This is taken from a library book called The Best Bizarre But True Stories Ever! I remember discussing it with my sister and her friend in June.
Butt-Busters
The squeamish among you may choose to look away at this point, as we reveal an astonishing and disturbing set of records that are unlikely to appear in any book published by the good people at Guinness.
Establishing an unlikely sounding record, the longest turd ever recorded was that produced by an American man, who spent two hours and twelve minutes creating a monster measuring twelve feet, two inches in length.
And just for the record, the widest turd in history was measured at four and a half inches in diameter.
While staying with matters lavatorial, the record for the longest fart in history is held by a man from London, England, who managed two minutes and forty-two seconds.
Just who authenticates these records remains a mystery, as does the necessary qualifications for the job.
Riiiiiiiight. No name for the record holder, yet there’s an “Official Turd Measurer” and apparently guards on dozens of bathrooms in the guy’s (unnamed) state to make sure he doesn’t sully their toilets.
Might want to take the “True!” part of that book’s title with a grain of salt.
No way in hell am I believing in a 12-foot-long uninterrupted turd. For starters, we’re supposed to believe that there’s a guy who has such unprecedented control over his sphincter muscle to go for 2 and half hours without “gaps.”
Second, for such a thing to be measured, you’d have to control the bunching up. Meaning the guy would have to be standing and, unless he were around 15 feet tall, moving steadily forward. Seems highly unlikely.
And finally, the obvious facts that others have pointed out. If you’ve got 12 feet of cable inside you, you’re going to be thinking, “I gotta go right now!”, not “Hon, could you run to the closet and fetch the measuring tape? This is going to be one for the books.”
And SolGrundy may have sniffed something out (groan…): to extrude said turd, something would have to be moving - either the extruder (i.e., the pooper) or the surface upon which the extrusion is being deposited (i.e., a conveyor belt or something…)
Yep, I think that unless some sort of World Congress of Butt-Busting Statistics - perhaps an offshoot of baseball’s infamous Elias Bureau - were to come into play, I would seriously question these so-called records.
I mean, with no officiating body, not only are the records suspect, but what about other critical factors:
were these records set at sea-level or in high-altitude conditions?
was there a prevailing wind? consider the implications of that on continuous farting measurement - the mind fairly reels…
and let’s not forget the most dreaded issue: use of performance-enhancing supplements. I mean, c’mon, your average person may just be one pot of coffee away from setting record!!!
Wow - great point. I know I wouldn’t want to proudly produce a Bob Beamon-like quantum leap in turd-length record-breaking, only to have an asterisk by it in the record books because it happened in an extended schedule. Oh, the shame…
And where, exactly, was this magnificient twelve-foot grogan dropped?
In a toilet, I just can’t see it being measurable. You would think the dirtsnake would be too… well, for lack of a better word, tangled up in the bowl to be measured. Unless it was hauled out piece-by-piece and reconstructed in a place where it could be measured. For example, the kitchen floor (wouldn’t want to do it in the living room, too hard to get the brown stripe off the carpet).
The only other way I can picture a 12-foot monkey tail being sprouted in a measurable fashion would be outdoors. Of course, the person carrying this log, nay, caber would have to pop a squat, extrude, and then kind of waddle forwards while the brown-eyed fun factory keeps squeezing out the fudge. Naturally, if you’re performing this kind of maneuver, you’ve got to keep a few things in mind: Proper speed of waddling (too fast and you risk breakage; too slow and you’ll develop kinks in the poopline, possibly throwing off the measure), maintaining balance (falling forwards or backwards is a Bad Thing when you’ve still got upwards of five feet of burrito running through your intestines), and whether or not the neighbors are home.
Wait, I’ve thought of another way that involves a treadmill, a big roll of newsprint, and at least one willing partner. Execution of this is left as an exercise for the reader.
Why, oh why, do I feel compelled to open threads like this while eating? Does my brain think, ok swampy, this is probably waaaaaaaaay TMIy to read while eating lunch? No, it doesn’t! It thinks, OOOOOOOOOH!!! possibly really gross stuff in here, gotta go check it out, NOW! I am physically 50, but mentally I am a 10 year old boy.