Can you identify this man? - The Mad Shitter

I was stopped at a red light waiting on it to change when all of a sudden a guy jumps out of a car nearby with a paper sack on his head with eyes and mouth cut out like a mask pulls down his pants at this busy red light and takes a shit right there. Then jumps back in tha car with someone else driving and halls ass, yes everyone was surprised

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Why you don't answer your phone in a public bathroom

All in all, it hadn’t been a good day. Bad traffic, a malfunctioning computer, incompetent co-workers 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 ass cleansing fibre 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 pick up an order for the wife. 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 togo. 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 theoccupied one.
3. **** smeared on seat.
4. **** and toilet paper in bowl, unidentifiable liquid splattered onseat.
5. No toilet paper, no stall door, something growing near base of toilet.
Public Bathroom Stalls

Clearly, it had to be Stall #2. I trudged back, entered, dropped my trousers and sat down. I’m normally a fairly Shameful ****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. ****ter was blathering to Mrs. ****ter about the ****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 ass 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 (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 under the 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 actuallymanaged 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 ****tles 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 ****-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 ****-mate. I think it’ll be a long time before he can bring himself to **** in public — and I doubt he’ll ever again answer his cell phone in the latrine. And this, my friends, is why you should never talk on your phone in the bathroom

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Disgusting and Disturbing Shitty Story

My friend Paul and i were describing he worst time we had had performing oral sex with previous girlfriends and such. Paul was the clear,definite and undisputed winner. Paul had hooked with a chick back in the day that was so drunk she smeared instead of cleared when she wiped, if you know what I mean, just before the dark bedroom fiesta. Paul said he ended up with a mouthfull of shit. REALLY NO SHIT.....................................................I WOULD LIKE TO ADD THIS STORY AND THE CHARACTERS ARE REAL - NO SHIT.

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Dumped at the Mall for Dumping in my Pants

I was at the mall with my present girlfriend when I had the urge to sneak out a small fartbut, typical of this website, it was not a fart. I felt and explosion of warm, running, shit all over my lower half. In an act of desperation I told my girlfriend I had to use the bathroom but instead I ran home and changed my clothes. I am pretty certain at that time she did not notice the shit running down my leg. When I came back my girlfriend was gone. I called her up to see what her problem was with me abandoning her at the mall and she said " I don't date guys that shit their pants". What a bitch! Apparently some kid from school saw the disaster and ratted me out. What a dick! To end the story I went out and found a new girlfriend more appreciative and accepting of my loose bowel problems.

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Fake Poop Drawers - Creating and Using

I received a submission from a visitor outlining the steps to create and administer your own shitty drawers prank. Here is the recipe and a couple tactics. Kind of funny. Recipe: Can of Chili and a melted candy bar. The author claims fudge candy bars tend to work best. Tactics: 1. Find an old purse that your mother or sister no longer want and fill it with the recipe above. When every thing looks gross put it on the sidewalk and go hide where you can still see the purse. The guy claims that the reactions from would be wallet takers is unlike anything you have ever seen. I believe him. 2. Take an old pair of boxers, use said recipe, and hang them from a fence on a well traveled road. Again sit back and watch the reactions.

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Don't Shit the Bed

My sister was always someone who you could count on to take someone home after a long night at the bar. One of those nights we came home with a slew ofpeople, drank into the morning, and finally went to bed dispering around the floor. The next morning I was sitting in the kitchen with my buddy nursing the hangover from hell when I saw my sister's date go take a piss. Seizing a golden opportunity to check on my sister and make sure everything went ok I went to her room. As I walked in I noticed something along the edge of the bed. My first thought was this clown vomitted in my sister's bed but on closer examination I started to wish it was vomit. Negative. It was poop. Apparently the dude must have woken up nude and had a doorknob or whatever you want to call it sticking out and it smeared all over the edge of the bed. I woke my sis up to show her what a gem she had chosen the night before and she was passed out in fecal matter. Needless to say the dude has not slept over since.

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Makeout Point: A night she will never forget

I was parked out in the country and just had sex with a hot chick I had been trying to hook up with for years. As we were sitting there I thought I would be a hard ass and tell her to hit me in my abs because she had been talking about them all night. So, I'm leaning over her, we are both butt naked I might add, and she gives me a shot to the gut. Quit pissibly the worst idea of my life. Apparently I devoted all my clenching power to my stomach because when she hit me I ended up shitting all over her, myself and the car. At least we had already hooked up.....

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A Sharting Diabetic in need of Insulin!!

Like many of us who have been in this position, my adventure follows a night of heavy drinking and a trip to a fast food joint at 2:30 in the morning. This all began while driving from Lansing to my office in downtown Detroit. My stomach feels like, what I might imagine a woman feels like just before she gives birth. I seriously felt like I had some six pound shit monster poking at my midsection with a dagger, doing anything to find its way out of my ass. I know that I am desperate to find any possible location, other than my Dockers and my car, to relieve myself of this monster. The sweat is dripping from my forehead as if I was on the twentieth mile of a marathon. I have one hand clenched to my steering wheel, knuckles white, and the other on to my driver side door, holding on like a child in a rollercoaster waiting for the next big dip in the ride. The bastard in my belly feeling no mercy for me, he smells victory. I am smelling defeat. The sharting has begun. I pull off I-96, on Chicago Road, not a section of Detroit I feel comfortable in, especially on this day, as I am about to shit my pants. I arrive at a McDonalds in a hopeless state of mind; it appears to be a matter of seconds before I birth this monster. I wobble, run, and then decide I might be better off walking from the parking lot into the establishment. Straight to men’s room, I pass a young woman who is in her attractive McDonald’s uniform watching a television of all things. I give her a nod, like I am a regular at the place. My confidence is on the rise as I am entering the restroom and unbuckling my belt and pants at the same time. Upon entry I find pure horror, two kids getting dressed for their afternoon shift on the fryers, one of course in the only stall. For a brief second, I think a may have no choice but to drop and lay this thing in one of the two sinks available, that makes perfect sense on this day. At least I will be able to wash my hands after cleaning the shit off my ass and legs. In a panic, I quickly dart out of the bathroom holding up my pants, sweating and trembling like a 28 year old man who is about to shit his pants should. What do I do? I am being watched closely by the young lady watching television on her break. She is my only hope. I approach her; she senses immediately that I need help. Without hesitation or thought, I explain how I am diabetic and in desperate need of insulin shot. I need a restroom before I fall over and die. Like a saint she walks over to the women’s restroom and peeks inside, then looks at me and promises she will not let anyone inside. Ten minutes later I exit the feeling like a champion. I am without my underwear, the charting left a nice stain, but I still have my pride. I walk past the woman who is standing guard at the door, like I am royalty and give her a nod and say thank you. All she does is smile. The woman is a SAINT, and probably not the one who is responsible for cleaning the restrooms.

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