Come back @Robin_Hood
some hilarious stuff here. robin hoodās story is fucking brilliant. a mate of mine (not me) divulged a story one night of a recent shatting experience he had while riding (a married) bird that we both know. basically after a fair few drinks they went to the bedroom and got it on. in the latter stages of the riding he uncontrollably shat all over the place and all over her legs. nothing was said, she proceeded to the jacks, he grabbed the 1st thing he could find to clean himself which was the husbands jumper, wiped himself , fucked it under the bed the dirty cunt and went down stairs. they then chatted for a few hours and nothing was mentioned about it. worse still she fucking rode him again another few times after that:
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Thatās some shameful shit right there.
I performed my second ever public shit at around 3am today.
More* to follow.
*Detail, not shit.
Was playing pool one day, pub was quiet enough. Elderly gent at the bar, nice oul skin but once he got a few drinks in him heād go seafoid; talking to himself, pouring tea into his beer, eating ice cubes etc, very messy. He passed us on the way down to the jacks, stopped before he got there, stayed where he was for maybe a minute, turned and went back to his seat. The smell off him as he passed us was rancid. We were impressed with his attitude though, the damage was done, no point trying to hide it.
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Youāve dealt with alot of shit in your time Mike
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I was up living in Renmore a good few summers back. Across the road from GMIT there are a few pitches, a GAA field complete with nets and a two-storey clubhouse with a wall with no windows. The place was generally deserted; it was an ideal setup for a lad who had let himself go during the preceding years to get his eye back in and to lose a few (a good few) pounds.
Banging a sliothar agin the clubhouse wall was no bother, but part of my routine was to also haul my arse around a few laps of the pitch. One particular afternoon the sun was absolutely splitting the stones and as I waddled around the end-line, I felt a concerning rumbling in my lower regions.
I got as far as the 21 before I realised I was on the cusp of an apoopcalyptic dose of the heat shits. Anyone driving along the Old Dublin Road that day will have noticed a young fella ambling around the GAA field in a 2004-vintage Limerick jersey. They will have been bemused to see him suddenly dart off, all high knees like Jason Robinson, towards the back of the sportsfield in a startling change of both direction and velocity.
Thereās a concrete wall at the end of the field that separates it from a sleepy housing estate - I ambitiously attempted to clear this, but only succeeded in clattering against it and sprawling myself on top of the wall, grazing and bruising my legs and my arse in the process. At this point my bowels gave up and I just about managed to slide my shorts down enough before what can only be described as a deluge of shite squirted, farted and finally bubbled out of me, down the side of the wall and into a clump of nettles at its base.
By some stroke of luck I had elected to wear a pair of navy Adidas shorts that day instead of one of the scores of white OāNeillās ones I had stuffed into my drawer. Shuffling back to the gaff like John Wayne in his prime, Iāve faint recollections of popping into a shop in the estate to pick up some bog roll, but that might be the memory playing tricks on me.
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Driving along the motorway one morning. What I thought was a fart coming. Nuf said
Heat shits?
A lad I know was driving the day after a fill of beer, seen one of his drinking companions from the prior night who would be cranky on a good day. Stopped and told him to hop in. Turned up the heat and decided to let one go to sicken his passenger. Much like yourself there was too much follow through and cloth was duly touched. He dropped the passenger off, drove home and walked in to the shower with the clothes still on.
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Like when you are in Spain or somewhere roasting on hols and after a day you invariably end up absolutely desecrating the jacks nearest the pool. One go and youāre usually acclimatised.
Heat shits.
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So I had a heap of pints last night. Home at 3 up at 6 with kids and out again at 5 pm for dinner with a group. Realised when I sat down for dinner I hadnāt evactuated last night grub yet. An uncomfortable few hours followed. We then got down to the local where you wouldnāt shit unless you were gonna dieā¦hole in the ground job. Eventually got home and did the needful. Flushed three times in the process it was so disgusting.
Hate those restaurants that donāt have toilets.
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I donāt shit where I eat
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But you eat where you shit.
Thatās likeā¦profound man
Where we were we had a long table with 14 of us at it. Our table was close to the disabled toilets. Iād have had to clingfilm up the doors after myself to do the job I needed to do or else run a strong risk of putting everyone off their dinner.
What kind of restaurant has toilets adjacent to tables?
Who said anything about adjacent?