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Note of fair warning: The video below starts out funny, progresses to being on the gross side, and finishes up hilariously.

Reader “Sleepy” writes:
Sometimes I wake in the middle of the night to find myself in dire need of a toilet trip. I leap up and stumble my way to the bathroom praying I’ll make it – I ran into a wall one night and a door another, but I always do get there one way or another so I can experience an unnatural birth of a vile substance custom made for a good flushing. Why doesn’t this happen at a normal time of day? By the way, what’s up with short toilets? Are they just for kids?

Thanks,
Sleepy

Dear Sleepy,
Um. Oh my. Our non-expert team of non-physician, non-experts have no idea, but maybe you have a super high metabolism and it’s always rarin’ to go go go. Maybe try more fiber during the morning? As for short toilets: Yeah, for kids I think. And toilet-trained cats.

Now for some real entertainment, check this vid. You gotta watch this to the end for true comic payoff (it’s short).

In my inbox, I just spied a T-shirt featuring a swell illustration of dog sniffing cat butt, titled, ‘I Like You.’

Nice.

Dear Poopsoup,

Concerned but oddly happy.

Dear Teflon Poo,

I’m no doctor, so take this with a grain of salt, but sure, why not? By the way, what are you on?

Teflon is a strange substance. According to the Environment Working Group, heated Teflon pans can begin to release toxic particles at 464 degrees F, and toxic gases at 680 degrees F. If, by some odd chance, you are bending over forward (near the pan) and buck naked whilst cooking, say, an omelet without the overhead fan on, I suppose it’s within the realm of possibility that you could get Teflon particles on your bunghole. I doubt, however, that it would find its way up your poop chute and into your poop unless you were somehow “helping” it.

As for there being nothing to wipe, try:
1. turning the lights on so you can see.
2. being happily amazed at your toilet paper and tree savings, as well as the reduction of your carbon footprint.
3. considering the possibility that you may actually be dead, thus all of your bodily fluids have already exited your corpse.
4. considering yourself rectally enlightened.

The scene was my dark, dank basement, morning time. Setting up shelving, squatted down over a box of useless computer crap. Rats once patrolled here, two of them, leaving rat drops everywhere. I cleaned and cleaned, but you can’t clean everything. So I’m squatted over this box figuring out how best to throw all of it out when a feeling grips me with the urgency of a bad Sarah Palin comment, rings me to the core, forces a leg-clenching I’ve not before experienced. I wonder as I am running up the damned dusty stairs in this awkward-asscheek-clenching manner: WTF caused this? ‘The green tea, coffee and chocolate’ my racing mind answers, swearing never again. Last time I saw anyone bolt to the bothroom like this was a crooked plumber, involved in a strange twist of fate, who deserved such badness. So I made it to the bathroom, but gripped by a fear of residual ratness on my hands being anywhere near my rectal orifice, I commenced washing them, thinking I should find my reading glasses so I could read on the can because I hate wasting time, but ever aware of the primordial tail parting my reluctant ass cheeks, and praying it did not touch the morning’s fresh long underwear. Forget the book. Barely dried my hands in time to slam my pants down to the floor and release the basterd into its rightful resting pool of waiting water, thankful for the killer timing of everything.

[Editor's note: This would not have made the cut were it not for the close proximity of rat droppings, Sarah Palin, and poo.]

Ok, so this isn’t exactly a poop story but hope you’ll accept it anyway. [it's all poop to us. - Ed.]

Have you ever been to France? I took four years of French language in high school, thinking it would help if I traveled there. Wrong. The French people made fun of my attempts to speak, laughed right in front of me and refused to reply. Now I suppose it’s my turn (thought I loved it there overall).

The toilets in France are like thrones. At hotel after hotel I ran into some of the most bizarre contraptions they called toilets. They had ‘em all built up on pedestal upon pedestal, often with nothing more than a shower curtain around the throne. One of them looked like a medieval torture device with a black rubber bladder inside. I flushed it to see if would flush the whole room, but instead it overflowed for several minutes, leaving a pool of water all across the floor. When I asked the sup if their was another one, they just laughed and laughed.

In Japan International airport, they seem to want to humble foreigners with the toilets. Most of the country has modern toilets, but the airport has a stall with a hole in the floor. Not very welcoming.

I’m curious to know what people have encountered in other countries?

The following is a post from May 3, 2001. It was on a message board I used to frequent. Not being anyone’s mother, I saved it to remind me why I wasn’t anyone’s mother.

First, I have to tell you I am miserable with my DH in NJ. We are transferring up there in June, but he has had to begin his assignment there now. He will be home for a month of paternity leave on May 26th. If I ever complain about how little he does, someone needs to slap me. I can’t believe how much he was doing. I am exhausted without him here.

So today, I have to be at a room mother meeting at school at 8AM. Brighid gets dropped off at 7:30, and the cafeteria, where the meeting is being held, isn’t open until 7:50. I took a bottle with me, figuring I would drop Brighid off, then park and feed Eilis. That way, I theorized, she would sleep through the meeting.

Now, Eilis has gone from pooping 4 or 5 times a day to pooping every couple of days. It’s a manageable amount every two or three days, but definitely more than she was going when she had 5 BM’s a day. So today, of course, while I’m in the parking lot, she decides it’s her day to go. I wait patiently for her to finish, then debate whether or not to change her or wait until the meeting is over. I decide to change her — there were going to be some moms there who hadn’t met her yet, and I didn’t want everyone oohing and aahing over how stinky she was.

So, I lay out the diaper, the wipes, the plastic bag to put the dirty diaper in, etc. I situate Eilis on the front seat of the car, and I start to change her. She does have a pretty muddy diaper, so I am glad that I made the decision not to let her sit in the mud for an hour long meeting. I get her all cleaned up, place the nice fresh diaper under her, and then it happened.

Like the fountain at EPCOT center, poop comes flying from her butt, shooting in all directions, spraying passers by, changing colors and playing classical music. Okay, there was no music. I was covered in poop from my chin to my knees. The whole front seat of my car (which, by the way, my husband just cleaned before he left for NJ) was covered in poop. Eilis is laying there happy as a pig in – well, let’s just say she was happy. I went through two new packs of portable wipes, I used the blanket I had with me, and I soaked up two cloth diapers. Eilis had poop in between her toes, in between her little chubby knees – it was a disaster.

Needless to say, I didn’t go into my meeting. I raced home, stripped naked, pre-spotted all of my clothes, stripped Eilis, threw her in the tub (still smiling and cooing), showered myself, and did a load of wash. Apparently, poop doesn’t come out of white shorts – my shorts are back in with more pre-spot. Now I have to find a nice way to explain to the other room moms from my grade who were counting on me to get the info why I wasn’t there.

Oh, the joys of motherhood.
Anna

It seems high time to write a post about how and why PoopSoup.com came to be, because, well, we’ve been getting a fair number of submissions from folks who seem to be grossly missing the purpose of the site.

That purpose? Good, clean fun. Just a little on the dirty side.

The truth is that I don’t like butt humor. Never have, because, well, it’s kind of gross. As a kid, when my family or friends would make bathroom jokes, I covered my ears.

Then something happened. As we all grew older, stories began to emerge. But not just any stories. These were horror stories of a different ilk. So real that I just had to laugh. (Yet I still don’t like butt humor.)

One friend told a story, which would eventually become the first post here on PoopSoup, that had five old friends falling off their chairs and in tears. And that’s really when the idea for PoopSoup was born.

I began asking friends and associates if they might like to contribute their own stories. A lot of people said, ‘Me, no way, but I know some friends who would love to contribute!’ And some of them have.

I think some people are scared of contributing though. That’s why we made the submission form anonymous, so there is absolutely no threat to anyone’s privacy. We’re still sifting through all the submissions, and looking for more. So if you know anyone, such as a friend, parent, teammate or distant uncle, who has a good story send them a link to PoopSoup!

Every once in a while we get someone trying to send us photos of their poo and making some sort of sick comment, so I just want to make it totally clear that we have no interest in that at all, and that kind of thing will never be on this site. Those submissions earn instant deletion, and in fact our system purges the images before they ever arrive. So here’s the official word: This is not a site for coprophiles (people who get off on poop). PoopSoup is just for laughs, that’s it.

So don’t be afraid of what you might read here because there is nothing so sick that it will give you nightmares or make you hurl. The stories that make it onto the site are here because they make people laugh, plain and simple.

Oh, and don’t worry about trying to top that first story. I don’t think anyone ever will, but it doesn’t matter. Funny is funny, and these stories are not in competition with one another. They’re here to give you a good, hearty, belly-aching laugh. Enjoy.

I was at a holiday bbq this week and had to use the bathroom. Before sitting down, I saw to my horror that someone had left a smudge on the seat. I rooted around under the sink, found some 409 and cleaned it off with some TP.

After sitting down, I saw ANOTHER smudge on the wall under the TP roll. Unbelievable. Then at my feet I saw what looked like years of dark dark dust and a spider in the corner about four inches from my toes. Does anybody ever use this room? I felt like I had walked into the Adams and Bundy Families group bathroom. I shouldn’t have done it, but I opened the bath curtain and saw the blackest dirty tub in existence, complete with rust all around the drain. (It was kind of bizarre because the house was actually nice and seemed clean.)

My biz done, I walked out into the smoky backyard party and found myself searching for someone with a dark smudge on their hand.

I sat there, waiting impatiently for what seemed like hours. Every once in a while an attractive guy teller walked by, a trail of sweat piercing the bank smell, which was always fresh from an overworked air-conditioner, no matter the season. The temperature of that bank was a perfect reflection of the business itself – cold and stiff – it was totally out of place in this town.

I waited some more.

The bank manager hummed to himself so loud everyone could hear. It was annoying, but he was a sweet enough guy that people ignored it.

I waited some more.

I began to get uncomfortable as the day’s lunch digested. Edamame and bank air do not mix well. One does not trust the other. No one trusts a bank, even the soy beans. First I felt the bloating.

And I waited some more.

How long could it take to retrieve my application? What were they doing? Where did they go? Then, I felt my gurgling intestinal tract.

A frog quietly escaped.

The manager hummed. A teller made small talk with me while looking me square in the chest before returning to his one-foot wide window with the flair taped to the countertop.

They couldn’t find the application. Would I mind filling out the forms all over again? They just couldn’t imagine where the application had gone. I suspected it snuck away for a lewd vacation with my healthy intestinal tract and left this rancid one behind for me to enjoy on this day, right here and now.

Another frog escaped undetected. I sat and waited as the bank “team” searched some more. I shifted in my spongy, cheaply upholstered bank chair. Something felt very wrong. Oh crap! I had to get out of there and fast. More than a frog had escaped. The realization swept over me like a druggy fog. I was horrified. I had slightly crapped my cutoffs, and now I could feel the coldness of it against my butt cheeks. So: The poo had smeared. Eewww.

All in all, the bank kind of deserved it, but I don’t think they knew because thank God, it didn’t soak through. They had kept me waiting for my application for damn near an hour, and as usual, the bank made me pay the price. The assholes topped it off by declining my application.