Home bowl syndrome

The best/worst? bathroom story you'll ever read:
Coolidge Winesett, 75, said there's only one way to describe what it was like being trapped for almost three days at the bottom of his southwest Virginia outhouse after its floor gave way. "I compare it to the Bible's hell," said Winesett, a World War II veteran and retired janitor. It had hellish elements - the smell, maggots, snakes, spiders, rats. Plus there was the persistent notion that he'd done something wrong to deserve it, recalled Winesett, speaking by phone from his bed at Wythe County Community Hospital, where he is recovering from dehydration and injuries he suffered when the 50-year-old outhouse floor collapsed from dry rot Saturday afternoon. "I suffered awful down there," Winesett said. "I kept trying to figure out what I'd done wrong. ... I said, 'God, don't let me die like this.'" Turns out, God had other plans, Winesett said, in the form of mail carrier Jimmy Jackson, who on Tuesday noticed Winesett's mail accumulating at his farmhouse and went to investigate. Jackson said he called out and found Winesett, who is partially paralyzed from a stroke, doubled over and hallucinating in the pit. "It wasn't pretty," Jackson said yesterday. Winesett's ordeal began about 4 p.m. Saturday (August 12, 2000) after he returned from getting a new battery for his 1978 Chevrolet Impala. Winesett said he was getting ready to pick the banjo on his back porch when he decided to make a pit stop. Retired from his janitor's job at the local high school, Winesett has lived alone for decades in Ivanhoe, about 60 miles southwest of Roanoke. Since 1984, he's had only partial use of one arm and has lost part of a leg. Winesett said he built the outhouse in 1950. "I don't use it much, though," he said, adding that he usually depends on restrooms elsewhere. "I eat out most of the time." He used it last Saturday though, hobbling out back with the aid of crutches and a broomstick. After the floor fell in, he struggled to get out, and he called for help, all to no avail. "I screamed 'til I run out of voice," he said. After he fell, Winesett said, he was suspended over the "bad stuff" - the sludge - by a sub-floor and the cracked floor boards. Nails from the planks dug into his flesh, and his body was contorted and immobilized. But that, he said, was nothing compared to the horrors of the next 69 hours, which he spent dealing with creepy, crawly things. When he was at his weakest, he said he heard the footfalls of Jimmy Jackson. "I got up the strength to holler, just a little bit," Winesett said. Jackson said he heard a weak noise, then found Winesett and began the rescue. While neighbors and volunteer fire department personnel arrived to help, Jackson got the parched Winesett a Coke. Winesett said his ordeal had tempted him to think about moving into an assisted-living facility, but he can't afford it. Instead, he said, "I'm going to have me a bathroom put in." (The Washington Post)

 

Yeah, when we were in Korea for the 1988 Olympics, I noted with some puzzlement that there were two kinds of toilets: The Western commode and the hole-in-the-floor version.

 

Ugh.

http://www.huffingtonpost.com/2010/08/02/worst-urinal-ever-in-bang_n_666989.html

 

Too bad you didn't cover the Beijing Olympics. I hear the Sake is very popular there.

 

End. Of. Thread.

 

Sometimes I have to use the one at work because I can't sit in meetings all day with one in the chamber. I have probably not used a public restroom outside of work in like 10 years.

 

Holy cow, I can't believe I forgot this until now.

A few years back I was visiting some friends whilst on vacation in Virginia. Day one is great... riding coasters all day at Busch Gardens in Williamsburg. Day two was gonna rock, too... I snagged us front-row seats to that night's Royals-Orioles game in Baltimore (tickets were easy to come by.. whoda thunk it?)

Anyway, on the way home I ask my buddy if he's got anything to make some frozen drinks. He says he does, and calls his girlfriend to ask if she can make a round. By the time we get back, she's got a pitcher damn near full of frozen strawberry daiquiris. She don't mess around.

So we all proceed to immediately get smashed. I think I give in sometime around 1:30-2 a.m. For the life of me, I can't sleep off hangovers. I get up around 6:30-7 a.m., make it to the bathroom, and just unload. I felt better until I stood up and looked down.

Suffice to say, the bowl was filled with redness. 'Holy shit,' I thought. 'Why the hell am I shitting blood?'

I stood there and started to panic. I started rubbing my stomach, like that was going to help anything. I got pissed thinking about missing the game. I got about five seconds away from asking my friends for a ride to the hospital.

Then I realized I had just expelled the freaking daiquiri mix. Crisis averted... and the Royals won 10-7

 

After eating some high quality Taco Bell, I calmly sat at my desk awaiting the inevitable retribution that my stomach would lay on me. It didn't take long, but PG&E was open for business. I'm usually pretty shy about unloading a green-cloud of funk upon the office, especially since one of my co-workers has absolutely no shame and blows the fog horn at the drop of a hat. Well, this day, I figured I could just quietly vent and was immediately overcome with the stench that only a Taco Bell burrito could produce.

As I prayed that no one would dare come near my desk, my boss -- who's office is directly next to my desk -- calls me in to ask me a question. Well that Taco Bell funk cloud decided to hitch a ride and follow me in and took over the space occupied by breathable oxygen. As the smell became thinker, I began to laugh and quickly made my exit. No sooner had I sat back down was my boss yelling and cursing at me and promptly evacuated his office. He was convinced I had shat myself in his office, and wasn't buying that the stench had wafted his direction. Of course tears are flowing down my face, both from laughter and the horrific stench that still lingered.

 

I was in the Hartford/Springfield Airport taking a whiz when a cacophony of farts decided to exit my ass. I thought I was alone, so I let out about a dozen toots in a row until, from a stall, someone yelled out, "why don't you just write a song?"

 

This is without a doubt my favorite thread since joining SJ. Can't imagine that's a good thing, but whatever.

 

Finally, something you and I can agree on without reservation!

 

Lingering skidmarks whilst visiting a home or abode of a fair lass is quite disconcerting, as is a 3- or 4-flush event.