Archive for the ‘Scatalogical’ Category

Dear Mr. Crack Addict,

I know I live in University accommodation with poor security, and if one of
my drunk flatmates is too inebriated to lock the door behind them, please
feel free to use our facilities. We do after all have working toilets and
showers, not to mention all that aluminum foil.

All I ask in return is that when you have a shit, you do it IN the toilet,
not next to it, or just in front of it, or even slightly behind it (I have
no idea how you managed to get it there, perhaps you were once a yoga

Also if you are suffering with diarrhea (no need to be
embarrassed, it happens to the best of us), could you please refrain from
shitting in the shower.

Many Thanks,

P.S. On second thought, it is not acceptable to shit in the shower at any time, even if you are not suffering from diarrhea.


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Noel E, the fart sniper

A well placed fart in public can be exactly what is needed when dealing with today’s disrespectful shoppers. Some people deserve nothing less nor do they understand that they drive the rest of us to such abhorrent behavior. Plus it’s fun! Especially after certain foods are ingested, as this can make the public farting experience even better.

For example, a night of drinking cheap boiler makers followed by a hearty breakfast of leftover egg salad and sauerkraut, can produce the stench that is required for maximum reaction, and guarantee teary eyes across hundreds of square feet of shopping area. Some farts are so noxious they seem to take on a life of their own by working overtime as they waft through the crowded aisles in search of that special someone.

The Auto Fart can also be quite effective especially if you live where temperatures hover around freezing because you can let them rip and your victim has few choices. How else can you deal with the asshole who is sitting shotgun fucking with your stereo? Your captive rider can either roll down the window for a face full of freezing rain, get out and walk through the ice capped streets, or they can breathe deep in the gathering gloom for a snoot full of everything that’s you! And of course the timeless, “Elevator Surprise” is perfect any time of the year!

For maximum results the supermarket fart is among the best there is because of the sheer audacity on the part of the shooter. The produce area is ideal for this. The bakery and butcher departments are also optimal because of their proximity to fresh food. The pleasing aroma of freshly baked onion rolls and lean roast beef can easily conjure those childhood memories of family picnics and lazy days at the beach. The salt spray in your face… The taste of cole slaw on your tongue… A Frisbee and a dog.

And as you are comforted by these memories and patiently wait your turn in the growing line, the bitch in front of you is too busy screaming into her cell phone to give her order to the minimum wage slave behind the meat slicer. But miraculously you are there! Poised like a well trained sniper in a bell tower with his trusty Remington 6mm deer rifle as you silently slip alongside this raving lunatic.

You gently squeeze that familiar and unwelcome warmth from underneath your unwashed Fruit of the Looms and wait for the fallout. You must not concern yourself with the collateral damage that involves the innocent week-end shoppers because you know that a certain degree of sacrifice is good for the soul. Your single minded mission to get that fucking line moving is paramount because your toothless bag of a mother-in-law is waiting at home for you to bring her lunch “before the next ice age.”

You then emerge from the cloud of stench that only you can enjoy. And as you exit the store with a smile on your face and a song in your heart, you look back over your shoulder just in time to see the cell phone screaming bitch lose her last meal all over the bean dip display.

Once again, life is good.

 Rantasaurus Says: Imagined in full and loving detail. Thank you, Noel. Now I know exactly how to handle Tyrantasaurus when she steps out of line. My colon alone is the length of seventeen football fields. You should smell the masterpieces I brew.

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To My Dearest Dog, Mia,

Darling, please stop eating things that do not belong in your tummy. Mommy is tired of cleaning up piles of vomit that are larger than her head, and she just had to take out veterinary insurance on you. We cannot afford your growing medical bills!

I know that you don’t like staying in your crate while Mommy’s at work. You get bored, I understand. However that, by no means, gives you the express right to crap in your crate and eat it. You are in your crate to keep you FROM eating things. I do not, contrary to popular belief, enjoy having my face licked by a shit-scented tongue.

While we are on the topic of eating things, darling, let’s just go ahead and get a list of the top eleven rules out of the way.

  1. You drink water. Not motor oil.
  2. Stay out of my whiskey.
  3. Do not eat the hair from the shower drain. It is not nearly as much fun coming out as it was going down.
  4. Used tampons stay in the garbage.
  5. Seran wrap is NOT digestible. In fact, it will wrap around your intestines and requires veterinary attention. (You should have learned this by your third incident.)
  6. We do not gnaw on our table’s corners, legs, and/or tops.
  7. You were returned to the SPCA for eating your previous owner’s Parrot. Stay away from the guinea pigs.
  8. Stop eating poop. This includes all of the neighbor’s dogs, cats, and birds feces. And especially stop eating poop out of the toilet when Daddy forgets to flush.
  9. You are allergic to beef. And grass. Let’s try to remember these things when we’re outside for a bar-b-q.
  10. While I’m sure the texture amazes you, stop eating used tissues. (ditto goes for toilet paper; see latter part of #8)
  11. Whilst you are on doggie downers for your, shall we say, “explosive” personality, this does not mean you should take them all. At once. They are hidden for a reason; do not search them out. The stomach pumping is expensive.

Thank you, darling, and I love you.


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Dear Cats,

I’ve tried to ignore this problem but in the last few weeks it’s become so odious, I don’t know what to do. You’ve been with me for, what, a year and a half now?

In that year and a half, I’ve done everything for you. I’ve given you free rent, free food, I’ve even… and this is shocking, cleaned up your toilet almost every day because you just can’t do it yourselves.

What do I get in return? Cuteness? Cuteness? Cats, how can you possibly think that cuteness is an adequate pay-back for me elbow deep in your pee and feces every day?

How does it possibly add up that you cuddle with me and sit on my lap whenever you feel like it, but I have to roll up my sleeves every day. Some days you don’t feel like snuggling, but you feel like manufacturing waste matter regularly. More than once a day, in fact. Sometimes once an hour if you’re feeling extra regular.

Take a look back at our relationship and you’ll see a legacy of abuse and advantage being taken. If this situation doesn’t get resolved… aww… Mittens… you’re making your cute face again! Come to Mama!


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Amy B, so not happy to be here

Since everyone I work with is a complete asshole, it’s safe to say that I am here… wasting away… working when I’m not scheduled. Ah, the joys of working for a small business owned by someone who has no idea what he’s doing.

I was supposed to come in for a few hours and help out on my DAY OFF!!!!! because I’m a nice and giving person. Then Little Miss Fat Pants wants me to do some filing. Fine. I file.

Then Cross Eyes n’ Pigtails expects me to fix the printer because she wants to put a hilarious e-mail from her failed and miserable maiden aunt by her desk and desperately needs to print it out. I’m sorry? The printer is by my desk, but that does not make me Hewlett Fucking Packard, okay?

Just as I’m planning my quiet escape and everything else is done, Hairy, Hairy Smells-a-lot actually comes up to me and seriously expects me to answer the phone while he steps out to… get his eyebrows waxed. (Shhhh)

I hop on the phone and the first person who calls is a customer who wants me to type them out an invoice from six months ago because they lost their copy.

Well, guess what. Our invoices from 2006 are in a box. In the storage closet. And I’m on my hands and knees digging through it like Spindly Nervous Wreck digs through her purse for her Prozac and her cigarettes twenty-nine times a day.

Maybe you’ve caught me on a bad day, maybe I work at the worst company ever, but I know one thing for sure. I’m going to take a monster growler in the bathroom and not turn the fan on before triumphantly bursting out the door and into the sunlight of freedom.

Rantasaurus Says: Such pluck! I like her. Tyrantasaurus, do we need an office bitch for RantasaurusRex.com headquarters?

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TAZ, sticks to proper bathrooms now

I had a group of friends that I hung around with, most guys.  In our group, there was one girl that I really had the “hots” for.  I had asked her out many times and she would always say; “We go out all the time…we always spend time together.”  But obviously, I was looking for a “date” date and not just hanging around with her and a bunch of my friends.  So, I kept asking and over time she agreed.
She was going to meet me at my house (actually my parent’s house) and I was going to take her to a club called “Mr. Whipples”.  Whipples was about a 45 minute to an hour drive….back roads.  We had been there many times before, but this was the first date.

When she got there, I was a little nervous.  I know we had hung around and chatted many times before, danced together and all that, but this was my DATE with her.  I was excited at the same time, hopeful that this date would lead to something more.
We got into my pick-up and headed out around 7:30 or so.  My truck was clean, with a nice stereo system and fabric seats.  It was a cool evening.   She was beautiful and looked like she did a few extra things to look good. This made me happy, thinking that she had dressed all up for a date with me.

After traveling about 20 minutes or so, my stomach started churning. Those nervous butterflies were trying to escape.

Without causing a big scene, I rolled down my window and squeezed out a silent fart.  Well, the window didn’t help.  The truck was quickly filled with the smell of ass.  I made some a stupid joke or something and tried to laugh my way out of it.  She rolled down her window, too.  After a minute or two, the smell cleared and we rolled the windows back up.
Maybe a couple of miles later, my stomach was taking over and I had the greatest crapping sensation.  I knew if I squeezed out another fart….either I could try to hide it again or I might just crap on myself, but the feeling was growing.  I was starting to sweat a little and there were no restrooms for miles.  What to do….what to do….

At the risk of just blowing the whole date by crapping in my pants, I saw a small dirt road with a little thicket of woods beside it.  I pulled the truck over and asked her if she had any paper in her pocketbook.  Her expression was a mix shock and laughter, but she managed to find me some paper and I darted into the woods.  I could hear her sorta laughing and saying; “Oh my God, I can’t believe this”.

In a complete hurry, I ran into cover, pulled down my slacks and did the deed that had to be done.  It was a major explosion but luckily it ended in just a couple of minutes.  I wiped,  pulled up my pants, tucked in my shirt, regained my composure and headed back to the truck, playing it cool.

I got in the truck, she said something like; “You feel better now?” and I said something like; “Yeah, that’s a load off my mind’.  I pulled off the dirt road and headed back down the street.  We hadn’t gone 1/4 mile when she quickly rolled down her window and said; “Did you just cut one again?”  No…I swore to her, I didn’t.  She rolled her window back up….then immediately back down.

“I still can smell it”, she said.  “You didn’t step in it did you?”  A sinking feeling came over me because I could smell it too.  It was dark out there so….I pulled the truck to the side of the road, turned on the inside light and leaned forward to check the bottom of my shoes.

She said; “OMG…you shit on your back!!”  I jumped out of the truck and took off my shirt.  There was splatters of crap running from the bottom to the top of my collar.

It was matted in my cloth seats and all over my shirt.  She was rolling with laughter.  Obviously, there never was a second date and not really a first one.  She was nice enough to endure this and still go to Mr. Whipples with me.

The best that I can figure is this:  When I walked into the woods, I stepped on a little sapling and bent it over, crapped on it and when I stood up to wipe it sprang back up and splattered me.  The worst date ever.

10 years later, at class reunion….I had to hear her tell the story to all our old friends.  It’s much funnier coming out of her mouth.

Rantasaurus Says: Thanks for sharing. I hope you don’t get the dribbles next time you go to Mr. Whipples.

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Dear Sean,

Yesterday you taught me what BVF stands for and I will never, ever forgive you.


PS- “Bloody Vagina Farts?”

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