| Report for Raz . | |
|---|---|
| Approved stories | 5 |
| Pending stories (hidden) | 1 |
| Rejected stories (hidden) | 2 |
| Deleted stories (hidden) | 2 |
| Summary | Shows promise |
This reminds me of 'The Turd'. I was a first year, still wet behind the ears, and with a smaller cock that may or may not have had pubes, I cannot remember. Upon entering the toilet for a nervous, wide-eyed, innocent piss, I came across an enormous crowd of 4th years laughing like drains. Tall, scary, drains. I didn't know why, so I snuck in a cubicle to do wee. This turned out to be a mistake.
Inside the bowl was, quite simply, the biggest shit I have ever seen in my life. It made you wince just to look at it. It was ridiculous - eye-fucking in its impossibly monstrous dimensions. A note taped to the cistern read "Property of ***** - do not flush!" (The stars are there because I cannot recall the name, not to preserve the dignity of the Bearer - I imagine they had little in the first place)
Well, here was a to-do. I needed wee bad, but here was a massive assausage stopping me. The sensible thing to do would have been to go somewhere else to piss - but back then I still had a small amount of pride, and somehow it seemed so WRONG to have my life dictated by a big shit rather than Fate. I got out cock and pissed. Hollers from outside the cubicle accompanied the golden stream's slow-motion journey towards the bowl, brown whale waiting, glinting, silently. I zipped up, sweating and scared.
Flushing would be a step too far - although a small part of my mind, rational despite the panic, piped up to say "Flushing? Are you fucking joking? Nothing less than a controlled explosion is even going to DENT that fucker."
I took a deep breath (not too deep) and decided to act like a manchild. I would have to be proud of my decision to sully the waters of the BumTrout. I calmly opened the cubicle door, and met the accusatory stares of a dozen lads.
"He pissed on The Turd!" bellowed one, pointing.
"I didn't flush it!" I wailed. Then I ran. I never saw The Turd again.
Inside the bowl was, quite simply, the biggest shit I have ever seen in my life. It made you wince just to look at it. It was ridiculous - eye-fucking in its impossibly monstrous dimensions. A note taped to the cistern read "Property of ***** - do not flush!" (The stars are there because I cannot recall the name, not to preserve the dignity of the Bearer - I imagine they had little in the first place)
Well, here was a to-do. I needed wee bad, but here was a massive assausage stopping me. The sensible thing to do would have been to go somewhere else to piss - but back then I still had a small amount of pride, and somehow it seemed so WRONG to have my life dictated by a big shit rather than Fate. I got out cock and pissed. Hollers from outside the cubicle accompanied the golden stream's slow-motion journey towards the bowl, brown whale waiting, glinting, silently. I zipped up, sweating and scared.
Flushing would be a step too far - although a small part of my mind, rational despite the panic, piped up to say "Flushing? Are you fucking joking? Nothing less than a controlled explosion is even going to DENT that fucker."
I took a deep breath (not too deep) and decided to act like a manchild. I would have to be proud of my decision to sully the waters of the BumTrout. I calmly opened the cubicle door, and met the accusatory stares of a dozen lads.
"He pissed on The Turd!" bellowed one, pointing.
"I didn't flush it!" I wailed. Then I ran. I never saw The Turd again.
My friend Andrew Glanville's nickname throughout primary school was 'glans'. It is only now, with the twin gifts of hindsight and a working knowledge of cock biology, that I realise we were unintentionally and unknowingly calling him a bell-end.
Farrow was a gangly kid who was assuredly mental, and ginger. One of those 'funny' ones.
Allegedly his parents had an obsession with lawnmowers, and had a vast collection. At Christmas a single lawnmower would be decked in fairy lights and placed on the roof of their house.
Towards the end of the year I was phoned by my mate Jon, who barked "You know Farrow? He's DEAD!" before he was inexplicably cut off. I thought it was a joke, obviously, but Farrow really was dead; he had hung himself. That should have been the end of it, but perhaps because of his eccentricity, comedy stylings became applied to his suicide. It became common knowledge, accepted fact that he had "Put the noose round his neck and stood on a chair as a joke, and then he called his friend and said 'come round and see what I've done!', but he accidentally slipped off the chair and really killed himself!" It seems pretty obvious to me that it was a cry for help. I mean, how good a joke would that have been? Friend Enters Room. Farrow: 'Hahahahhaha! Look: I'm standing on a chair, and I have a noose round my neck!'
Then it entered a new stage of ludicrousness. With that touchingly naïve manner that teachers possess, where they assume that kids will be traumatized by a pupil killing themselves - as opposed to, say, finding it funny - our tutor asked for silence so that we could discuss the matter.
"I just wanted to make sure everyone knew what happened, and had the right story." Then, unexpectedly: "Does anyone know the right story?"
Benham, of equally mental and ginger status to Farrow, put up his hand. With deadly sincerity (he was not complex enough to be this deadpan), he said "He was talking to his friend on the phone, when he fell over the balcony and hung himself on the telephone cord."
I looked around. There were no smirks, no raised eyebrows. "I see," said the tutor. "I wanted to make sure everyone was clear on this."
What!? I wanted to stand up and shout "For fuck's sake, he didn't accidentally hang himself with a telephone!" But I started to doubt myself. I still don't know to this day. Maybe he DID accidentally hang himself with the telephone cord. Or maybe people just couldn't accept that a ginger fool would die in a way that wouldn't involve slapstick.
Luckily, later that evening, my spiritualist uncle was on hand to give me some excellent advice: "You must pray to the Great Spirit for your friend-" "He's not my friend!" I never did pray to the Great Spirit, so if Farrow is in Spiritualist Hell I guess it's my fault.
Allegedly his parents had an obsession with lawnmowers, and had a vast collection. At Christmas a single lawnmower would be decked in fairy lights and placed on the roof of their house.
Towards the end of the year I was phoned by my mate Jon, who barked "You know Farrow? He's DEAD!" before he was inexplicably cut off. I thought it was a joke, obviously, but Farrow really was dead; he had hung himself. That should have been the end of it, but perhaps because of his eccentricity, comedy stylings became applied to his suicide. It became common knowledge, accepted fact that he had "Put the noose round his neck and stood on a chair as a joke, and then he called his friend and said 'come round and see what I've done!', but he accidentally slipped off the chair and really killed himself!" It seems pretty obvious to me that it was a cry for help. I mean, how good a joke would that have been? Friend Enters Room. Farrow: 'Hahahahhaha! Look: I'm standing on a chair, and I have a noose round my neck!'
Then it entered a new stage of ludicrousness. With that touchingly naïve manner that teachers possess, where they assume that kids will be traumatized by a pupil killing themselves - as opposed to, say, finding it funny - our tutor asked for silence so that we could discuss the matter.
"I just wanted to make sure everyone knew what happened, and had the right story." Then, unexpectedly: "Does anyone know the right story?"
Benham, of equally mental and ginger status to Farrow, put up his hand. With deadly sincerity (he was not complex enough to be this deadpan), he said "He was talking to his friend on the phone, when he fell over the balcony and hung himself on the telephone cord."
I looked around. There were no smirks, no raised eyebrows. "I see," said the tutor. "I wanted to make sure everyone was clear on this."
What!? I wanted to stand up and shout "For fuck's sake, he didn't accidentally hang himself with a telephone!" But I started to doubt myself. I still don't know to this day. Maybe he DID accidentally hang himself with the telephone cord. Or maybe people just couldn't accept that a ginger fool would die in a way that wouldn't involve slapstick.
Luckily, later that evening, my spiritualist uncle was on hand to give me some excellent advice: "You must pray to the Great Spirit for your friend-" "He's not my friend!" I never did pray to the Great Spirit, so if Farrow is in Spiritualist Hell I guess it's my fault.
There's more, actually: a second Turd, which was at the time unnamed. I don't know how big this one was, only that it was in the wrong place. A surprise assembly was called for all the boys in the school, and as we filed in, the rumour spread like wildfire that the reason for it was because 'Someone done a shit on the floor in one of the toilets!'
Certainly Mr Stonely didn't look in a good mood. An assembly about a poo; this was a new one, and everyone was excited, the greyness of yet another schoolday suddenly livened up with a splash of colour (brown).
When asked for silence the congregated boys became quiet in record time, because teacher was possibly about to talk about poos. Mr Stonely looked uncomfortable. "On Thursday night..." Tarrant-like pause. "Someone...did not use the pan in the correct manner." Peals of laughter rang around the room, squeals from 1st years, grunts from 5th years. Stonely was not amused; in fact, he was LIVID that people were laughing at him talking about poos.
Singling out a random boy in the middle of the hall, he pointed and shouted (his voice breaking with emotion like a hormonal adolescent) "YOU! YOU'RE EXACTLY WHAT I'M TALKING ABOUT! GET OUT!" I don't know whether he meant that he thought the boy had done the poo, or whether he was comparing the boy TO a poo. On a floor.
That was that, anyway. To this day I really don't know why they had an assembly about it; they can't have thought they were really going to catch the pooer like this. Like bent cops in a clichéd movie, they simply laid the blame on someone who looked as though he might have had the capacity to do a poo on a floor.
Certainly Mr Stonely didn't look in a good mood. An assembly about a poo; this was a new one, and everyone was excited, the greyness of yet another schoolday suddenly livened up with a splash of colour (brown).
When asked for silence the congregated boys became quiet in record time, because teacher was possibly about to talk about poos. Mr Stonely looked uncomfortable. "On Thursday night..." Tarrant-like pause. "Someone...did not use the pan in the correct manner." Peals of laughter rang around the room, squeals from 1st years, grunts from 5th years. Stonely was not amused; in fact, he was LIVID that people were laughing at him talking about poos.
Singling out a random boy in the middle of the hall, he pointed and shouted (his voice breaking with emotion like a hormonal adolescent) "YOU! YOU'RE EXACTLY WHAT I'M TALKING ABOUT! GET OUT!" I don't know whether he meant that he thought the boy had done the poo, or whether he was comparing the boy TO a poo. On a floor.
That was that, anyway. To this day I really don't know why they had an assembly about it; they can't have thought they were really going to catch the pooer like this. Like bent cops in a clichéd movie, they simply laid the blame on someone who looked as though he might have had the capacity to do a poo on a floor.
I very much wanted this to be true, BUT:
1) I could not be bothered to leaf through the entire Bible
2) I do not own one
HOWEVER as 30% of the Internet consists of American Christians, I thought a quick Google search would settle the matter. Here are the helpful, and conclusive results.
1) I could not be bothered to leaf through the entire Bible
2) I do not own one
HOWEVER as 30% of the Internet consists of American Christians, I thought a quick Google search would settle the matter. Here are the helpful, and conclusive results.