“Who Took A Giant Shit In The Drug Test Toilet?!” Your Annual POOPOROO
2:32 PM EST on February 1, 2024
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It’s the dreaded bye week between the conference title games and the Super Bowl, and you have nothing to do. Might I offer a suggestion? Take a shit: a good, healthy, two-week-long shit.
You might find that joke crass, but the joke’s on YOU, for you will indeed take a shit sometime in between reading this paragraph and the proverbial big game. Because poop is what binds us. It’s the thing that all of us have in common, whether we like it not. Democrats and Republicans shit. Atheists and Orthodox Christians shit. Gay and straight people, black and white, rich and poor. All of us, at a human level, must shit. Stick us in an airport bathroom and we even have to shit together, so intense is the bond that human waste has forged between us.
So stop holding your nose and breathe it in all in. Visit your local port-a-potty and bask in the redolent perfume of feces, urine, vomit, and ammonia that says to you, The world was here, and it had to go real bad. This is your annual POOPOROO, and here now are stories from Defector readers of the most consequential moments that their assholes inflicted upon them. Because to poop is human; to shit your pants, divine.
I was cooking dinner one night for my wife and me. She was in another room. As I was tending the pots and pans, I felt a fart coming on. So, as I often do when I’m alone, I pulled my pants down a little and spread my cheeks to let out a long silent one. (If you haven’t tried this move, I highly recommend it. Very satisfying.) But having had a couple drinks, I was apparently not at the top of my game, and what I thought was a fart turned out to be a huge log that shot out of my butt and across the room, thudding on the linoleum.
“Is something wrong?” called my wife from the other room.
“It’s nothing!” I blurted as I scrambled for some paper towels and grabbed the crap from the floor. Time seemed of the essence as my wife could enter the kitchen at any moment, so I stuffed the shit and paper towel down the kitchen sink garbage disposal and turned it on. This turned out to be a bad idea. The resulting stench quickly spread from the kitchen through the house. “Oh my god, is that you?! That’s horrible!” called my wife from the other room. “Sorry, hon, that was a stinky one,” I responded. She bought it. The lessons I learned that day were (a) I have impressive range with my shit, (b) garbage disposals are not designed to handle poop, and (c) my wife believes I’m capable of stinking up a whole house with one fart.
I was at a book club gathering at my friend’s house and it was time to go when I noticed some urgent rumblings in my belly. Rather than absolutely destroying my friend’s bathroom’ I opt to make it home. It's only a 20-minute ride, and I'm confident I can ride out the storm. I start my way down desolate route 8 in Northwest Connecticut, and 10 minutes into the trip it's clear I've made a grievous error. I can't turn around to go back to my friends house because only a psychopath would go back to a party to say, "Actually, I've figured out I need to shit and I'm not going to make it home."
The problem is there is NOTHING between their house and my house. No McDonald's, no grocery store. I am on my own. The pain in my stomach is so unbelievably bad that I make the decision to shit my pants and deal with the consequences when I get home. The problem is, once you're potty trained, your body does not respond to commands to shit your pants. My stomach is reacting like Nancy Pelosi and Mike Pence going behind Trump's back to make sure no nukes were set off after 1/6. All commands were ignored.
In an act of desperation, I pull off the highway and pull over on the exit. Underneath a streetlight I drop my pants and proceed to projectile shoot out a stream of shit into the night. It leaves my body so violently that none gets on my pants. I proceed to clean up with what Dunkin Donuts napkins I have in the car, and I proceed to drive the remaining ten minutes to my house.
A couple minutes later, it's clear that this incident is destined to have a sequel. I get to my house, but I can't pull into my garage because my driveway was paved earlier that day. The bathroom downstairs is also temporarily out of commission. I walk in a hurried but controlled manner. Don't want to shake anything loose. Five steps from the upstairs bathroom, my bowels absolutely let loose and I paint the inside of my pants. So close, yet so far. I get to the toilet to finish it off and proceed to clean everything up like Mike Ermentraut. Then I have to sadly take my ruined pants out to the curb in the dead of the night, hoping none of my neighbors have seen evidence of my crimes.
Several years ago, my wife bought me a pair of nice Timberland boots for Christmas. I think she paid about $140 for them at the time. After unwrapping them, I put them in the bottom of the closet with my other shoes, waiting for an opportunity to wear them.
I forgot what I had been drinking that night, maybe Spaten Optimator or whiskey, but I started to feel sick a few hours after passing out in my bed. My wife was not drinking and crashed out on the living room couch. As I awoke—nauseous, drunk, and not fully awake—I ran to the closet to puke. Not the bathroom, though both were the same distance from my bed. I filled one new, never-worn boot up with puke and returned to the bed.
At about 5 in the morning I woke up again and became aware of my vomit taste in my mouth and the smell of puke in the bedroom. It all came back to me, though I really didn't believe it until I went to the closet and saw the puke boot all nice and full. I did not get any puke on the floor, which was impressive. But I needed to hide the evidence as quietly as possible, since these boots were my big gift that year and had never left the house.
I snuck the puke boot into the bathroom and emptied it into the toilet, then put it back in the closet under some stuff to hide the smell. The room still stunk like puke. I snuck back into bed slightly impressed with myself as I had hidden enough of the evidence that if I were caught I could blame the remaining puke on the cat. My wife awoke from the couch about seven and got into the shower. I took the puke boot to the garage and hid it again. A few days later when she left the house, I washed the boot and let it air dry. It was as good as new and the pair lasted about five years.
My wife and I were on the second day of a vacation in Iceland. We enjoyed a European hotel breakfast of a variety of pastries, meats and cheeses and went back up to our room, changing back into our underwear and relaxing while deciding what to do for the day. I still blame the breakfast meats for what happened next.
I was wearing my favorite pair of boxers, grey knit with several holes along the waistband and sitting on the edge of the bed. I felt a fart building and decided to stand to pass the fart discreetly. I stood up and my body betrayed me. A small turd whistled through my threadbare boxers and landed on the floor. My wife looked up to wrinkle her nose and admonish me for what she thought was a fart. She then saw the terror on my face and realized something else had happened. There was a minor panic on both our parts before I convinced her to leave the room while I cleaned up. Sadly, I had to part ways with my favorite boxers.
We've been married for nine years and now have a child.
I work a blue-collar job: name on the uniform, work vehicle, the whole getup. My employer requires random drug tests, and about twice a year my supervisor would call me up and let me know I won the piss lottery, and got a golden ticket, and to report to an urgent care for a deposit of some of my finest urine.
On this particular day, I had recently peed and not wanting to not perform, I started loading up on water on the way to the urgent care. When I arrived, I was met by a nurse, the protocols for a urine test were explained to me, and I was handed a cup, and sent to the drug testing bathroom. The drug testing bathroom as it contained only a toilet and toilet paper. There was no sink or even a trash can. Also in the toilet was a blue dye and above the toilet was a very ominous sign that said, “DO NOT FLUSH!” At the time, I didn’t think much of the sign, but I did later as I dropped my pants and attempted to piss. Try as I could, I couldn't piss. What I could do, though, was shit.
I guess this is the part of these poo stories in which I detail what I ate in the last 24 hours, and I would be remiss if I didn’t include that now. This piss test took place on a Monday, meaning the prior day was football Sunday, complete with beer and homemade Buffalo wings. I was loaded for bear and apparently it was time to unleash the prior day’s gluttony.
I realized my horrible dilemma: in order to get the urine sample my job demanded, my body demanded that I release the chocolate hostages first. Panic set in and it only got worse when I re-read the sign that said, “DO NOT FLUSH!” I decided the best course of action was confiding in the nurse my dilemma. I crossed the small hallway from the bathroom to her workstation, and explained the situation. Now I was expecting a little compassion from the Florence Nightingale of Piss. What I got was, “Go ahead do what you have to do but just don’t flush. This threw me for a loop, and I asked her again three times and she confirmed three more times that I was not to flush.
My marching orders were clear. I walked back to the toilet and dropped my pants and with one quick Philadelphia push-tush, that toilet was battered in a way it never was before. The blue water in that toilet was quickly changed to brown/blue hue that was never on any Crayola box I have ever seen. It was a sharp smell that makes one’s nose recoil from shock. On a good note, my body released the stranglehold on my bladder and a cup of my finest piss with a frothy head was my reward. I looked at the mess I made and went to flush the toilet, but the sign above the toilet and the warnings from the nurse rang in my ears. So, I did what I was told, and let it be.
I cleaned up and crossed the hall to my awaiting nurse who took my sample. As soon as I handed it to her I asked her if I could flush the toilet now and she said, “No I have to make sure the temperature of the sample is okay.” I couldn’t believe it! I had a full-on Chernobyl shit cloud heading this way and this nurse wants temperature readings. I stood by nervously waiting as the nurse performed her scientific tests when I heard another person approaching the crime scene. As the individual got closer, I turned to look just in time to see another nurse stop dead in her tracks, most definitely by the stench.
I respect all healthcare workers. They work in tough environments and really do care for our well-being. However, this nurse screamed, “Oh Jesus Christ! Who took a giant shit in the drug test toilet!” Luckily my nurse responded that “we” were using it for testing, and would be done soon.
“’We?’ What the fuck you mean, ‘We’?”
I melted into the floor, I was so fucking embarrassed. Then my nurse informed me my piss temperature was fine, and I could flush my mess away. Sheepishly I returned to the toilet and flushed away my shit and my dignity. I have never shame-walked out of place that bad before, and if I do, I will probably just keep walking until I fall of a cliff high enough to kill me.
When I was a sophomore in high school, I was a gifted education nerd from a small town in Kansas. When former Soviet leader Mikhail Gorbachev announced he was going to be traveling to Lindsborg, another small Kansas town, to give a speech, our school's gifted ed teacher packed me and a few of the other nerds into a van and made a day trip of it.
Gorbachev was set to visit the Karpov Chess School and give a speech to kick off a Chess for Peace campaign. After his talk, there would be a friendly match between the school's namesake Anatoly Karpov and former world chess champion Susan Polgar. It was truly a dork turducken.
Not wanting to waste a nice fall day, we toured some of the many old prairie and Swedish churches in the town after eating lunch at a local sub shop. I'd horked a footlong meatball sub and was walking through our third Catholic-light church of the tour when I started to feel something unholy burbling in my stomach. Not wanting to unleash hell in a small bathroom of a quiet church, I excused myself saying I needed to get something from the van.
The event was about to start in about 30 minutes, so I thought I could walk up to the front entrance and ask to use the restroom. As I approached, I saw one of those classic presidential-level security dudes (6'5'' with black suit, sunglasses, and an earpiece) standing at the door. I muttered my problem and he did the movie thing of sticking a hand to his ear and saying, "Kid wants to use the bathroom," before listening for a second and giving me a short, "No."
At this point, I'm in full panic. I think that my best bet is to high tail it back to the church, so I run as fast as I can without letting loose. The security guy must have taken pity on me, or was trying to give me an alternative option because he starts running after me trying to get my attention, but I'm in no state for discussion. Just as this happens, I see two more carbon copies of this guy doing a perimeter check and come around the corner of the building I'm running around. My heart stops when they start to run at me: this kid who their co-worker is chasing away from a building housing a former Soviet leader.
The two dudes ran like three steps, put their hands to their ears in unison, then just kept walking past me. At this point, I could feel the clench beginning to fail. In an answer to some panicked prayer, I saw an older woman taking groceries out of her car about a half block down. I ran screaming up to her and begged her, with bulging eyes and sweat pouring down my face, to use her bathroom. Being a kind, Midwestern woman she directed me to it and, upon getting there, I unleashed hell. I don't know what the tensile strength of porcelain is, but the speed with which I vacated definitely stress tested that commode. After wiping away my shame, I pulled my pants back up and sheepishly walked out, thanking my savior for her service.
I can't remember anything Gorbachev talked about, probably something like "Peace is good." And I can't for the life of me remember who won the chess match, but I'll never forget the panic of playing out the Lindsborg Opening.
This one is a bit more recent than I'd care to admit. I'm in my 40's and, like many folks crossing that threshold, I find myself taking more and more random medications. I'm not emptying the pharmacy every six hours, but I'm taking enough stuff that it's starting to make my digestive system a bit of an adventure on a daily basis.
I used to be as regular as it gets. I’d take my lunch right at noon and an hour and forty-five minutes later get a polite lil knock on the door to do my business. The shits were healthy and reliable.
Now? All bets are fucking off. Sometimes, ten minutes after eating an exciting dinner of grilled chicken and vegetables, my colon is like "FUCK THIS" and sounds the alarm klaxons and I need to get to a toilet IMMEDIATELY for a mudslide that must contain dinners from my past lives.
The meat of this story is short and sweet, however. I've never been a morning pooper. Sometimes I'd get a false alarm and plop down for a monster fart, which is really one of the most disappointing ways to start a morning. Knowing this, I just never really expect to have anything of substance to do during my morning routine.
So, this particular morning as I slide out of bed my boxers come off and I'm buck ass naked. I've been losing weight so my clothes are starting to get pretty loose. I was home alone so it didn't matter, I'll do my routine naked. The only audience I'm going to get are a couple of cats. So I'm doing my normal routine. I'm in the brushing my teeth and putting my contacts in phase as I casually let out a fart. It was just a fart. Not too loud, not too juicy. Audible, but nothing to write home about. No real smell either. It was the beige Toyota Camry of farts.
I continue my routine, washing my hands and putting in my contacts. Then I turn around and see it. Right there, on my door, is the most perfect circle of brown turd sludge I've seen in my life. Ancient Greek mathematicians would have marveled over its perfection, and would have used it for the basis of many a convoluted theorem. It wasn't dripping. Nothing was on the floor, and I instinctively grabbed some toilet paper to wipe up. Nothing. Every single bit of turd material was fused to my door from that one unassuming little fart. I marveled at it for more than I'd care to admit, before washing and disinfecting that shit down and flushing it all down the toilet.
My cats were not impressed.
In middle school I had 2 friends spend the night and we pitched tents in the yard. We decided to prank my family with ex-lax brownies. I've since been informed it's illegal to feed someone ex-lax without their consent (has not been verified).
We got a box of brownie mix, mineral oil, and a big package of chocolate ex-lax pieces, I think a 48 count. A serving is 2 pieces. Mix called for 1 cup water, 1/4 cup of vegetable oil, and an egg. We skipped the water and added 1.25 cups of mineral oil, broke up the entire package of ex-lax into the mix, and into the oven they went.
No one in my family ate them, I suspect now that they may have thought they were pot brownies. So to make the tray more appealing, we ate some of the brownies, because what teenage kids would make and then not eat a bunch of brownies?
They were good! We ate all of them, foolishly assuming that the heat would deactivate the ex-lax.
Buddy, heat DOES NOT deactivate ex-lax. We all woke up at the same time around 2am, pushing and shoving to get inside (remember, we were camping on the lawn) and to the different bathrooms in the house, taking turns shooting out hot liquid shit for the next 4-5 hours.
Surprisingly, all the shit made it into the toilets. Unsurprisingly, we did not attempt that prank again.
Middle schoolers are stupid.