I know I’m not the only one who takes my computer along when I poo. With that in mind, post random good articles in this thread for such occasions.
worth a read for sure.
I know I’m not the only one who takes my computer along when I poo. With that in mind, post random good articles in this thread for such occasions.
worth a read for sure.
18 Comments
Joey said 4 months ago
the title of this just really made me want to say "arly gnarticle"
jimiyo said 4 months ago
wow. thats wild. very callous. humans in general that is...
cajun metal said 4 months ago
makes me want to punch dude in the face then tell him he should’ve ducked
Master_Control said 4 months ago
heavyprints said 4 months ago
Wow, that’s pretty low. Calling someones bereaved family to prank them.
Joey said 4 months ago
now that i read the article, my original comment is completely unappropriate.
benaiahclothing said 4 months ago
yea, that’s messed up
wotto said 4 months ago
Interesting read. I was in Fullerton the other day. weird that a big time hacker would live there.
Ben Danger said 4 months ago
Really rad Tom Waits interview/word association type thing. READ IT
http://joecurren.blogspot.com/2008/05/tom-waits.html
Ben Danger said 3 months ago
http://www.purpleslinky.com/Trivia/Science/Mad-Scientists.197861 READ
explodingtoes said 3 months ago
am i the only person alive capable of shitting quickly enough to not necessitate reading material?
Ben Danger said 3 months ago
How to dispose of a body
http://ask.metafilter.com/7921/
First, be smart from the very beginning. Pulverize all teeth, burn off fingerprints, and disfigure the face. Forcing a DNA test to establish identity (if it ever comes to that) might introduce the legal/forensic hurdle that saves your ass down the line. An unidentifiable body can, in a pinch, be dressed in thrift store clothes and dropped in a bad part of town where the police are less likely to question it. I don’t reommend that disposal method, I’m just saying an easily identifiable body is an even bigger threat than the opposite.
Assuming you have it inside a house where you can work on it a bit, the first thing you want to do is drain it of fluids. This will make it easier to cut up, and slow decomposition a little bit. The best way to do this quick and dirty is to perforate the body with a pointed knife, and then perform CPR on it. Cut the fronts of the thighs deep, diagonally, to slit the femoral arteries. Then pump the chest. The valves in the heart will still work when dead, and the springback of the ribcage can put apply a fair amount of suction to the artria. Do this in a tub. Plug the drain, and mingle lots of bleach with the bodily fluids before unplugging the drain to empty the tub. This should help control the stench of death, which would otherwise reek from your gutter gratings. Do everything you can to control odors. Plug in an ionizer, burn candles, leave bowls of baking soda everywhere. Ventilate the room in the middle of the night, but otherwise keep it closed. Keep the body under a plastic sheet while it’s in the tub.
If you want to bury, I recommend seperating the body into several parts, and burying them seperately. For one thing, it’s easier to dig a deep enough hole for a head than for an entire body. this reduces your chances of being discovered while you are actually outside and digging the grave.
That is the one thing you can’t do inside the doors of your house, and represents a vulnerable moment you want to keep brief, under 2 hours. Do it between 3 and 5 am. It’s also less likely for someone to call the police if their dog digs up some chunk of meat, than if they dig up an enitre body. They may assume it’s an animal carcass disfigured by decomposition, and leave it alone or dispose of it. It’s also more likely that the dog will consume all of it before anyone knows the difference. A whole skeleton is another story. You can cut a body into 6 pieces faster than you think. It’s not much different than boning a chicken, but it takes more work, a big knife, and time. A hammer will be useful for pulverizing joints or driving the knife deep where it doesn’t want to go. Anyway it’s wise to crush as much of the skeleton as you can along the way. It will aid in making the body less identifiable for what it is as it decomposes.
Don’t return to the same site 6 times for 6 burials.You’ll attract suspicion from anyone nearby, and you’ll wind up placing the body parts close enough together to be found by any serious investigation. Put them in plastic bags with lots of bleach, and store in a freezer until you have enough time to bury them all.
Depending on what tools you have available, you may find that you’re get really good at deconstructing the body. You might prefer to slowly sprinkle it down a drain without leaving your house. This avoids the long-term risk of discovery associated with burial, and the overwhelming supply of bacteria in a sewer accellerates deconomposition, whil e providing a convenient cover smell.
Truly grinding down a body takes a lot more work, and you run the risk of fouling your plumbing and calling in a plumber. So don’t try it unless you know how to clear bones and meat out of a drainpipe. A good food processor can be useful. But don’t over-use it, or power drills or saws. They’re noisy and they attract attention. And forget the kitchen sink. It’s better if you actually remove one of the toilets in your house from its base, which will give you direct access to one of the largest sewer pipes that enters your house. Follow any disposals with lots of bleach and then run the water for 5 or 10 minutes on top of that. And plug that pipe when you’re not using it, to prevent any sewer gasses from backing up into your house. Usually, a U-trap inside the toilet does that for you.
Ben Danger said 2 months ago
http://www.environmentalgraffiti.com/featured/mongolian-death-worm/2266
Ben Danger said about 1 month ago
(Not my story)
The Steakhouse Incident
starts out a little slow but hang in there
Now, I know that there is a lot of embellishment that occurs on this group and I am aware that a small number of things are perhaps sheer fabrication, but I have a story to tell that is the absolute truth. Funniest damn thing that has ever happened to me.
A couple of weeks ago we decided to cruise out to Ryan’s Steakhouse for dinner. It was a Wednesday night which means that macaroni and beef was on the hot bar, indeed the only night of the week that it is served. Wednesday night is also kid’s night at Ryan’s, complete with Dizzy the Clown wandering from table to table entertaining the little bastards. It may seem that the events about to be told have little connection to those two circumstances, but all will be clear in a moment.
We went through the line and placed our orders for the all-you-can-eat hot bar then sat down as far away from the front of the restaurant as possible in order to keep the density of kids down a bit. Then I started my move to the hot bar. Plate after plate of macaroni and beef were consumed that evening, I tell you -- in all, four heaping plates of the pseudo-Italian ambrosia were shoved into my belly. I was sated. Perhaps a bit too much, however.
I had not really been feeling well all day, what with a bit of gas and such. By the time I had eaten four overwhelmed plates of food, I was in real trouble. There was so much pressure on my diaphragm that I was having trouble breathing. At the same time, the downward pressure was building. At first, I thought it was only gas which could have been passed in batches right at the table without to much concern. Unfortunately, that was not to be. After a minute or so it was clear that I was dealing with explosive diarrhea. It’s amazing how grease can make its way through your intestines far faster than the food which spawned the grease to begin with, but I digress...
I got up from the table and made my way to the bathroom. Upon entering, I saw two sinks immediately inside the door, two urinals just to the right of the sinks, and two toilet stalls against the back wall. One of them was a handicapped bathroom. Now, normally I would have gone to the handicapped stall since I like to stretch out a bit when I take a good shit, but in this case, the door lock was broken and the only thing I hate worse than my wife telling me to stop cutting my toenails with a pair of diagonal wire cutters is having someone walk in on me while I am taking a shit. I went to the normal stall.
In retrospect, I probably should have gone to the large, handicapped stall even though the door would not lock because that bit of time lost in making the stall switch proved to be a bit too long under the circumstances. By the time I had walked into the regular stall, the pressure on my ass was reaching Biblical proportions.
I began "The Move."
For those women who may be reading this, let me take a moment to explain "The Move." Men know exactly what their bowels are up to at any given second. And when the time comes to empty the cache, a sequence of physiological events occur that can not be stopped under any circumstances. There is a move men make that involves simultaneously approaching the toilet, beginning the body turn to position ones ass toward said toilet, hooking ones fingers into ones waistline, and pulling down the pants while beginning the squat at the same time. It is a very fluid motion that, when performed properly, results in the flawless expulsion of shit at the exact same second that ones ass is properly placed on the toilet seat. Done properly, it even assures that the choad is properly inserted into the front rim of the toilet in the event that the piss stream lets loose at the same time; it is truly a picture of coordination rivaling that of a skilled ballet dancer.
I was about half-way into "The Move" when I looked down at the floor and saw a pile of vomit that had been previously expelled by one of those little bastards attending kids night; it was mounded up in the corner so I did not notice it when I had first walked into the stall. Normally, I would not have been bothered by such a thing, but I had eaten so much and the pressure upward was so intense, that I hit a rarely experienced gag reflex. And once that reflex started, combined with the intense pressure upward caused by the bloated stomach, four plates of macaroni and beef started coming up for a rematch. What happened next was so quick that the exact sequence of events are a bit fuzzy, but I will try to reconstruct them as best I can.
In that moment of impending projectile vomiting, my attention was diverted from the goings-on at the other end. To put a freeze frame on the situation, I was half crotched down to the toilet, pants pulled down to my knees, with a load of vomit coming up my esophagus. Now, most of you know that vomiting takes precedence over shit no matter what is about to come slamming out of your ass. It is apparently an evolutionary thing since shitting will not kill you, but vomiting takes a presence of mind to accomplish so that you do not aspirate any food into the bronchial tubes and perhaps choke to death. My attention was thus diverted.
At that very split second, my ass exploded in what can only be described as a wake...you know, as in a newspaper headline along the lines of "30,000 Killed In Wake of Typhoon Fifi" or something similar. In what seemed to be most suitably measured in cubic feet, an enormous plug of shit the consistency of thick mud with embedded pockets of greasy liquid came flying out of my ass. But remember, I was only half-way down on the toilet at that moment. The shit wave was of such force and of just such an angle in relation to the back curve of the toilet seat that it ricocheted off the back of the seat and slammed into the wall at an angle of incidence equal to the angle at which it initially hit the toilet seat. Then I sat down.
Recall that when that event occurred, I was already half-way to sitting anyway and had actually reached the point of no return. I have always considered myself as relatively stable gravitationally, but when you get beyond a certain point, you’re going down no matter how limber you may be. Needless to say, the shit wave, though of considerable force, was not so sufficient so as to completely glance off the toilet seat and deposit itself on the walls, like what you would see when hitting a puddle with a high-pressure water hose; even though you throw water at the puddle, the puddle gets moved and no water is left to re-form a puddle. There was a significant amount of shit remaining on about one-third of the seat rim which I had now just collapsed upon.
Now, back to the vomit...
While all the shitting was going on, the vomit was still on its way up. By the time I had actually collapsed on the toilet, my mouth had filled up with a goodly portion of the macaroni and beef I had just consumed. OK, so what does the human body instinctively do when vomiting? One bends over. So I bent over. I was still sitting on the toilet, though. Therefore, bending over resulted in me placing my head above my now slightly-opened legs, positioned in between my knees and waist. Also directly above my pants which were now pulled down to a point just midway between my knees and my ankles. Oh, did I mention that I was wearing not just pants, but sweat pants with elastic on the ankles.
In one mighty push, some three pounds of macaroni and beef, two or three Cokes, and a couple of Big, Fat Yeast Rolls were deposited in my pants...on the inside...with no ready exit at the bottom down by my feet.
In the next several seconds, there were a handful of farts, a couple of turds, and the event ended, yet I was now sitting there with my pants full of vomit, my back covered in shit that had bounced off the toilet, spattered on three ceramic-tiled walls to a height of about five feet, and still had enough force to come back at me, covering the back of my shirt with droplets of liquid shit. All while thick shit was spread all over my ass in a ring curiously in the shape of a toilet seat.
And there was no fucking toilet paper.
What could I do but laugh. I must have sounded like a complete maniac to the guy who then wandered into the bathroom. He actually asked if I was OK since I was laughing so hard I must have sounded like I was crying hysterically. I calmed down just enough to ask him if he would get the manager. And told him to have the manager bring some toilet paper. When the manager walked in, he brought the toilet paper with him, but in no way was prepared for what happened next. I simply told him that there was no way I was going to explain what was happening in the stall, but that I needed several wet towels and I needed him to go ask my wife to come help me. I told him where we were sitting and he left. At that point, I think he was probably assuming that I had pissed just a bit in my pants or something similarly benign.
About two minutes later, my wife came into the bathroom not knowing what was wrong and with a certain amount of worry in her voice. I explained to her (still laughing and having trouble getting out words) that I had a slight accident and needed her help. Knowing that I had experienced some close calls in the past, she probably assumed that I had laid down a small turd or something and just needed to bring the car around so we could bolt immediately. Until I asked her, I’m sure she had no idea that she was about to go across the street and purchase me new underwear, new socks, new pants, a new shirt, and (by that time due to considerable leakage around the elastic ankles thingies) new sneakers. And she then started to laugh herself since I was still laughing. She began to ask for an explanation as to what had happened when I promised her that I would tell her later, but that I just needed to handle damage control for the time being. She left.
The manager then came back in with a half-dozen wet towels and a few dry ones. I asked him to also bring a mop and bucket upon which he assured me that they would clean up anything that needed to be cleaned. Without giving him specific details, I explained that what was going on in that stall that night was far in excess of what I would expect anyone to deal with, what with most of the folks working at Ryan’s making minimum wage of just slightly above. At that moment, I think it dawned on him exactly the gravity of the situation. Then that manager went so far above the call of duty that I will be eternally grateful for his actions. He hooked up a hose.
Fortunately, commercial bathrooms are constructed with tile walls and tile floors and have a drain in the middle of the room in order to make clean up easy. Fortunately, I was in a commercial bathroom. He hooked up the hose to the spigot located under the sink as I began cleaning myself up with the wet towels. Just as I was finishing, my wife got back with the new clothes and passed them into the stall, whereupon I stuffed the previously worn clothing into the plastic bag that came from the store, handing the bag to my wife. I finished cleaning myself off and carefully put on my new clothes, still stuck in the stall since I figured that it would be in bad taste to go out of the stall to get redressed in the event I happened to be standing there naked and some little bastard kid walked in. At that point, I had only made a mess; I had not yet committed a felony and intended to keep it that way.
When I finished getting dressed, I picked up the hose and cleaned up the entire stall, washing down the remains toward the drain in the center of the room. I put down the hose and walked out of the bathroom. I had intended to go to the manager and thank him for all he had done, but when I walked out, three of the management staff were there to greet me with a standing ovation. I started laughing so hard that I thought I was going to throw up again, but managed to scurry out to the car where my wife was now waiting to pick me up by the front door.
The upshot of all this is that I strongly recommend eating dinner at Ryan’s Steak House. They have, by far, the nicest management staff of any restaurant in which I have eaten.
Steve Crisp
crisp@ihos.com
tybomb said about 1 month ago
ohh poop stories how i love thee
Ben Danger said about 1 month ago
Awesome break up letter
Brad,
It would be difficult for me to be any more miserable right now, I feel like the worst person ever. First, let me start by saying that I am truly truly sorry, and I hate myself for hurting you. Of all the people in the whole entire world, you were honestly the last person that I would ever want to wrong in any way. There is no excuse at all or anything that happened, so I won’t even try other than to say all of us had WAY too much to drink, and I did a stupid thing. I can handle you being pissed at me, I absolutely deserve it, I can even handle the ugly words that were exchanged between us, what I can’t handle is thinking that you see me as a different person.
It is weird, I feel like I just went through a horrible break up or something. The world looked funny yesterday, I couldn’t crack a smile if you paid me, there are songs I can’t listen to, and I just feel beyond crushed. I don’t know if you meant everything you said to me, and I am hoping that you didn’t. I know that I was wrong on many levels, but I am also hoping that this is something that we can deal with. I know it sounds totally crazy and stupid, but you have come to play such a significant role in my life, I can’t imagine my days without you. It is totally strange and weird to say that, and you could say that my behavior didn’t reflect that, and you would be correct. I hate feeling like you hate me, and I hate feeling like all of your friends think I am a terrible person, because I am not. I know there is nothing I can say or do to take back what happened, but I just want you to know that fighting with you was just about the worst thing I could have ever imagined. It was right up there with one of the ugliest nights of my life, and I would give anything in the world to rewind and fix it.
I am not sure if you will respond to this, part of me thinks that you won’t. If not today, then maybe some other time. Also, thanks for getting my stuff together, although I think my sunglasses are still at your house, if you could keep your eyes peeled for them that would be great. I can’t even focus or work today, I can’t eat, I seriously feel like it was an ugly break up, and I am hoping against hopes that it was not that and you are not done with me. Please don’t cut me off, I really don’t think I can handle that.
I am so sorry.
Elizabeth
Dear Elizabeth,
Thank you for your concern. I’ll be sure to file it away under “L” for “Long-winded diatribes from drunken whores I couldn’t care less about”.
You did a stupid thing huh? No…doing long division and forgetting to carry the one is “a stupid thing”; Mixing in a red sock with a load of whites is “a stupid thing”; Blowing some guy in a bathroom for 45minutes while I sit at the bar wondering if you’re taking so long because you ate too much bran that morning isn’t as much a “Stupid thing” as it is grounds for permanent removal from my social calendar.
To be honest, I’m not sure if it was more amusing that you went and degraded yourself in a public toilet not once but twice in a 2 hour span, or that you seemed to think that by saying “Well, I didn’t F**k him” somehow gave you a clean slate. So forgive me if I couldn’t care less if the world “looked funny” to you yesterday. Since your world revolves around blow dryers, golden retrievers, Prada Bags and Jelly Beans, I’m sure it must have been most unsettling to actually have to consider someone else’s feelings for 24 hours straight. The good news for you is that my friends don’t think you’re a terrible person, they just think you’re the average run of the mill blond who commands about as much respect as your average child porn collector. I could be wrong but, it’s pretty hard to respect some B&T chick who comes out to spend the night at my place even though she’s seeing someone else in New jersey and winds up tongue-bathing the taint of anyone who decides 30 minutes of droning commentary on Colin Farrell’s new haircut is worth putting up with for a hand job in the men’s room. The good thing about being a guy is that when I eventually bump into the young lad who finger-blasted you on top of a towel dispenser last Saturday, we’ll have a shot and laugh our heads off about the time it happened.
By the way, for the amount of time you claim to spend in spin class you really must be doing something wrong to sport the thunder thighs you do. Watching you parade around my bedroom in a thong was a little like watching sea lions mate. Thought you might like to know.
Talk to you never,
Brad
Ben Danger said 21 days ago
http://chuckpalahniuk.net/features/shorts/guts
the nastiest story you have ever read
Ben Danger said 21 days ago
http://seattletimes.nwsource.com/html/localnews/2008385341_apcanadafootfound1stldwritethru.html
watch yer feet