These Plane-Pooping Stories Are So Embarrassing I Am Crying From Laughter
March 16, 2016
If you think you have an embarrassing bowel movement story, I'm pretty sure it doesn't come close to the embarrassment these two guys went through on an airplane. Enjoy...
I was on a Ryanair flight once terribly constipated and hungover after a weekend of drinking in Spain.
I don't know if it was a combination of the five coffees and the change in altitude, but I suddenly had to go. I rushed to the toilet, rested my sweaty cheeks on the seat and KABOOM; the loudest, most explosive shite I had ever taken in my life.
For the next five minutes I was shitting out three days worth of fast food. The smell was so bad my eyes were watering and I felt ill. I had to wipe my ass like 20 times. By the time I was done, the entire bowl was brimming with shit, piss and toilet paper.
Bear in mind this was a 737 so there were only three toilets; one at my end and two at the rear. As the trolley was serving food at the other end of the plane, a queue of five people had formed outside my toilet.
When I pressed the flush button, there was the usual suction sound but then a loud clunk and a strange deflating/whining sound I'd never heard before, like the toilet was so overwhelmed and in shock. I pressed the button again but nothing happened. F**k.
By this stage I was red-faced, sweating and my hands were shaking from the ordeal, so I just closed the lid and came out to a queue of irritated passengers. "I think that's out of order, folks" I said. The guy in the queue went in anyway and immediately came out again clutching his nose "Jesus Christ!" and said something to the air hostesses.
As I made my way up the aisle to my seat, everyone was staring at me. I was so paranoid and felt faint, my coordination was off and my hands were shaking. And now the worst thing that could've happened; the food trolley was blocking the aisle to my seat so I was forced to stand there sweating in shame. I swear time had stopped and I would never make it to my seat.
For the next few minutes, the air hostesses were in the toilet with a queue of passengers behind them. You could hear them pressing the flush repeatedly to no avail. By this time the cabin had filled with the smell of shit and some passengers started complaining.
Finally an announcement came over the speakers that the toilet was out of order and passengers would need to go to the rear of the plane instead.
The worst was getting off the plane with the air hostesses wishing everyone goodbye, I couldn't even look them in the eyes. I nearly died of embarrassment.
Just over halfway through the flight, all the coffee in my stomach feels like it's percolating its way down into my lower intestine. I hunker down and try and focus on other things. What feels like an hour, but probably isn't more than twenty minutes, passes. We then enter what turns out to be pretty violent turbulence. With each bounce, I have to fight my body, trying not to shit my pants. "Thirty minutes to landing, maybe forty five" I try and tell myself, each jostle a gamble I can't afford to lose. I signal to [the flight attendant] and she heads toward me.
"Excuse me, where is the bathroom, because I don't see a door?" I ask while still devoting considerable energy to fighting off what starts to feel like someone shook a seltzer bottle and shoved it up my ass. She looks at me, bemused, and says, "Well, we don't really have one per se." She continues, "Technically, we have one, but it's really just for emergencies. Don't worry, we're landing shortly anyway."
"I'm pretty sure this qualifies as an emergency," I manage to mutter through my grimace. I can see the fear in her face as she points nervously to the back seat. The turbulence outside is matched only by the cyclone that is ravaging my bowels. She points to the back of the plane and says, "There. The toilet is there." For a brief instant, relief passes over my face. She continues, "If you pull away the leather cushion from that seat, it's under there. There's a small privacy screen that pulls up around it, but that's it." At this point, I was committed. She had just lit the dynamite and the mine shaft was set to blow.
I turn to look where she is pointing and I get the urge to cry. I do cry, but my face is so tightly clenched it makes no difference. The "toilet" seat is occupied by the CFO, i.e. our f**king client. Our f**king female f**king client!
Up to this point, nobody has observed my struggle or my exchange with the flight attendant. "I'm so sorry. I'm so sorry." That's all I can say as I limp toward her like Quasimodo impersonating a penguin, and begin my explanation. Of course, as soon as my competitors see me talking to the CFO, they all perk up to find out what the hell I'm doing.
Given my jovial nature and fun-loving attitude thus far on the roadshow, almost everybody thinks I'm joking. She, however, knows right away that I am anything but and jumps up, moving quickly to where I had been sitting. I now had to remove the seat top – no easy task when you can barely stand upright, are getting tossed around like a hoodrat at a block party, and are fighting against a gastrointestinal Mt. Vesuvius.
I manage to peel back the leather seat top to find a rather luxurious looking commode, with a nice cherry or walnut frame. It had obviously never been used, ever. Why this moment of clarity came to me, I do not know. Perhaps it was the realization that I was going to take this toilet's virginity with a fury and savagery that was an abomination to its delicate craftsmanship and quality. I imagined some poor Italian carpenter weeping over the violently soiled remains of his once beautiful creation. The lament lasted only a second as I was quickly back to concentrating on the tiny muscle that stood between me and molten hot lava.
I reach down and pull up the privacy screens, with only seconds to spare before I erupt. It's an alka-seltzer bomb, nothing but air and liquid spraying out in all directions – a Jackson Pollock masterpiece. The pressure is now reversed. I feel like I'm going to have a stroke, I push so hard to end the relief, the tormented sublime relief.
"I'm so sorry. I'm so sorry." My apologies do nothing to drown out the heinous noises that seem to carry on and reverberate throughout the small cabin indefinitely. If that's not bad enough, I have one more major problem. The privacy screen stops right around shoulder level. I am sitting there, a disembodied head, in the back of the plane, on a bucking bronco for a toilet, all while looking my colleagues, competitors, and clients directly in the eyes. "Pay no attention to that man behind the curtain!" briefly comes to mind.
I literally could reach out with my left hand and rest it on the shoulder of the person adjacent to me. It was virtually impossible for him, or any of the others, and by others I mean high profile business partners and clients, to avert their eyes. They squirm and try not to look, inclined to do their best to carry on and pretend as if nothing out of the ordinary was happening, that they weren't sharing a stall with some guy crapping his intestines out. Releasing smelly, sweaty, shame at 100 feet per second.
"I'm so sorry. I'm so sorry" is all the ashamed disembodied head can say…over and over again. Not that it mattered.
via Straight To Hell
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