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I have been bed-ridden for four consecutive days and now that I am out of the
hospital I realize that I have to take a massive shit. However, I'm sitting
here on the toilet trying to push out the shit but it simply won't budge.
Please help.
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Sincereley,
Stuffed with Poo
Shattown, CA
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Firstly, sorry, dude. Secondly, who has a computer by his crapper? The only
person who would conceivably do such a thing would have the initials (for
anonymity's sake) Cody Smith. And lastly, I really hope you've worked this out
before you get this reply, but in case you haven't released your feces yet and
haven't passed out as a result, I can give you some words of advice.
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I heard of this condition before; it has been popularly dubbed by the quack
medical community as Chingmengitis. Apparently some Cal student gave birth to
a 50lb terd after experiencing the same situation. Depending on what you ate
over the past four days in the hospital, will give you an idea what kind of
sucker you're dealing with in your rectum. If it was starchy like the
notorious salads in the UC Berkeley Dining Commons then you're in for a world
of hurt. However, if it was mushy and soft also like other forms of crapping
UC Berkeley Dining Commons, then beware of what I like to call a bowl
overcapacity (i.e. toilet overflow).
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First, you're going to need to find a toilet with cushioning because, trust
me, you're going to be there for a while. Next, you have to make sure there
are bars/supports by the toilet because this is going to be hard work. And
last, be sure to have several cans of Lysol around if you would like to
maintain your dignity.
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Now what you want to do is grip your supports as firmly as possible, but don't
grip them to tight because you want ample bloodflow to your rectum/ass
muscles. Picture in your head the piece of doodie wanting to come out, jeering
at you, taunting you, and making fun of your mother; this is your enemy. Take
a deep breath and push with your all your might focusing on expanding your
anal sphincter.
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If your fecal matter comes out like the runs then you should have no further
problem in releasing the rest of it. Simply put, just go with the flow. If
your toilet does overflow, just blame it on the landlord for bad plumbing and
sue his ass.
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However, remember that the anal sphincter is a limited size so prepare for a
stretch (a pretty big stretch) if your shit has clumped together to form a
log. You will now experience anal sex...from a piece of shit. If for some
reason, God does not like you and you still can not remove the crap from your
anus, I highly recommend sticking a coat hanger up your anus because you can
easily scrape your rectum tissue, cause an infection, and contract AIDS
(please note the sarcasm). What you should actually do in such a situation is
go in for a Caesarian Section to remove your precious bundle of shit unless
you want to rip your asshole so big that even prison inmates won't want
anything to do with you.
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And so, my friend, I wish you good luck in ridding yourself of your worries.
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My friend and I were wondering, why is the term for getting drunk "shit-faced"? And who had to experience this terrible ordeal to coin the term?
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Thank you,
Curious Drinker and Buddies
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Dear Curious Drinker and Buddies,
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I'm glad you asked this question. I'm not glad because I think it's a fantastic question or anything. I'm just glad that I got a question; it's been a while and I've been getting lonely.
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There are a variety of terms for getting drunk that I am sure you are aware of. Getting "shit-faced" is merely one of the numerous, clever terms synonymous with visibly imbibing excessive alcoholic beverages. It might seem odd to the majority of the world who do not know the origin of this expression and do not understand what shit has anything to do with getting drunk. There are a variety of myths and stories as to the origin of this phrase, and very few actually still know where it came from. I won't go into the numerous tales; I'll just tell you the "real" derivation of this commonly-used phrase.
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During early 1960s, there was a college man with a very slender frame and an incredibly low body weight for his height by the name of Shit Face. This young student of Oregon State University got completely intoxicated whenever he remotely tasted any trace of ethanol (the intoxicating ingredient of alcoholic beverages). Just a mere drop of alcohol would be more than enough to have Shit Face run around with his penis hanging out of his pants and blowing kisses to streetlights. Oddly enough, young Shit Face was never teased because of his name or the fact that he was not exceptionally pleasing to look at; he was always the life of the party. At an institution where they choose a drunken rat (beaver) as a mascot, drunken revelry is sanctioned and kegs are supplied by the university itself because 40% of the budget goes to football while the rest goes to beer. The faculty loved him because it promoted a more widespread distribution of alcohol. Chemistry labs just became moonshine production factories. Pregnant sorority girls even began giving their products of beer, drunk men, the occasional hallucinogens, and the lack of a condom (a.k.a. children) the middle name Shit Face. No one was allowed to enter campus without an I.D. (fake or legitimate) that stated that they 21 years of age. Beer eventually became a form of currency within a couple of years.
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Unfortunately, on June 11, 1965, Shit received a letter requiring that he become a soldier for the United States Army in Vietnam. Shit was a really puny guy and terribly afraid. However, everyone was perennially drunk and so no one was able to organize any mass protest to protect good 'ol loveable Shit Face. Shit Face was duly shipped off to Vietnam much to the dismay of his teary-eyed fellow Beavers; but they were probably crying for no apparent because they were drunk and were incomprehensible.
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On August 8, 1965, Shit Face was placed in the front lines of the initial American offensive at Na Dong, Vietnam. Alas, one of Shit's fellow footmen spiked Shit's water with a few drops of a very tame wine cooler. Before given any orders to do anything, Shit Face drunkenly fell on his gun; the bullet went through his already-weak-liver and he died instantly. That gun shot was what set off the entire Na Dong incident and coincidentally the entire War at Vietnam.
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The news of loveable Shit Face's death arrived OSU the next day and consequently sobered up students for a full day. The next day, when one of Shit Face's college buddies got drunk he started laughing hysterically as he screamed that he was "pulling a Shit Face." The phrase was immediately popularized and with time changed in a variety of ways, however, it eventually became "getting shit-faced," essentially because the legend of Shit Face slowly faded as the truckloads of alcohol deteriorated the students' memory cells. All that was left in his memory was this popular expression and hundreds of illegitimate children with his name as a middle name who promptly eliminated their middle name as soon as they learned how to pronounce it.
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Please continue to spread the name of dear Shit Face. And, in his memory, I propose that we all refer to the expression as it should for the sake of our cherished friend: "pulling a Shit Face." Beloved Shit Face would have wanted it this way.
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Sincerely,
Dr. Chummmmp,
Berkeley, CA
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I have three very urgent problems that need to be dealt with at once, and I know you are the man for the job:
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First of all, I woke up this morning, and my penis was missing. When I say "missing," I don't mean "there was a big open wound in it's place" I mean, it was completely gone like it had never been there in the first place. In it's place there is this kind of hole that smells funny.
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Also, I have amnesia and can't remember my name, the only reason I know I'm supposed to be male is because a kindly stray cat told me. He also told me to kill my family and my neighbors. Should I follow his advice?
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Lastly I have many red marks on my arms, and a strong urge for something, I don't know exactly what. When I woke up this morning I had rubber tubing tied around my bicep and there were needles laying around everywhere.
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All of this is very confusing, you were the first person I remembered this morning, so I figured I'd ask you for advice.
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Sincerely,
[I don't know]
[I can see a beach from here]
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I believe we have a very interesting case here. First of all, I would like to say that you are crazy and I would never like to meet you in person. Now that we've gotten that out of the way, let's see what diagnosis I can conjure up, wait, I mean, let's see what diagnosis I can thoughtfully extrapolate from years at medical school and numerous years as a practicing physician and professor emeritus.
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All three of your problems seemed baffling to me at first, but I believe I have a cohesive solution for all three of them. Let me first help you get your memory back and hopefully then you will realize why you are faced with these problems. Simply put, you are a crack whore who shot up clearly an excess amount of heroin. If you seem confused, let's run through this, and don't ask me who I am able to decipher this.
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You had just received your $10 weekly allowance from your pimp, who is commonly referred to as the "Hong Kong Pimp" even though he is 4'7" weighing 270 pounds and is Norwegian. Your $10 allowance usually went straight to purchasing heroin because all the food you ate was bought with the money you raised by telling people in the streets of Oakland that you would eat their fingernails if they didn't give you a quarter; it was an effective method, but it wasn't pretty every once in a while when someone didn't pay up. Your place of residence is rancid one-bedroom studio apartment in a complex that has been condemned since 1907 with a rent of one dollar per month. You said that you see the beach from your place, but that is because there is a big puddle with dirt and algae surrounding it in the middle of your bedroom.
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Anyway, back to the night you received your $10 weekly allowance. You had also saved your $10 from last month with the intention of having a big "heroin night." You ran down to the street corner where your hook-up known as "the Dove" was waiting; the name may seem awkward but, hey, what do you expect from a diabetic who has inhaled so much tainted cocaine that he intentionally voted for George W. Bush instead of by accident like the residents of Dade County, Florida. Well, "the Dove" provided you with $20-worth of heroin which was actually a lot because it was mixed with a large quantity of his own insulin supplements. Then you went back to your room and shot it up. This explains the rubber tubing and the needles laying around everywhere.
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The fact that you are female explains why you do not possess a penis. And your "hole" is smelly for your lack of hygiene and excessive prostituting. However, you seem to think that you are supposed to be male because a cat told you so. That cat was not the kindly stray you thought it to be, my friend. It was actually a rival prostitute named Lola who was dressed in a cat costume. Her aim was to sink you into even more poverty and destitution (if that is possible).
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The red marks on your arms are actually from that same night. While you were extremely high, you had a variety of interesting notions. One of these notions was that you would turn into a duck-billed platypus if you put red marks on your arm which you promptly adorned yourself with without hesitation. When that did not work, you decided to just start acting like a platypus. You said that you woke up and had the urge for something and did not know what. That is because you were still in the platypus-mindset and wanted to eat small invertebrates, fish eggs, frogs, and tadpoles.
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Now, my final advice to you is to find Lola your rival and have some sweet revenge. I hope I have been successful in aiding you in your recovery to the localized amnesia. However, I did not tell you what your name is. That I can not tell you because I'm not good when it comes to telling patients specific details after experiencing amnesia.
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Sincerely,
Dr. Chummmmp,
Berkeley, CA
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I am a farmer from a small city 10 miles west of St. Louis, MO. My primary livestock is sheep. I only raise sheep because a sheep killed my dad and now it's my turn for revenge. It all goes back to my childhood days when I was but a giddy little schoolboy with a bright orange lollipop in one hand and a copy of George Orwell's Animal Farm in the other. My father was the CEO of a small start-up sheep farm. As a matter of fact, he actually only owned one sheep named Kitty and we lived in the city so we kept the sheep penned in my old crib. It wasn't much of a farm; actually it wasn't a farm at all. But that's not the point because I'll gut anyone who defames my dear 'ol dad's name. I'm not really the violent type. But when something upsets me like when someone speaks ill of my dad or when someone makes eye-contact with me, that someone usually ends up dead. Anyway, one day my father was poking at Kitty's eyes as usually did; he used to get nervous when either people or animals looked at him. Well, Kitty somehow figured that she wanted her eyes, so she bit my dad's hand. Then I think she grew fond of the taste of his blood and devoured him. It was a horrible sight and I cry every time I think about it (like now). Ever since that day, I vowed to raise a sheep and eat him up the way Kitty ate my dad. Now I am no longer the giggly little fellow I used to be. Now I am a schizophrenic megalomaniac, according to my shrink. However, I still carry a bright orange lollipop in one hand and a copy of George Orwell's Animal Farm in the other.
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Anyway, back to my problem. The sheep that I am raising now is named Mr. Ed. I have been raising Mr. Ed for several years now. Everyday I tend to him and at nights I work part time for Publisher's Clearing House. I make just enough money to feed myself and Mr. Ed. I don't buy any clothes; I glue on Mr. Ed's wool to my body for warmth. One day, while I was sleeping, I think Mr. Ed thought I was another sheep and tried to fertilize me. I'm a pretty sound sleeper because I sleep with two handguns since guns relax me. The next morning, I found Mr. Ed sleeping beside and my buttocks had several blister-like sores. What do I do, doctor?
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Sincerely,
Violated Shepherd
Gusville, MO
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You have a very interesting childhood and must have gone through a lot. You have the fortunate experience of living such a life. Way, did I say "fortunate?" I meant to say "unfortunate, tragic, disastrous, and devastating." Well there is nothing we can do to change your past except go back in time and manually change everything, but that's too expensive, and I'm too lazy to do all that work.
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First of all, you should improve the sanitation of your living condition. Instead of keeping the sheep inside of your house, you should keep him outside of the house; that's probably the best thing to do first. Then you should go out and buy some clothes. You shouldn't have to shear a sheep and glue his wool to your body; there are some nice tailors that can do that for you.
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Anyway, I suspect that you have contracted type 3 herpes. You might be wondering how I came to this conclusion based on the fact that you did not give me much detail about your symptoms. Well, keep wondering. A good magician, I mean doctor, never reveals his secrets.
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Herpes symptoms sometimes last longer or are more severe when a person experiences them for the first time, shortly after becoming infected. This is called a "first episode," and it tends to be more difficult because it's the first time one's immune system has had to contend with herpes type 3. First episodes can last as long as forty-one to fifty-three years, and they sometimes involve a second outbreak of sores the day after first outbreak's sores fade away fifty-three years later after infection, but the second outbreak usually lasts only four days Typically, first episodes also involve flu-like symptoms, including fever, swollen glands, and fatigue. And they can produce other non-genital signs and symptoms. Some, for example, result in headaches and sensitivity to light. Others may give way to a secondary infection of the herpes sores by bacteria.
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You probably do not want to wait fifty-three years to be cured of your type 3 genital herpes. There is actually a way to get rid of it much faster. Now, here is what you have to do: while your sheep is sleeping, you must "take advantage" of it. By this method, you will transmit the herpes back to the sheep. Trust me, it works.
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Sincerely,
Dr. Chummmmp,
Berkeley, CA
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I am currently being plagued with an ailment so tragic of incomprehensible proportions. People tell me that it is called the "common cold." So I call them "crazy." Then usually after that I get punched in the face. Now compounded with my atrocious symptoms, my face is plagued with massive bruises from these beatings. My symptoms include sudden bursts of air being forcefully expelled from the base of my lungs as my diaphragm violently shakes, some form of projectile sticky substance ejecting from my nostrils with little warning, and dreadful searing pains pulsing from my cranium. Also, when I put a temperature stick in my oral cavity, it reads 99.6oF. I have no idea what's wrong with me. You've got to help me.
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Sincerely,
Bruised and Confused
Boise, ID
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Dear Bruised and Confused,
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It's a good thing you reached me as soon as you could. People can be very naïve by telling you that you've got the "common cold." The so-called "common cold" is an old-wive's tale that was originally used to scare children from picking and eating the plump red satchelberries from the St. Swivens Estates of the miserly Lord Havelnworth in the 17th century. It is a plan that worked well. Actually, it was either that or the fact that the Lord granted 50 lashes to each child and beat him until he completely vomited every consumed satchelberry.
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You, my friend have contracted a rare tropical disease known as Sneezitis that is transmitted by the Anopheles mosquito specifically resident of a small village called Yokelshire off the Thames River. The bacteria that this Anopheles mosquito carries was first evident 10 years ago when a little girl contracted the same symptoms that you currently possess; unfortunately, the villagers thought she was possessed and when the exorcism was unsuccessful, she was drowned in the Thames. The some of the quickly-reproducing bacteria found their way out before she was drowned when a mosquito bit her. The bacteria was subsequently transmitted to everyone in the village. The reason why it was not contracted by any of the other neighboring villages (or anywhere else in the world for that matter [except to you, that is]) was because the residents of Yokelshire were essentially ignorant. Everyone else in the world knows that the cure to Sneezitis is to feed a newborn the asocarp of the carbon fungus Hypoxylon multiforme so that he may gain immunity for the rest of his life. This solution was easily developed because it is extraordinarily obvious. Unfortunately, the inhabitants of Yokelshire were not intelligent enough to develop this cure so the rest of the academic community decided to play a joke on this village and let them suffer for eternity; we doctors like to play little jokes on people. Obviously, you have not been treated with this carbon fungus when you were born so you do not have immunity. You have 5 days to live. Hahahahahahahahahahahahahahahaha!
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By the way, that was joke. Remember, we doctors like to play jokes. You really do have the common cold.
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However, you still have 5 days to live.
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Sincerely,
Dr. Chummmmp,
Berkeley, CA
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Note: Dr. Chummmmp is not a real doctor. He's an long-term inmate at Bellvue Assylum obsessed with The Simpsons. |
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This page best viewed while dangerously intoxicated.
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codythefreak.net, or c7f.net is not copyrighted, reserved, limited, restricted, or private. Information is always inherently free.
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If I don't want you to read, view, or plagarize something, I won't post it up. Courtesy appreciated 2001-2006.
Up 1 day, 21:07.
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