YOU touch 'er. I’M not gonna touch 'er!
When I went away for college, I left a lot of my clothes behind - especially the winter stuff, as I was leaving upstate New York for Mississippi. I put all of my winter clothes save a few select sweaters in a chest of drawers in the closet of my room in my parents’ house, then flew away.
A year later, having decided that that particular university was Not For Me, I returned home. As I was moving back into the bedroom, I noticed a slight odor, but couldn’t find the cause. I ignored it. It gradually grew stronger and stronger, and one day I managed to trace it to the closet. I started going through things, and finally began to open the drawers in the dresser. When I opened the third drawer, I found the culprit: a mouse.
It was green and liquid.
The only reason I even knew it was a rodent was the skull.
The smell was indescribable. I took the entire drawer out of the dresser, paraded through the house with it, took it out to the backyard and tossed it, clothes and all, into the burning barrel in the drainage ditch.
And all the rest of the clothes that were in the other drawers had to be washed three times to get the lingering stench out.
She was in good hands because, being our freshman year, 80% of us were still pre-med.
My husband would tell ya’ll never to get into a “one-up” contest with an ER nurse. . . 
Well, there was the time a homeless guy came into the ER for foot pain. He was dirty, layered in probably all the clothes he owned, and smelled to high heaven. When the nurse pulled his sock off to get a look at the painful foot, his toes came with it! :eek:
I’ve also seen diabetic foot wounds infested with maggots. Blecch. Those creepy crawlies are bad enough on dead animals, but to find them on a living human being. . . shudders
And I totally sympathize with CCL on the bloody diarrhea. We got a little old lady in one night for “altered mental status”; she was very lethargic, barely responsive, low BP, etc. We sent blood off to the lab and while we were waiting for results, someone noticed that it smelled like she’d had a BM. When two of us pulled back the blanket to clean her up, bloody stool spilled off both sides and the end of the stretcher. I don’t mind cleaning up poo, but jeez! The smell!
That reminds me of the green liquid 'possum my brother -in- law found tangled up in the fence. He tried to pick it up by what was left of it’s head, and it just fell/oozed apart. There wasn’t even much skeleton left just a jelly like substance. except the hands and feet were still solid and clinging to the fence. The smell was so bad, we thought a person had been killed on the nearby train tracks.
Well there was that one time when I was on holiday and for some reason there was a blockage in the sewer system. Now the natural thing is to get into the system and find the blockage. But for the life of me I can’t figure out two things:
-
Why the people who constructed the place would feel it was sensible to put the sewer access right in the middle of the foyer area?
-
Why the management would think it an excellent idea to open the 3’ x 5’ opening for all to see?
-
Hi Opal!
Let me tell you people, I have seen the River of Poo, and it was…well, poo. But then I was young and I was spending most of that time flushing the toilets with the other kids. HEHEHEHEHE.
But that’s not my worst story, for those with a weak constitution you may want to look away.
Now.
How many people have blocked the toilet with an exceedingly large number 2?
I’d say there’s a few with their hands up.
And how many people have done this in a house other than their own?
Still a few hands left.
But how many of you have blocked a toilet in a house that is being decorated and therefore has no plungers, toilet brushes or assorted items to deal with said blockage?
No-one?
Just to set you up, here I am, staring at this abomination of Nature in the toilet bowl and thinking :eek: . So there’s nothing, I mean nothing in this entire house to help me out…except my hand,
All together now. Eeeeewwwwwwwww.
That is a feeling I do not wish to feel again, nor do I wish to repeat the fact that the only items plumbed in in the bathroom were the toilet and the sink, which had barely any water pressure. Oh boy did I scrub afterwards. ::shudders::
If ever a thread title implied TMI, it’s this one.
On a scale of grossness, this is at the low end, but it happened to me when I was 11, so at the time, it’s grossness factor was considerable.
My neice was a little over a year old and had developed a fondness for me. At family gatherings, she liked to sit on my lap and followed me around, etc. Very flattering. My sister didn’t trust me to change diapers so I got all the affections and none of the icky goop. Except the time my neice had a cold. The kid is on my lap, all snugglly and half asleep, her little hand wrapped around my finger–the very picture of cuteness. Then, still mostly asleep, she sneezed and blew her nose all at the same time. Projectile snot. All over my neck and down my blouse and across my arm. Great gobs of green, slimy, sticky snot.
A baby can apparently fill its head with snot and then discharge it all at once.
Check this site, and be glad you aren’t working the NHS in UK
http://www.iconocast.com/H/Health2_News20_04/Health9P.htm
I worked at a funeral home for about a year. When a baby is embalmed, they’re too small to get into the veins so instead they soak them for a day or two in a bowl of formaldahyde (sp?). I had to move the kid from one spot to another and the bowl was too full and I ended up wearing the formaldahyde bath. It was not cool at all.
Perhaps the other, grosser thing, well, I’m not going to tell you about that.
Okay, so I know this guy who has eaten puke as a dare. I almost blew chunks just listening to him talk about it. Hey, at least he would have been able to help the lady in the story lieu told. Would have cleaned her up in a hurry.
I once watched someone bite the head off a dead goose (also a dare).
I’ve watched numerous games of “bullhead baseball.”
???
I can leave the sheep for a couple of days during the summer when they’re on pasture and drinking from the brook, but the story was ripe in the air as I returned from an overnight trip one airless July evening a couple of years ago…somebody didn’t survive my absence. In fact, I think she must have expired as I left the driveway judging from her advanced state of decay. I followed my nose to the spot where she had died, peacefully or by foul-play I’ll never know since any tell-tale clues were obscured by the undulating waves of maggots covering her body. My first thought was to identify the poor creature – but this would have involved me reading her eartag. And to have an eartag, she would need an ear. Sadly, hers seemed to have gone missing, so I resigned myself to launching a process of elimination investigation with the rest of the flock later.
I shoveled some lime on the body, and really, that should have been the end of it. But this was my first dead sheep and I thought she deserved a decent burial, so I was faced with this tough decision:
Endure the stench and dig a hole as close as possible to the carcass so I wouldn’t have to drag it too far.
or
Dig the hole where there was a bit more fresh air and transport her to her final resting place.
Always thinkin’, I figured I’d check first to see how hard it would be to move the body, so I put on my heavy gloves, grabbed the nearest foot, and gave a heave. I landed on my ass holding nothing but a slimey sheep hoof.
Decision made.
I scooped a few shovels of dirt onto the mass and covered it with rocks as big as I could carry, doing only what was necessary to ensure that coyotes wouldn’t be able to drag her into my front yard.
That was as gross as it got, until the morning before my second son was born, when I woke to see all our lambs dead in the field. Domestic dogs, having a little pre-dawn fun, had ripped them to shreds, spreading intestines over a five acre pasture as if they had been doing a gymnast’s ribbon dance with lamb guts. We had to clean it up lest other predators be attracted by the carnage, so my 200 lb pregnant ass spent the morning scooping up sheep intestine off the grass.
That was actually more surreal than gross.
Am I sick and twisted? This mental image made me laugh so hard I almost swallowed my tongue.
Dogs doing ribbon dance with lamb guts… snort
You are bot sick and twisted and that’s why we love you.
or even both
about 8 years ago we were having some sewer line problems. Things were… slow in flushing. And we noticed a bad smell in the basement, where there was a rough in for adding a toilet. The rough in was capped… until one evening when I came home from work and smelled something bad. I trotted downstairs, turned on the basement light and stepped right into a basement full of backed up sewage. About 3" deep. The cleanup took hours, required throwing away lots of stuff that had been stored down there as well as the towels we had to use to sop up the mess. And the carpet had to go too. We ended up taking everything out and bleaching the entire floor before we put anything back in there.
The problem turned out to be in the county sewer line, and they were great about coming out and fixing the problem the next day.
Well, this probably isn’t as nasty as some of these stories, but it is recent and current! So:
There’s a girl on my bus that I see about 2 or 3 day’s a week. Without fail, after striking up a conversation with a complete stranger she’ll reach into her nose and start pulling great strings of nasty green snot out. She keeps them in a bundle in her hand. I have no idea what she’s saving them for. She has no descernable handicap.
I must say, the looks on the complete strangers are rather priceless. Honestly, I try not to offend people on the bus but when this chick comes anywhere near me I glare and move seats to anywhere else.
I discovered a few years that I “might” be lactose intollerant. I’d been having a few issues with my stomach every now and again, but what really made me decide to go to the doctor was this:
One evening, I was hanging out with my buddy Todd and a few of his friends during summer vacation from college. We went out to this dirty, nasty dinner, and I decided I was going to have a basket of their mozzarella sticks. I fucking love those things, they’re like heaven in lightly browned bliss. So, I order the little lovelies, we all eat, have a good time, and then take off. Todd’s driving, and I’m riding in the passenger seat when suddenly my stomach starts rumblin’ and my forehead starts sweating, and I know something’s not right. So I try to play it cool, adjust myself in the seat, and clench in hopes that we’ll get to his house before anything horrible happens.
This is the point in our friendship that I realize Todd doesn’t speed. It’s 2 in the morning, we’re on the highway, and he’s casually truckin along at 55 mph. I tell him to speed things up. He laughs, says he’s not going to get a speeding ticket for me, and I tell him he’s going to get a lot worse than that if he doesn’t put his fucking foot to the fucking pedal. Realizing I mean business, Todd picks it up a notch and it looks like everything’s going to be alright.
About five seconds drive from his house, Todd stops the car, I manage to make it about ten feet from the sidewalk, and I just drop my pants and my ass explodes right there on the side of the road. A little confused as to what to do, Todd drives off and leaves me there with my pants around my ankles trying to hide as close to the fence of his subdivision while cars go by.
About ten minutes later, I walked to Todd’s place, cleaned myself in the bathroom, threw away my underwear, and told my mom the next morning I needed to see a doctor. But that’s a different story.
The gross part of the story is not that I lost control of my bladder and pissed my pants while frantically trying to unlock my bicycle from the railing in front of my junior high school. That’s just embarrassing.
The gross part is riding home with squishy pants and shoes.
Doesn’t really compare with intestinal ribbon-dancing, but it’s the best I can do.
Geez, Farmie…that’s just awful! I’d be waking up screaming for the rest of my life.