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.

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 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.