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Shart 2021: Shit Can Always Get Worse


Prepuce of Doom

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8 hours ago, Prepuce of Doom said:

Maybe we all have different thresholds for when a garment is too beshitted to merit an attempt at resurrection, but I have a hard time envisioning a circumstance when I've enshitted my underwear, pants/shorts, and car seat, and yet for it not to be such a crime scene that it was a no-brainer to ditch the tainted clothes. 

But you doodoo you, dude - this is a judgment-free zone! 

That’s fantastic 🤣

Yes. There are limits & a level of enshitment where clothing should just be written off. A lot of it involves environment & circumstance.

I do have a story about how I had to surrender both socks, my underwear, and an undershirt in a gas station bathroom. Although it does take things a little further than the scope of this thread’s purpose, it did begin with a shart. 
 

I can tell the story if you would like but as you are the field commander of this thread I will defer to your judgment. 

 

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I’m down. Some friends had me over for brunch and as I got ready to leave, I went to take a leak. I noticed I COULD shit if I wanted…but their bathroom is this tiny, unventilated place right off the kitchen. I don’t want to punish them for inviting me over, and the urge is at the time controllable. 
 

My key error comes when, as I feel the pressure building, in a part of town I rarely visit, I rejoice as a metro train heading my way pulls in right as I hop off the escalator. I slide past the doors as they close and then realize— nope; I only USUALLY ride the line this direction. So ride one stop the wrong way, wait the Sunday delayed schedule for the return train. Metro shitters are closed for “COVID” reasons. Why did I have a second coffee?
 

On the right train, my bowels sense we are getting close. I believe that I feel some pressure drop and an actual fart make its way down. After slightly easing my o ring, I realize my greasy mistake. It is not a catastrophic failure, luckily. I did make it home in time to paint the back of my toilet bowl, no light turned on in the bathroom and the door open. 

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15 hours ago, hookemATL said:

One of the benefits of being forced to work from home during COVID is that while I HAVE shat myself three times in the past ~1.5 years, I have just been able to waltz (waddle) right to the shower. Check. Mate. 

Same. My butthole discipline has suffered greatly during the pandemic. I'm taking chances I never would have before this.

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On 7/31/2021 at 10:32 PM, hookemATL said:

One of the benefits of being forced to work from home during COVID is that while I HAVE shat myself three times in the past ~1.5 years, I have just been able to waltz (waddle) right to the shower. Check. Mate. 

The fuck is wrong with you, man?  GD savage. 

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On 3/10/2021 at 3:37 PM, Prepuce of Doom said:

Doomlet isn't allowed on Surly until he's 10, but he's checking in by proxy right now while crying in the bathroom. 

He's been forcing farts for years with the reckless abandon of someone who doesn't understand the stakes of the game he's been playing, so I'm mostly just surprised that it's taken so long for the inevitable to occur. 

One soiled pair of size 4t Jurassic Park underpants in the trash... 

Another 4t pair of Jurassic Park undies in the trash. 

"I forced a hot fart. But I didn't think it was dangerous." 

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3 hours ago, Prepuce of Doom said:

Another 4t pair of Jurassic Park undies in the trash. 

"I forced a hot fart. But I didn't think it was dangerous." 

At his age, & the rate he’s learning these lessons his buttcheeks will be forged harder than the gates of hell & he’ll have wisdom to boot. There’s hope, man. 

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On 8/3/2021 at 9:29 AM, hookemATL said:

Two of them happened during conference calls for work. I’m an invalid and goddamned proud of it. 

Teams call today. Camera on and they ask me what challenges I'm facing this quarter. 

Mind you I'm wearing nothing but a polo shirt and underwear. I'm sitting on a towell so I don't stick to my leather chair.

Been eating a lot of apples and drinking lone star.

That towel is now in the dumpster.

Yep. Full bodied shart right in the middle of my presentation.

Luckily I muted the mic just in time.

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But does anyone have trouble keeping their butthole clean?

It doesn't matter if I wipe and wipe and wipe, then hit it with a couple of wet wipes if there are available. When I get home, inevitably I have to do a "safety" wipe to remove the mud slathered in my crack.

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1 minute ago, Superhero said:

But does anyone have trouble keeping their butthole clean?

It doesn't matter if I wipe and wipe and wipe, then hit it with a couple of wet wipes if there are available. When I get home, inevitably I have to do a "safety" wipe to remove the mud slathered in my crack.

 

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5 minutes ago, Superhero said:

But does anyone have trouble keeping their butthole clean?

It doesn't matter if I wipe and wipe and wipe, then hit it with a couple of wet wipes if there are available. When I get home, inevitably I have to do a "safety" wipe to remove the mud slathered in my crack.

Do you regularly ingest Olestra? Sugar-free Haribo? Shartfish sushi? 

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7 hours ago, Superhero said:

But does anyone have trouble keeping their butthole clean?

It doesn't matter if I wipe and wipe and wipe, then hit it with a couple of wet wipes if there are available. When I get home, inevitably I have to do a "safety" wipe to remove the mud slathered in my crack.

I shower immediately after every dump, if at all possible. 

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  • 3 weeks later...
54 minutes ago, RDCanecutter said:

Funny you'd mention those two things...

Today I was on a gig two counties away. Drove out on the interstate, gnawing on a PBJ sandwich made out of some hippy bread that's all nuts and berries, it was good. While out there working, I got thirsty. Grabbed a little bottle of milk. That was good too.

Got done early, and decided to take some shady two-lanes back to town, because they are pretty. They also take 30 minutes longer, but what is time? Nice drive back through the country. Then I'm in stop-and-go generic suburbia, starting to get the farts, but no sign of worse. I pass dozens of fast food restaurants with functioning bathrooms, but I don't need them, not me!

Finally I am only about 5 miles from home, locked into traffic, but hey, I can make it.

About 2 miles out, I realize it is about to hit. I have eased out all the air farts I have left. The next one will be Sea Monster. I am in a dead zone commercially with only one business within my rapidly-reduced range. A gas station. The kind where you have to go in and get the bathroom key on a stick from the guy. I am not going to make it. I look at the other side of the road where there is a parking lot for a running trail, are there some portapotties? Fuck if I know, green light, hit the gas,, I am dead, it is over, KAMIKAZE!

I cut off a pick-up truck while my body reverse-prison-rapes me. I feel a rattlesnake slither from under my butt. I am driving normally now, what's the rush. Oh here's another wave, more liquid. I roll through Craftsman Cottage 1940s Suburbia with the window down, slowly easing past joggers. Construction? Of course there's construction making me ease into a blindspot where there could be oncoming cars. A fender-bender would be great right now, get out with pants full of brown sackrete, oh yeah that'll buff out, here's my number and insurance.

Several more baby sharts join Mama and Daddy Shart in my pants, and I'm home. There's a hidden way from the garage to the back deck, where I strip off boots and socks (wonderfully dry) and then peel off pasty trousers and underwear and toss them out on the damn deck for a future thunderstorm to take care of. One of my legs is clean, the other looks like it rolled in the mud at Woodstock. Tiptoe to the shower, where I have to rub my hand all up in the actual clay-like shit on my messy leg to get it off.

Then I ignore the clothes out on the deck, the disaster of the car seat, and go up to bed just to lie down and refocus. When I feel stronger, I get dressed in regular dirty clothes (I mean, why the hell not) and go throw the shart garments inside out on the grass and blast them. Then I fill a bucket with soapy water, toss those clothes in it, and stir them around with a stick just like a fucking savage. I don't know if they will ever come clean or not. They are still outside on the deck in the bucket.

As for the car seat, I don't give a fuck about that right now. I hit it with a little of the soapy water, but the garage is honestly too dark to see and I'm too tired to move the car into better light. I took the no-doubt-fecal-flecked shower towel and folded it several times as a seat cover over any refugee mini-turds that maybe extruded into that place.

I just don't care. I am defeated.

This should be available for future generations in The Library of Congress 

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6 hours ago, RDCanecutter said:

Funny you'd mention those two things...

Today I was on a gig two counties away. Drove out on the interstate, gnawing on a PBJ sandwich made out of some hippy bread that's all nuts and berries, it was good. While out there working, I got thirsty. Grabbed a little bottle of milk. That was good too.

Got done early, and decided to take some shady two-lanes back to town, because they are pretty. They also take 30 minutes longer, but what is time? Nice drive back through the country. Then I'm in stop-and-go generic suburbia, starting to get the farts, but no sign of worse. I pass dozens of fast food restaurants with functioning bathrooms, but I don't need them, not me!

Finally I am only about 5 miles from home, locked into traffic, but hey, I can make it.

About 2 miles out, I realize it is about to hit. I have eased out all the air farts I have left. The next one will be Sea Monster. I am in a dead zone commercially with only one business within my rapidly-reduced range. A gas station. The kind where you have to go in and get the bathroom key on a stick from the guy. I am not going to make it. I look at the other side of the road where there is a parking lot for a running trail, are there some portapotties? Fuck if I know, green light, hit the gas,, I am dead, it is over, KAMIKAZE!

I cut off a pick-up truck while my body reverse-prison-rapes me. I feel a rattlesnake slither from under my butt. I am driving normally now, what's the rush. Oh here's another wave, more liquid. I roll through Craftsman Cottage 1940s Suburbia with the window down, slowly easing past joggers. Construction? Of course there's construction making me ease into a blindspot where there could be oncoming cars. A fender-bender would be great right now, get out with pants full of brown sackrete, oh yeah that'll buff out, here's my number and insurance.

Several more baby sharts join Mama and Daddy Shart in my pants, and I'm home. There's a hidden way from the garage to the back deck, where I strip off boots and socks (wonderfully dry) and then peel off pasty trousers and underwear and toss them out on the damn deck for a future thunderstorm to take care of. One of my legs is clean, the other looks like it rolled in the mud at Woodstock. Tiptoe to the shower, where I have to rub my hand all up in the actual clay-like shit on my messy leg to get it off.

Then I ignore the clothes out on the deck, the disaster of the car seat, and go up to bed just to lie down and refocus. When I feel stronger, I get dressed in regular dirty clothes (I mean, why the hell not) and go throw the shart garments inside out on the grass and blast them. Then I fill a bucket with soapy water, toss those clothes in it, and stir them around with a stick just like a fucking savage. I don't know if they will ever come clean or not. They are still outside on the deck in the bucket.

As for the car seat, I don't give a fuck about that right now. I hit it with a little of the soapy water, but the garage is honestly too dark to see and I'm too tired to move the car into better light. I took the no-doubt-fecal-flecked shower towel and folded it several times as a seat cover over any refugee mini-turds that maybe extruded into that place.

I just don't care. I am defeated.

Nothing personal (and it almost always is whenever I wish for a person to shit their pants) but this enthralling post-mortem account makes me hope you shit your pants a whole bunch more just so you'll write about it. 

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  • 2 weeks later...
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A few years ago my daughter was home from UT for the weekend.  While home she decides to go for a run.  Some time later I am working outside in the yard when I see this person on a small 20" bicycle madly pedaling at a speed that would have made peak Lance Armstrong proud.  I call out to her but she does not break stride nor even acknowledge me in any way.  She is staring straight ahead with a grim, determined look on her face.  As she turns into the driveway I call out to her again.  Still no reply.  She dismounts the bike at near full speed.  The bike continued forward under its own power for several feet before it crashes to the ground as my daughter does her best Olympic speed race walker imitation into the house.

A bit later she comes back outside and fills in the blanks for me.

She was about 3/4 of a mile from home when the moment hit.  She sees some random kid (about 8 years old) playing outside.  She tells the kid that she has an emergency and that she needs to commandeer his bike with a promise that it will be returned.

About an hour after my daughter's mad dash home we throw the bike into the back of my truck and return it to the rightful owner.  As we are pulling into the kid's driveway we see the kid in the front yard.  A big smile crosses his face.  As we are getting out of the truck to retrieve the bike for the kid the mom is coming out of the house with a "look" on her face.  Before she could get cross with us I tell her that she has a nice and kind son.  I didn't go into detail with her for the need of the bike but was just thankful to them.  She did say that she told her son that he would be lucky if he ever saw his bike again.  I am assuming that is why he had such a big smile upon its return.

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