Toilet humour….

Surely every STW member needs one of Viz Magazines finest….

Launching a dreadnought

Made a sound like a sack of builders rubble being emptied into a swimming pool

Like blowing a tuba full of trout….

Surely every STW member needs one of Viz Magazines finest….

That advert always irked me, the dislodged tag-nuts are flying off in the wrong direction.  Either he’d have to pedal backwards, which he isn’t because there’s movement lines, or the chain should be crossed.

Too many chillies for me and it’s ‘Like a flock of bats leaving the cave’

Our six year old quickly latched on to ‘squashing a frog’ and ‘sitting on a duck’ as euphemisms for flatulence 😂

Anything over 3lb should be lowered by hand…

Sending a sausage to the sea side

…and you’re not even joking

Toilet related humour from elsewhere:

I confess to feeling self-conscious when last night’s lamb dhansak, chana masala, keema naan and Cobra is struggling its way out and making a lot of fuss while it does, especially when the traps to either side are occupied by chaps who seem to be able to lay one down with barely a splash, but for true embarrassment, you need a hotel room on your first night away with a new cutie.

So lots of charming conversation and civilised behaviour and attention to personal hygiene and nipping outside to fart have paid off, and several months in it’s time for a romantic weekend away. The hotel room is in a dead trendy boutique place, and the wall between bedroom and bathroom is frosted glass. All other bathroom walls are tiled for maximum reverb. The door is also glass, and does not seal in any way – half-inch gaps all round. So you are effectively in the same room as the bed, which is where you leave your amour, curled up and warm (“hurry back”, she murmurs) on the morning after a nice Moroccan meal with plenty of chickpeas, spiced lamb, falafel and so on, plus a couple of bottles of rough red, and whisky to finish. You pace with measured tread to the echo chamber, then hunker down to answer the insistent call from the lower colon.

To begin with, it sounded like a duck being strangled half-underwater, then as if thirty clowns wearing oversize rubber shoes were having a sprinting race over a massive bowl of jelly, then as I desperately applied restrictive pressure, it faded into an anguished squeak like a deflating balloon, then as my muscle control gave out, a series of small escaping explosions escalated into a titanic rasp that echoed for several seconds.

Having done the paperwork, brushed everywhere in the bowl, including the underside of the seat (how in the name of gravity could that have happened?), washed hands, and assumed as nonchalant an expression as I could muster, I strolled back in to find her sitting up, covers drawn protectively up under her chin, eyes like a lemur, asking whether I was ok, and did I need medical attention?

Kind of killed the mood, rather.

Also the legendary Gummi Bear cleanse review:

https://www.amazon.com/review/R3FTHSH0UNRHOH

^^^

Not a million miles away from the first tentative “Since that curry earlier I’ve gone to the toilet five times to fart. In the interests of actually getting some sleep is it OK if I just do it in bed this once?” uttered to Mrs Extender over 20 years ago in the early months of our relationship.

An inch was given. Three times around the world taken so far and counting.

Edit.

Poetic.

To begin with, it sounded like a duck being strangled half-underwater, then as if thirty clowns wearing oversize rubber shoes were having a sprinting race over a massive bowl of jelly, then as I desperately applied restrictive pressure, it faded into an anguished squeak like a deflating balloon, then as my muscle control gave out, a series of small escaping explosions escalated into a titanic rasp that echoed for several seconds.

One of the many things I have to thank stw for is introducing me to the phrase “clean getaway” for those times when you realise that any wiping was unecessary.

Also known as a Teflon shit.

It comes out so slick, clean and easy that you don’t even feel it and not a trace of shit on the paper. You have to look in the toilet to make sure you did something.

Many years ago, I’d gone back to her place.  Maybe the second date.

You know the drill, we wind up in bed.  Thrill of the new.  She was a gothy rock chick, enthusiastic and seemed quite racy, so whilst drinking of the furry cup I tentatively stuck a finger up her arse.

She squealed, I realised immediately that mistakes had been made.  I hastily withdrew, followed by a surprise Malteser chaser.

She clearly hadn’t noticed, and I still had work to do.  I stared at it aghast for a few seconds not knowing what to do, then in a panic I surreptitiously Subbuteo-ed it off the bed across the room.

It was a brief fling, I never did hear whether she ever discovered it.

Also known as a Teflon shit.

Boris?

 I surreptitiously Subbuteo-ed it off the bed across the room.

There should be a word for the silent shaking that happens when reading some stw threads. Great work.  My family often just look at me when it happens and ask ‘singletrack?’

One of the many things I have to thank stw for is introducing me to the phrase “clean getaway” for those times when you realise that any wiping was unecessary.
Also known as a Teflon shit.

It comes out so slick, clean and easy that you don’t even feel it and not a trace of shit on the paper. You have to look in the toilet to make sure you did something.

Also known as a Ghost Ship. Leaves no trace, either on arse, paper, or bowl.

After a particularly stiff one, “That was like being b*gg*r*d from the inside out.”

…that was a thorny issue

She was a gothy rock chick, enthusiastic and seemed quite racy, so whilst drinking of the furry cup I tentatively stuck a finger up her arse.

So how is the nomination for the Booker Prize going?

Another couple, courtesy of Viz, for the morning after ale and Indian cuisine:

“Curry Slurry”

“Rogan Splosh”

And borrowed from Platoon:

“Laying Snake and Nape”

^^^^ From the bit where the fighter-bombers try to do close air support with a mixture of snakeye iron bombs and napalm.

Nipping off a length of dirty spine.

So how is the nomination for the Booker Prize going?

The Bulwer-Lytton surely?

[ video]http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=HE3P7pvR-Mg[/video ]

On the subject of apres curry – His arse is like a Japanese Flag.

And on nature poos – I’m away to use the trowel of shame.

And on nature poos – I am off to make like a bear (in the woods)

I’m off for a Lillian. (As in Lillian Gish)

Well if number ones are included, I am off for a quick Nelson.

(Nelson Riddle piddle, a more suave and sophisticated version of the well known Jimmy.)

I was in hospital after being knocked off my bike on the Isle of Man. The guy in the bed next to mine was in a pretty poor way, in traction and had been in there a week before I arrived.  The ward sister was doing the rounds one morning and asked whether he had been able to open his bowels.  He replied that he hadn’t been since he’d arrived, but that  he was pretty much blocked up and that the logistics of a bed-pan worried him a bit.

Sister therefore instructed the nurses to get him a bed-pan and a glycerine suppository to help things along. The curtains were drawn around him and I returned to my book.  There was some clanking of bed-pans and pulleys as the operation commenced, with some gentle words of advice to relax from the little blonde nurse with the soft Irish accent.  I gathered the suppository was in place as she told him to try and keep it in for a few minutes.

A minute or so later Sister strode back onto the ward and asked “How are we getting on girls?”

The soft Irish voice from behind the curtain replied  “The head’s engaged Sister.”

Doodling with the brown Crayon – Can you guess what it is yet??

Releasing a flock of sparrows.

To follow up on the Bonzo Dog Band reference up thread – I had vague recollections of Viv Stanshall’s Sir Henry Rawlinson, and as it’s Friday I have spent more time than sensible tracking down Sir Henry at Ndidi’s Kraal to find the phrase lurking in my memory. Not sure that Sir Henry qualifies as PC these days, but the flatulent language still makes me hoot

“…at that instant Henry let off a trouser cough of huge mackerel pie, an immense Billingsgate……and released another bum thrump of such nauseous disgust that Simba the lion reeled from his meal, gagged in the guy ropes and staggered vomiting into the forest”

My favourite toilet euphemisms are french and Spanish.

In France, if you’re touching cloth, you apparently say “j’ai un taupe au guichet” pour i have a mole at the cash desk.

In Spain if you need to go you can say:

Tengo que rezar – I have to go and pray

Tengo que tirar un topo al remolino – I have to go toss a mole into the whirlpool

Or

Tengo que ir a Chicago – I have to go to Chicago.  (Cago is “I shit” )

The spanish have some strange scatalogical Xmas traditions

The Sh1t Log: https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Ti%C3%B3_de_Nadal

and a Sh1tting Nativity Figure: https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Caganer

And more courtesy of viz:

Crowd pleaser – Unusual or noteworthy stool which you feel an urge to show to someone before you flush

On going for a wee, it’s “I’m going for a Belgium.”  Because it’s a small euronation.

From Gargantua and Pantagruel (1532)

Afterwards, in dunging behind a bush, I found a March-cat, and with it I wiped my breech, but her claws were so sharp that they scratched and exulcerated all my perinee. Of this I recovered the next morning thereafter, by wiping myself with my mother’s gloves, of a most excellent perfume and scent of the Arabian Benin. After that I wiped me with sage, with fennel, with anet, with marjoram, with roses, with gourd-leaves, with beets, with colewort, with leaves of the vine-tree, with mallows, wool-blade, which is a tail-scarlet, with lettuce, and with spinach leaves. All this did very great good to my leg. Then with mercury, with parsley, with nettles, with comfrey, but that gave me the bloody flux of Lombardy, which I healed by wiping me with my braguette. Then I wiped my tail in the sheets, in the coverlet, in the curtains, with a cushion, with arras hangings, with a green carpet, with a table-cloth, with a napkin, with a handkerchief, with a combing-cloth; in all which I found more pleasure than do the mangy dogs when you rub them. Yea, but, said Grangousier, which torchecul did you find to be the best? I was coming to it, said Gargantua, and by-and-by shall you hear the tu autem, and know the whole mystery and knot of the matter. I wiped myself with hay, with straw, with thatch-rushes, with flax, with wool, with paper, but,
who his foul tail with paper wipes, shall at his ballocks leave some chips.

I seem to remember from another translation, wiping ‘with a penitent’s hood and a page’s cap, feathered in the Swiss fashion’ (ofcourse).

Surprised that growing a tail hasn’t been mentioned yet.

Also the no need to wipe poo is known here as the bullet otter

just off to Free Willy