The Butt burster

4:12pm 26/07/2012

The past 8 months had flown by, the rancid splatterings of alcohol and barbecue base pizza had coated the toilet bowl on a tri-daily basis. The porcelain was no longer visible through the hardened crust of excrement, now inches deep in parts. The curtains had themselves been used as anus fodder some months back, so sunlight poured into the once dark room and facilitated the baking and cementing of the brown paste onto the bowl. The crust was now so mountainously thick that it made the toilet water accessible to only the wateriest of stool. Luckily my horrible diet meant that only the sloppiest of excretions had passed my puckered anal lips, so until now this presented no problem to the eye of the needle that the toilet had become.
Unfortunately a persistent and infected bout of pink eye had led to hospitalisation, and thus none of the alcoholic elixir that had kept my bowels in check and the sluice gates open for so long. Constipation set in and when I returned home I was of course in for a brutal battle to be fought on two fronts- one through the express dilation of my ill-prepared sphincter, and two in the no doubt vain effort to chisel away enough hardened poo from the toilet in time to burst my engorged bowels into the water (and not overflow into my slippers and pajama bottoms).
Both battles seemed lost when the football sized bolus began to birth itself prematurely, with 3stops still to go on the bus home. I was not only touching cloth, but wearing through it, the crispy edges of the turd were boring a hole through my underpants and I could feel the familiar caress of anal blood dribbling down my trouser leg. It would be a race to the toilet, but it would still be a challenge to get the beast out.

Home, I grabbed a wooden spoon from the kitchen counter and ignoring the useless toilet, jumped into the bath and dropped to all fours. The lump would not be coming without a fight, instinctively I knew this, and I began to chip away at it’s now cold exterior with the spoon- some blows breaking off chunks, others mashing the turd into a supercompact state. I could tell that beneath the arid exoskeleton belied a soft, moist interior and if I could plunge the spoon into the turd I could erupt the liquid from within. I mashed away at it, sweat beginning to drip into the bath, instantly mixing with the turd’s dust to form a slippery paste which on a number of occasions sent me tumbling face down into the slime. I spat out the shat and carried on plumbing my anus. It took every ounce of strength but I chiseled my way inside the turd which was crowning and splaying my sphincter to a good 4 inches in diameter. It was instant relief and like a supermassive star it collapsed inward, shooting a jet of hot sludge that barely touched the sides of my stretched hole and plastered the bath taps and blocked the plughole. The rest simply fell out of my gaping anal wound and piled like half melted ice cream between my legs.

Exhausted and shattered I retired to bed, knowing that an extensive clean up operation would be necessary at some point in the coming month. Knowing it would be absorbed quicker I lay with my legs in the air and poured vodka straight into my welcoming anal tract, waited for it to be absorbed and fell into a well deserved natural sleep.

19-10-2011

23:22pm. Home turf

The awful sounds had been my stomach absolutely rejecting the dry coco pops it had been fed for dinner. It groaned and twisted violently as I pelted the pops one by one against the porcelain. The ricochets were invasive and blasted back through my legs and onto the floor, via my chin and lips. It was an overwhelmingly bitter taste and had kept none of the chocolatey flavour. Like poor Joe Pasquale the pops had been poo’d from their anal womb with any likeability or reason for existing already removed, and yet still taking the form of a puffed up grain of rice. Disappointment aside the pellets had battered my rear end and left me grazed and somewhat hungry, after the acrid appetiser. I would eat, so that I may poo again.

16-09-2011 (Turd Zero)

17:52pm. Home toilet

After this ghastly and momentous dump I felt as if the rulebook had been re-written. It’s fatty grease had eased it out with such grace and aplomb that it kissed my sphincter on the way out. Such weight did it lift from my tired bowels that I felt as if floating above the seat as I defecated the exorbitantly stinky stool.

The turd had filled the bowl and must surely have also prematurely entered the u-bend. So immense was it that it towered skyward, scraping the upper reaches of the toilet bowl as if it was to re-enter my anus. It’s giant appendage reached up to me in desperation like Joe Pasquale’s hand reaches up from destitution for a pasty, or some spare change. I slapped the turd away as I would Pasquale and toppled the turd tower, splattering my hands and anus with excrement. I could throw down no more brown so I sat back to relax.

An aromatic haze filled the room and I tasted the acrid secretion on my lips, the fermented crispy duck billowing out clouds of thick funk. I was like a child in a sweet shop, not knowing whether to look between my legs and admire the beast in the bowl, or to just lean back, close my eyes and bask in the warm stench, perhaps take a little nap.

I opted for the latter and awoke with dried excrement clinging to my lower regions. As I peeled the tenacious little globules from my anus I reflected on what had indeed been a smashing shart. It lay there, so massive that the water was barely visible, leering up at me with smug pride, as if it’s hideous obesity was something to be held sacred. I had to give the turd it’s dues.
****

12-10-2011 The poor poor Pasquale (Turd Hughes guest poo)

‪
A gruelling account of the cruel circumstances that led me hither befit not a noble man. Not least because the leviathan that sits motionless amid the still moody water tells a story all of its own.
 

Absorbing every detail of the colossal mass, from the rich colour of the main body to the gelatinous mire which binds the many segments, I realise it will take more than rudimentary plumbing to dispatch this planetary unit.
 

It had been obvious at the time I had overindulged, ever more opulent had my quests become for an astral experience. So much so in fact that Pasquale, usually a savoured treat, had featured more than ever in the delirious heights of the messy deed.
 

From such a decadent display I should have expected no less and it was clear as I eyed the faecal orb that a pre-flush assault would be absolutely necessary. As I approached Pasquale’s greatest achievement (of which he would never know), I fancied myself a hero of mythology: Bellephron perhaps, bearing down on Chimera atop the wings of Pegasus. In place of his lead tipped spear I may have held a soiled toilet brush, but it was no less terrible a beast which i was to smite…

Finally it was gone – dashed like Pasquale’s dreams of comedic integrity. Swept through the plumbing to be deposited amongst an unimaginable quantity of slurry. Pile upon pile of human faeces would surely land upon it, until it became buried amongst and indistinguishable from the other squalid horrors that would now be its neighbours….
 

Fate has not been so kind to Joe Pasquale, who now sails the cruise ship circuit like a doomed phantom in a state of perpetual melancholy, coming ashore only to contribute a few un amusing anecdotes to one of Channel 4’s “100 greatest” broadcasts….

***

10-10-2011

08:01am Home toilet

Plip, plop, plap. The little nuggets plunged into the water. Each tiny lump of dump sploshed a handful of cold grey soup against my clenched cheeks. It was as refreshing as a mountain spring.

The nugget appetiser was followed by a barrage of aerated cocktail-sausage coils, the diameter of each chipolata shrinking as my sphincter tightened with every contracted muscle.

I felt my anus pinch the loaf off and I shook my cheeks to knock away any straggling lumps. I admired the poo, and like a little Joe Pasquale up on his hind legs, the turd was piled vertically and peeked it’s turtle head out of the drink.
***

11-10-2011

10:12am. Work toilet

The turd came out coated in an armoured exoskeleton of crusty poo. It’s soft interior was betrayed by the rough, unforgiving edges that caught on my inner sphincter as it was passed. This was coupled with an intense explosion of aniseed that hung in the air and stuck to the tongue.

I could taste the flecks of chinese 5-spice that had broken off from the mother-poo on exit and floated out into the atmosphere. I felt as if I had got my money’s worth from yesterday’s dinner, in that I was privileged enough to taste it twice. What worried me though was that there was no difference between the two servings – Digestion had not changed the flavour at all.

10-10-2011

08:01am Home toilet

Plip, plop, plap. The little nuggets plunged into the water. Each tiny lump of dump sploshed a handful of cold grey soup against my clenched cheeks. It was as refreshing as a mountain spring.

The nugget appetiser was followed by a barrage of aerated cocktail-sausage coils, the diameter of each chipolata shrinking as my sphincter tightened with every contracted muscle.

I felt my anus pinch the loaf off and I shook my cheeks to knock away any straggling lumps. I admired the poo, and like a little Joe Pasquale up on his hind legs, the turd was piled vertically and peeked it’s turtle head out of the drink.
***

09-10-2011

18:49pm Home toilet

I was disgustingly hung-over for most of the day. I had got my beeriod early morning and had lain prostrate on the kitchen floor belching up throat burning chunks of bile into the bin until 10am.

A couple of energy drinks and dry bread picked me up by midday and by 1pm I felt like superman. A massive gut-busting roast was in order. Obviously I made an utter pig of myself and again had to lie on the kitchen floor holding my stomach.

Fermentation was brisk, the vegetable/meat combo was potent and my anus was expelling noxious, offensive green gases within the hour. Patiently I waited for maximum impact, to make sure my turd encompassed the entire meal, as well as the remnants of last night’s excesses.

When the turd came I nearly took off from the seat, rocketing the lumpen semi-solid poo in a torrent from my stretched sphincter. My anus dilated to what felt like birthing width and I pressed out a textbook spherical bolus. The glutinous orange bomb fell hard into the water, splashing all the way up my back and into my hair.

It was easily the girth of the u-bend and I was afraid that I may need to get in there with a bit of cardboard and cut the beast into pieces. Instead it was my lucky day and the gargantuan turd slipped away with consumate ease.

Similarly lucky was the clean up operation, my anus had cleaned itself. I checked, and much like Joe Pasquale’s career, there was no substance there. My hand came out spotless.

04-10-2011 (Pasquale)

10:32am Home toilet

Back at home after my shark-jumping ordeal I craved the comfort of my porcelain throne. I was seated and tried to push but had no luck.

I thought of the queen, and I thought of Joe Pasquale. A man so synonymous with excrement that my bowels will void at the mere mention of his name.

I squeaked out a gust of vile butt-wind and for a second thought that perhaps Joe Pasquale had spoken. I knew in my heart this could not be so, because farts are funny, and Joe Pasquale is not. Even Joe Pasquale farting wouldn’t be funny, just sad.

When the poo did come it was ugly: a turgid and viscous sausage that fell unbroken into the bowl and floated arrogantly. The toilet water was quick to turn colour, a rich yellow dye stained the lower reaches but the upper area remained clear.

As I admired my stool and waited for my digital camera to focus I couldn’t help but think of Joe Pasquale one more time. More specifically I thought of the poor photographers tasked with taking his hideous picture. My passion for faecal photography is my own business, but to force this on others as Pasquale does is sickening and surely must impinge on the most basic human rights
***

03-10-2011 (Lam)

After releasing a gushing torrent of rancid excrement into my grandfather’s entire house I was persona non grata at home. It had all been an accident, and happened so fast that my only option was to escape and to lay low. Real low.

Presently, I was laying in a drainage ditch beside a minor road. I was still caked in yesterday’s business, which had baked in the october sun and was now flaking off my body as dust. Inhalation was unavoidable, and with no money or food, it would soon become necessary.

I had gone without food for around seven hours, so my stomach would by all rights be completely empty. Not so. I felt a tightening in my loins, my sphincter muscle strained with the weight of another huge load.

I had an idea – Earlier I had seen a homeless man making good money by owning a dog. If I was going to eat tonight then I would have to come up with some magic of my own.

As I fled from police and angry townsfoIk I knew I had perhaps crossed the thin line between art and atrocity. At the very least the looks on people’s faces seemed to say so.

It was not so much the freshly laid turd glistening at my feet, but the full body covering that I had administered yesterday. The sight of a nude man coated with poo casually strolling the high street, defecating as he went, was inexplicably unacceptable to these people. These perverts.

I made for the drainage ditch again and, unseen, submerged myself in the swamp. I would wait there for a lifetime before it was safe. Hours later I emerged, a wanted criminal, and all I had done was the most natural thing of all