Tag Archives: funny story

Dear Car Seat Victim – Poop Pranks

6 Dec
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Bet you wish we'd been into Post-it notes and not poop, huh?

I would like to apologize for putting a pile of human shit on your front seat in 1994. I really don’t know what else to say except that it seemed like a good idea at the time. Like most boys in their late teens, I fell victim to groupthink, and my group was just into that kind of prank. In our defense, there was a lot of pot involved in the strategy sessions we conducted during our munchie-induced pigouts.

Twenty-four hours before we dropped our nasty payload on your unsuspecting upholstery, we were passing a doobie and discussing the wonders of the human body. How does corn become reconstituted in your poo after you’ve chewed it thoroughly? Why does spinach snake through your dookie like lost caterpillars? If asparagus makes your pee reek, what will it do to your doo-doo? Does grape Kool-Aid really turn your turds the shade of nuclear waste? You know, deep philosophical stuff. While we pondered these questions, our pack leader, we called him “The General,” leapt to his feet excitedly.

“Dude, we should totally try these theories out. We’ll all eat now and try to synchronize our movements, and then we’ll share the data. We’ll have to do this at Frank’s house; he has the most toilets.”

But another soldier among us piped up and suggested it would be better, and funnier, to take turns crapping in a paper bag and then dump the contents on somebody else’s driver’s seat. I am not proud to say that soldier was me, but in the whirlwind of the moment, it felt as if I were contributing to science and comedy. It was a double whammy of historic proportions.

We accomplished our task, as you well know, and the results were astounding. Corn, no matter if ground to a pulp between teeth or popped whole like precious yellow pills, will riddle your log with rows of plump kernels that could pass for a half-eaten cob. Spinach will not always snake; it will sometimes clump in swampy masses that cling to the outside of a poop slug. Asparagus will evoke the pungent aroma of beached animals rotting in the sun. And yes, grape Kool-Aid will turn a turd a shade of sickly neon green.

Like mad scientists, we collected our specimens and assembled them into a quadruple threat whose stench rivaled even the most fetid of malfunctioning sewage pumps. A stench we bequeathed to you.

For the record, it’s not as if we singled you out for any personal reason. Quite frankly, your car door was the only one unlocked in its driveway that evening when we executed our plan. Had you locked your door, some other poor sap would have had to deal with our ‘gift.’ When I was a stupid kid, I didn’t think about the consequences of my actions. But now, as a more mature adult, I can imagine the aftermath of that morning’s commute….

To find out what this poor schmuck endured that morning, read the rest of “Dear Car Seat Victim” in our ebook.  Found here on Amazon for kindle, here for the nook at Barnes and Noble or just type in “Flush This Book” at Apple’s iBookstore.  If you don’t have an ereader follow this link to get the ebook for your PC.

Want more poop pranks?  We found some for you.  Enjoy!

Readers of this website write in with poop prank confessions.

Favorite funny poop moments from the movies.




You Down with O.P.P.?

25 Jan

“OPP, how can I explain it
I’ll take you frame by frame it…
O is for Other, P is for People…
The last P…well…that’s not that simple…”

Blast from the past.  It’s 1991 (how the hell is that twenty years ago?) and Naughty by Nature graces the charts with their little ditty about infidelity.  But the last “P” in my “O.P.P.”  remake is “Poop.”  And I have discovered, much to my surprise, that I am NOT down with O.P.P.  Not by a long shot.  This comes as a great surprise, as I spend a good deal of time thinking about, writing about, and even producing my own, poop.  Apparently if the poop did not originate from someone exceptionally close to me, I am completely skeeved by its physical presence or pictorial representation.  I have found the limits of my poop tolerance.

A brief aside here about the difference between reading and seeing.  I am a wuss when it comes to horror films.  I went to see The Ring in the theater and I had to stay with relatives for a week because I feared, irrationally I know, that a half-decomposed girl with long stringy hair was going to crawl out of my television set and kill me.  I was twenty-eight when I saw the film; there was no excuse for my delusion.  During that same year I read a string of Stephen King and vampire novels that boasted a cast of characters every bit as menacing as the dead chic who liked to attack via TV.  So why can I sleep soundly after reading horror, but never after viewing it?  I have a theory. Reading is a very private and cerebral act that requires direct interaction.  The reader has to be an accomplice in the world-building or the illusion doesn’t work.  The reader therefore has some control over how powerfully the images become imprinted in her head.  A novel is also something digested over a longer stretch of time.  Movies are in your face, and the viewer has no control over the sharpness of the images.  Although you can diminish the psychological impact by watching images through the spaces of fingers cupped over your face.  This method prevented me from crapping my pants during The Ring.  Which brings me back to the point of this comparison: crap. 

I enjoy a good poop.  I enjoy a good poop story.  Tell me about something questionable you ate that made your turd electric green, and I will howl with laughter and share some of my own tales from the gastrointestinal trenches.  Your dog crapped the floor and you puked as you cleaned it up?  Hilarious!  Tell me more.  But… show me a picture of your electric green turd?  Now I can’t eat.  If I walk into a bathroom stall in a public restroom and encounter a stranger’s deposit simmering in the bowl?  Gag reflex.  Big time. 

The biggest O.P.P. challenge I’ve faced to date came last week while I was searching for other blogs about poop to see how other writers were “talking shit.”  (Yes.  They exist, and in larger numbers than you’d think.)  One man’s blog transformed me immediately into the proverbial old fogey; I even uttered an astonished “Oh My.”  If you’re brave and curious about your own gross out ceiling, check it out: http://thepoopblog.com/.  The man posts pictures of his shit and discusses them briefly.  I was completely disgusted.  Me, the woman who writes about my ass dilating to release a poop bomb with the girth of a soda can; me, the woman who gets up in public and relates poop stories to crowds at comedy clubs!

So, no.  I am not down with O.P.P. in the broadest sense.  I am Naughty by Naughty when it comes to a good story, but don’t make me see the movie.  And under NO circumstances do I ever want to see that shit live!


The Mr. Toilet House Is Now An Official Toilet Museum

20 Jan

Check out the full story here

South Korean, Sim “Mr. Toilet” Jae-duck, the chairman of the Inaugural General Assembly of the World Toilet Association (an organization that we passionately support) built the home in 2007 to help bring awareness to the lack of basic sanitation for billions of people worldwide. Now, he’s turned his home into a museum celebrating the lowly but much appreciated toilet. Check out the link above for more pictures.


Shitty Kitty

11 Jan

Is this the face of a shit terrorist?

My husband and I were enjoying an intimate dinner downstairs when all of a sudden our new kitty Kiki galloped through the upstairs hallway, flied down the stairs and came to a skidding halt in the kitchen. She looked nervously behind her to see if whatever was stalking her hadn’t followed. She appeared to have seen a ghost but she also looked a little guilty. We puzzled over our cat’s skittishness for just a few moments before the first whiff assaulted our noses. The smell was far worse than any pig farm or paper mill combined could ever produce, and our eyes instantly began to water and our noses began to run.

Since the cats have always been considered mine, I got the pleasure of investigating this nasal invader. I gagged as I climbed the stairs to the bonus room where the kitty litter box was stored. The smell just increased as I got closer. By the time I reached the litter box, the smell nearly knocked me over. I couldn’t believe this doodie of death had come out of a little cat’s ass. I quickly grabbed the pooper scooper, buried the smelly shit and grabbed some air freshener in a futile attempt at extinguishing the horrific stench. After being overpowered by the odor, I hurried back downstairs thinking there would be relief there. I found none. My husband had abandoned the house for the deck outside. I spotted him through the windows taking in deep breaths as he wiped his eyes.

I was determined to tough it out and get rid of the smell that had invaded our happy home, so I lit all of the candles in the house and sought out the creator of the stench. I found her cowering under the dining room table with her poop stink mingling with the smells of our once mouth watering meal. I cornered her and lifted her tail – sure enough there was a strip of the toxic sludge stuck to her tail. I quickly got some anti-bacterial wipes and began trying to extricate the shit from her fur. She fought me but I was able to pin her down while I cleaned her up. Finally I had to cut a large chunk out of her hair. I flushed the pile of wipes and hair down the toilet. Now that the menace had been contained and removed, I myself needed a shower. By the time I got out of the shower, the odor had dissipated and we thought life would return to normal. Silly us, thinking it was a one time deal.

Our sweet, simple, adorable Kiki has continued her shit bombs from hell for nearly 4 years now. The entire time she’s unloaded craps so foul that they send her fleeing before she gets a chance to cover them up. I’ve taken her to several vets who assure me that all this is normal and that there is nothing we can do but endure. So, that is what we do. We have a healthy stock of Neutra Air (it works!) and as soon as we hear her tear ass from the litter box room, we know to immediately go bury it before the smell engulfs the entire house. We’ve never thought about getting rid of her – she’s family. We love her, even with her shits that could be useful as biological weapons or a remedy for congested nasal passages. Now, what a minute, there’s an idea. I can see it now: Coming to a store near you, Shitty Kitty Nasal Punch brand nasal spray – Yeah, that’ll kill your cold.


Pet Peeves

21 Nov

What do roofing nails, a ten dollar bill, a tampon, a rubber ducky and human hair all have in common?  They’re all items that our Twitter followers and Facebook fans have found in their pets’ feces. 

The pieces of bird, mole and squirrel I regularly discover in my dog’s scat make me feel like I’m filming an episode of National Geographic Explorer.  My three-year-old, Phoebe, and I take a daily survey of our yard.   Phoebe will dutifully peruse the grass and then point excitedly at a turd and exclaim, “Look Mommy, Gretzky ate a bird.  There’s a beak!”  I take pride in my daughter’s powers of deductive reasoning as well as my dog’s amazing hunting abilities.

Don’t get me wrong, Gretzky’s crap isn’t always met with a sense of childhood wonder and maternal pride.  The dog has made some poor choices over the years that we have paid for dearly.  Just a few weeks ago the canine decided to revisit a mole carcass he had ferreted away under our deck.  The maggot-infested meal hit him hard sometime in the middle of the night. Seeking to prolong discovery, Gretzky squatted indoors in an undisclosed location.  Undisclosed, until the following night. 

On the phone with a friend who was in the throes of a bitter divorce, I walked up the stairs to the only second-story room in our house.  Two days earlier, Phoebe and I had completed a giant dinosaur puzzle on the floor and left it there to decorate the room like an area rug.  Apparently the myriad bushes, trees and grass that graced the dinosaurs’ landscape enticed Gretzky into taking a dump only fit for the outdoors. 

Forever the multi-tasker, I listened to my friend while putting the puzzle away in its box.  One of the puzzle pieces was covered in a brown-green slime.  I looked up.  There were six little piles of shit in various nooks and crannies of the room.  The expletives I shrieked upset my poor friend.  No matter how much I apologized, I could tell he was a little peeved that I was cleaning up dog shit while he told the crushing story of how his wife had left him.  Gretzky just whined and stood there with his tail between his legs.  He felt bad, but I was pissed off that he had no hands to lend to the clean-up.

Perhaps the most embarrassing Gretzky crap was the one he took on our first walk with him five years ago.  Glowing with domestic bliss, my husband and I walked the pooch we had only owned for two days.  In those short forty-eight hours, however, Gretzky had managed to ingest one of my hairs.  One of my very long hairs.   

Whatever he had eaten along with the hair produced a tiny little nugget which, judging from the dog’s violently shaking hindquarters, had the consistency of cement.  The poor guy just crouched there in the grass, looking up at us with sad hound dog eyes that pleaded, “Help me.”

Then my husband and I saw something impossible.  The turd was suspended in midair between Gretzky’s ass and the ground.  No, wait.  The butt nugget was dangling from a very long strand of my hair.  His hind legs continued to convulse, and he started to whine.

“This is pathetic.  He needs help getting it out,” my husband said.  “Not it.”

“What the hell do you mean? ‘Not it.’  This isn’t elementary school, man.  You can’t just opt out of parental responsibilities by shouting something you say during Tag.”

“All I’m saying is, my hair is not that long.”

Damnit.  He had an excellent point. 

The plastic bag originally intended to pick up the poop became a makeshift glove I used to cover my hand while I pulled my own hair out of the dog’s ass.


Yes, folks.  It actually made a noise.  I had no idea the hair would serve as a ripcord for dispatching the foulest lump of shit I have ever encountered.   It was green and riddled with an assortment of berries, grass and bird beaks.   I was simultaneously revolted and amazed.  My husband was doubled over in laughter, a fact which inspired me to reserve his ‘Not It’ routine for a later date.   

I saved my ‘Not It’ for a baby diaper so foul I actually suspect, however irrationally, that Gretzky had something to do with it.


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