closer, a smile of relief lighting up her face. We were her last table of the night. She reached our table and Donald struck, making me laugh so hard that my buttcheeks unclenched, and a sound emerged that momentarily stunned the entire table and our waitress.
I had unleashed a deep fart that reverberated through the fabric of the chair, the wooden seat echoing the bass as though several notes were being blasted through a tuba.
Time stopped; the second hand on every timepiece frozen. Our waitress stood there in shock, her eyes growing larger and her mouth forming an O in horror. She dropped the check on the floor, her hands quickly covering her mouth as she turned and ran. Two of my shipmates swear she was laughing as she ran off. We will never know, as she sent another waiter to collect our bill. Of course, upon our return to the submarine, the story that quickly circulated was not of Donald’s milk noodles, but of my fart that scared off the cute waitress.
Sad Vikings Fan:
I lived in Orlando for four years. My ex worked for Disney so we spent a fair amount of time in the parks. Getting in for free really softens the blow of paying $15 for a beer in EPCOT.
One awful summer day, I went into The Hall of Presidents (air conditioning!), and there was a group of kids in front of me that smelled like sweat, foot, and hot dogs. Toward the end of the performance, another smell wafted up: adolescent diarrhea. The kids absolutely booked it out of there. I looked into their row and didn't see anything, but that smell could be nothing else. I hung around the back and saw them turn everyone around and out of the theater for the next showing and a whole cleanup crew came out of a hidden door. The most magical place on Earth is prepared for such things.
I went to college in downtown Denver, CO. Prior to going to college, I lived in and around the western suburbs, central mountains and then downtown. I had friends all over the greater Denver metropolitan area. I was familiar with the terrain.
After graduation, I had a real, professional job in the mountains. I had been working about a year at this miserable job and took a long weekend to visit a few friends on the Front Range. My first visit was with a good beer drinking buddy and fellow dirtbag (cheap beer at this time in our lives as it was all we could afford) who lived in the southwestern suburbs. I also made plans to visit a woman I’d slept with a few times who was in my same major in school. She was up in Fort Collins to work on a Masters.
I got up the next morning, bid my goodbyes and headed north to Fort Collins. At this point in the drive I was on Interstate 70, in the Applewood area. Anyone familiar with this geography knows where the Applejack liquor store is. You know how it goes: I get that familiar rumbling.
There is a McDonalds at the Applewood exit, east side. Certainly not my first choice, but the need to locate a bathroom had become dire. I wheeled in, stopped, and made the race waddle we can all relate to. This being the typical McDonalds one-holer, on a mid-Saturday morning, well you know that stall was occupado. What could I do? The urge was now desperate. I had neither the time nor the inclination to race across the parking lot to any other potential crap-a-torium. I thought about waiting for the stall to open. But in my desperate need, I shuffled back out to my truck, thinking if I gotta do it in there, no one will know. The truck had a seat cover, and the clothes I was wearing were likewise expendable. My chief concern at this point was how I would get myself cleaned up, prior to knocking on the door of my erstwhile ladyfriend.
So, I'm sitting in my truck, nearly paralyzed. My only thought was my gawd, I'm going to shit my pants! The need escalated to an 11 and I was bearing down so hard to keep that explosion within my bowels that IT HAPPENED.
I experienced the first, and only, prostate orgasm I have ever had.
I was not spewing the gnar all over the cab of the truck. No, gentle readers, I was spewing the biggest load of jizz I have ever had the absolute pleasure of ejaculating. It was awesome. Exactly at the time this blast was happening, the need to empty my bowels was no longer a crisis. Eventually the spurts ceased, with the most incredible feeling of release of my young life. If I was a cigarette smoker, I surely would have fired one up.
Yet, I did have a mess to clean up.
I think I grabbed a new pair of underwear and maybe/probably a new pair of jeans. I do not recall if I went into that same McDonalds to finish my business and clean up. Really, after that epic cum, I don’t recall anything.
A few years ago back at the old site, you published a Great Moment In Poop History about a doctor who went to the office one day and pooped a poop so large that the toilet wouldn't flush. So the doctor swaddled the poop in a paper towel like a baby, and covertly carried it out to the dumpster. It was possibly the most significant poop in my life not involving me.
When the story was published, I laughed out loud, and my wife asked me, "What are you laughing at?" I summarized the poop story and she laughed too. Our marriage was on its last legs, and we mutually called it off a few days later, so that doctor's very big poop is the last time I remember laughing with my now ex-wife.
If that doctor is reading this, I wanted to thank them for the wonderful poop memory, and also to gently suggest that the office invest in a plunger.