3 shits by 8.20am. Surely a world record?
One good one, two disappointing affairs but they all count as far as Iām concerned.
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Not really, sounds like my employees turning up.
One good one, two disappointing affairs but they all count as far as Iām concerned.
This describes them perfectly.
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What time was the first one? Which one was the good one? Was it 2 disappointing affairs followed by an incredible comeback or a started well finished badly scenario? These are the questions on everyoneās lips Fats, donāt leave us hanging.
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First one was 5.55am and was the good one. Second was 7.30am and third was shortly afterā¦the remains of no.2. So actually was all done by 7.45am. An even more impressive feat.
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Day 5 on hols and as regular as clockwork.
Fingers crossed the anti-diarrhoea meds and soft moist wipes wonāt be needed.
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Sometimes I use moist wipes as a little treat to myself.
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There should be no such thing as a disappointing shit - and certainly not a Meatloaf two out of three aināt bad scenario.
You either get the deal sorted at the right time, or your judgement is so poor you have a go when itās not cooked - get your act together.
And donāt start me on people who take a newspaper in there for half an hour or they pull a hamstring trying to conjure something up that has only just arrived in the digestion system.
Go when you need to, not before!
(but definitely not after 
)
Hmmm. There is tone of judgement here that I donāt like. Normally, I find you a good egg,but Iām going to have to rethink my position after this post.
let me make it clear. I will not be lectured to by you or anyone else about shitting. Iām the fucking master of shitting. I invented shitting. If you look back at the first page or two of this thread, my only other previous participation, it was to announce an incredible shit - a real milestone. So thatās twice I have now felt compelled to join in this thread of momentous occasions by sharing my shits with you all. Thatās not an accident. This stuff doesnāt just happen. Iāve worked hard at my game.
i take papers, phones, iPadsā¦all sorts into the toilet with me. For someone like you (an amateur by all accounts) you might just drop the pants and plop one out before tootling back to the sofa or work or whatever. For me and my kind, the visit to the toilet is a ceremony. Itās an event. Itās the World Cup. Itās the Olympics. Itās a Black Friday sale. Itās the queens birthday. Itās the changing of the guard. You understand? I doubt you will. You havenāt got shit in your veins, flowing through you. To you, itās a simple bodily function that you probably time and use only the allocated 4 sheets of loo roll. Well thatās you. Thatās your choice. But that is not shitting.
So donāt come to me with your judgements. You donāt speak to me about shitting. Ever.
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Fatso, you are so full of shitā¦or rather, not full of shit
Donāt you tell me about shitting, you big shit-retainer @fatso
You think you are the king of the toilet?..I was shitting while you were still in nappies, the first timeā¦well, perhaps thatās not a good point but Iāve been doing it a long time.
Just because Iām organised and good with time management doesnāt make my little ceremony any less worthy.
You might get Danny Boyle in to organise Coldplay and fireworks to drag out the hole event, but my simple little SAS-style raid is just as productive.
I needed four flushes the other day - yeah four, read it and weep, and I had to use a fence post from the garden, so sniff on that you flash bastard.
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The toilet is not just a place to unload, it is a refuge. The only door in the house that can keep the Ayatollah at bay, unless I have a particularly dicky tummy.
That half hour of peace and quiet is an oasis in a desert of nagging, an opportunity to write these posts, read the news etc
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Specially for Fatso and Rallyboy, an extract from Joyceās Ulysees, in which Mr Leopold Bloom, having consumed his breakfast of devilled kidney, visits the lavatory. Heās more in tune with Fatso than with Rallyboy, I fancy.
He kicked open the crazy door of the jakes. Better be careful not to get these trousers dirty for the funeral. He went in, bowing his head under the low lintel. Leaving the door ajar, amid the stench of mouldy limewash and stale cobwebs he undid his braces. Before sitting down he peered through a chink up at the nextdoor window. The king was in his counting house. Nobody.
Asquat on the cuckstool he folded out his paper turning its pages over on his bared knees. Something new and easy. No great hurry. Keep it a bit. Our prize titbit. Matchamās Masterstrike. Written by Mr Philip Beaufoy, Playgoersā club, London. Payment at the rate of one guinea a column has been made to the writer. Three and a half. Three pounds three. Three pounds thirteen and six.
Quietly he read, restraining himself, the first column and, yielding but resisting, began the second. Midway, his last resistance yielding, he allowed his bowels to ease themselves quietly as he read, reading still patiently, that slight constipation of yesterday quite gone. Hope itās not too big bring on piles again. No, just right. So. Ah! Costive one tabloid of cascara sagrada. Life might be so. It did not move or touch him but it was something quick and neat. Print anything now. Silly season. He read on, seated calm above his own rising smell. Neat certainly. Matcham often thinks of the master-stroke by which he won the laughing witch who now. Begins and ends morally. Hand in hand. Smart. He glanced back through what he had read and, while feeling his water flow quietly, he envied kindly Mr Beaufoy who had written it and received payment of three pounds thirteen and six.
Might manage a sketch. By Mr and Mrs L. M. Bloom. Invent a story for some proverb which? Time I used to try jotting down on my cuff what she said dressing. Dislike dressing together. Nicked myself shaving. Biting her nether Hip, hooking the placket of her skirt. Timing her. 9.15. Did Roberts pay you yet? 9.20. What had Gretta Conroy on? 9.23. What possessed me to buy this comb? 9.24. Iām swelled after that cabbage. A speck of dust on the patent leather of her boot.
Rubbing smartly in turn each welt against her stocking calf. Morning after the bazaar dance when Mayās band played Ponchielliās dance of the hours. Explain that morning hours, noon, then evening coming on, then night hours. Washing her teeth. That was the first night. Her head dancing. Her fansticks clicking. Is that Boylan well off? He has money. Why? I noticed he had a good smell off his breath dancing. No use humming then. Allude to it. Strange kind of music that last night. The mirror was in shadow. She rubbed her handglass briskly on her woollen vest against her full wagging bub. Peering into it. Lines in her eyes. It wouldnāt pan out somehow.
Evening hours, girls in grey gauze. Night hours then black with daggers and eyemasks. Poetical idea pink, then golden, then grey, then black. Still true to life also. Day, then the night.
He tore away half the prize story sharply and wiped himself with it. Then he girded up his trousers, braced and buttoned himself. He pulled back the jerky shaky door of the jakes and came forth from the gloom into the air.
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So basically, while Iām sat here in the proper outfit for posting - full kit with Sotonians across the back and a framed picture of Pap beside me, it now emerges that you are all sat on toilets, grubby Y-fronts around one ankle, straining, coughing out supper, and wiping as you type?
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Upvoted out of pity/sympathy. The giveaway is the bit where you say your events are ājust as productiveā as mine. That tells me all i need to know about you.
I feel better for that rant - Iām glad I got it out of my cistern.
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<imature snigger>
Something a bit worrisome about seeing āmeatloafā in a tale of shitā¦ canāt quite put my finger on it. Just as oddly disconcerting as having to ālog onā to write thatā¦
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Well, I canāt say Iām impressed with @fatso 's shit stories.
Itās not that they diminish by their presence, actual achievement.
I donāt even think three shits is an achievement. Anyone can do that on a bottle and a half of red wine.
Real men would talk about huge deposits that can only be moved with a wooden, soon to be thrown away stick, and only truly conquered with a tin full of caustic soda.
Your shits are shit, Lone Wolf.
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tbf I strive to revisit the holy grail of the dreadnought that smoothly slips out and with one nip disappears around the u-bend without a trace (or skid mark in the pan).
Itās usually accompanied by a drop in core body temperature due its prodigious size which previously made up a large percentage of my body mass and also the mysterious situation of a clean bit of loo roll after wipingā¦
This happens rarely
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