Of course, what would make it even funnier would be if I misattributed the funniness to Shirley Ujest instead of, say, the real author Amazon Floozy Goddess :smack:
She is serious, and don’t call her Shirley
snort 
What are the other three? Please tell me one of them is the “Princess Jedi Bride” thread.
#1: OP and thread unknown, but it was a “what-if” thread concerning what you’d do if you had psychic/magical powers. The OP spun a scenario about George W. Bush in a press conference when all of the sudden the OP would psychically/magically make him crap his pants (I guess I have a thing for this, huh?). It had a line to the effect of “My fellow Americans, today…OMIGOD! I JUST CRAPPED MY PANTS!”
#2: Eve’s post about Wildest Bill’s funeral (having his corpse rigged to say “Gotcha Ya”). Her dialogue was deadpan and hilarious.
#3: Cervaise (I think) coming up with the idea of the Brewcifix (a cross-shaped alcohol decanter).
Let me tell you a story about the time I shit in the backyard.
I was in 8th grade and was walking home from school. I was halfway between school and home so Iran home in hopes of making it to the bathroom. I remembered that my mother dropped me off at school in the morning and I didn’t have the key to get in the house. She wasn’t going to be home until god knows when and I knew my dad would be home at 5:00…problem was it was around 3:20. I didn’t know what to do so I held my crap in. My stomach and insides were going to burst. I was contemplating knocking on one of the neighbors doors and asking to use their bathroom, but was I going to say, “Hi, can I use your toilet to take a shit?” I looked for a spot to crap and hope the neighbors wouldn’t see me. I was wearing a skirt at the time so I stood up and just let the crap fall out. I took my underwear off first of course. I looked around for something to wipe myself with and found a greasy garage rag. I came up with an excuse if anyone asked. I was going to blame it on the dog, but I don’t think a chihuahua can take a monster crap like I could. No one ever asked.
Hear my tale…
I was on my way home from work.
I lived in Tokyo, which meant I was in a train. A crowded train. As I changed trains at Shibuya, I felt distinct stomach rumbles and gurglings but, if you’ve ever seen a public toilet in Tokyo ca 1982, you’d understand why I figured I’d suck it up until I got to my apartment. As the stations rolled by, I began to get a little more anxious; by the time we got to the station before mine, I was in lip-biting agony, focussing all of my will power and concentration on a small ring of muscle, wondering how I was going to make the last 100 meters from the station to my apartment.
Miraculously, we got to my station. The doors opened. I started walking out of the crowded train. One step. Two steps. I had one foot out the door when it happened. I sneezed. At that fleeting moment of distraction, all bets were off and I instantly filled my pants with a hot, steaming load of apparently twice the volume of my actual body.
The doors closed, the train sped off, and I was left standing in a mercifully dark and deserted train station, waddling my way home.
One day, at the tender age of sixteen, I became slightly constipated. Constipation wasn’t something I was accustomed to, having had been a vegetarian for the past eight years, so of course I had no idea what to expect from the innocent-looking, pale blue Wal-Mart brand laxative pills. I wish someone had warned me. It’s hard to describe the sense of horror that comes over you when, after spending the morning emptying yourself of what seems to be your weight in liquid stink, you feel the now all-to-familiar rumbling of impending evil doom in your tummy and violently expel what could only possibly have been the next day’s lunch in the school restroom. Twice. During one class. And having mumble an explanation to the female faculty member who was sent in after you by a well-meaning math teacher to make sure you’re alright.
That was the day I realized that there is, in fact, a God, and that he hates me very, very much.
Woo, my first TMI post! I feel like a real doper now!
Also, I forgot to mention the evilness that is candy made from sugar alcohols. “May” produce a laxative effect, my ass (hahaha, ass. I am witty.). I won’t say wheter I shat my pants or not on either of these occassions, because a lady does not speak of such things. I also will not mention that this happened on a day on which I was babysitting, leading little Jessica to inform her mom that “Roshia kept running to the bathroom with diarrhea!” Never.
Not long ago, (checks watch) I had the same thing happen to me. The exception is that I was in no distress. I’m no stranger to the dangers of sharting, and I like to think that I am adept at keeping them from happening. I had just eaten some awesomely crispy hot wings, and was web surfing, when I sneezed.
There was poo.
Thank the good lord I was alone, I would not have been able to be subtle with an unexpected squirt of coney sauce between my cheeks.
I’m not even the type to get skid marks, and here I let fly with several ounces of trouser chili because of a sneeze! Will this ever happen again… Depends.
HAH! You kill me!
Three word winner!
Band name?
Oh, and speaking of constipation… I was 5 years old when I experienced my one and only bout. I musta gone a week or so without, ahem, results.
One day I mustered the resolve, “today is the day!” Sitting down, I pushed, I squirmed, I lifted myself from the bowl, hands on counter, and went through all manner of contortions. You think I’m making this up - but I was bound (ha ha) and determined to get this shit outta me.
I got so taken up with technique I became lost in thought when finally the moment came. I don’t recall the exact position I was in, but what I do recall is watching a losenge the size of a submarine literally skidding across the floor, coming to rest a good 8 feet away - I shit you not. I remember well my revulsion at the necessity of picking this thing up (both hands!) and plopping the big fishy back into its home.
I’ve never related this story to anyone before…
Ah, memories. It was wintertime in upstate New York and three of us were doing various installation type stuff at a bank which was under construction. The welder had finished getting the chute tacked into place on the night drop chest so we were ready to put the depository head in from the outside. Two guys can do it, but those damn things are pretty heavy so all three of us discussed who and what to avoid mashed fingers and such.
S and J were on opposing sides, I was in the center, and it was a “lift on 3” deal. When we lifted, an unholy sound escaped J’s pants immediately advising all present that terrible things had befallen him. “Put it down!” S yells. We both look at J. There’s no porta-john, no place where the poor guy could clean himself up and he’s about a hundred miles from home.
We sent him home. The thought of the guy riding in his own puddle o’ dung for two hours was awful, but, being guys, we laughed our asses off as soon as he was out of sight.
Don’t you mean “Oops! I Crapped My Pants!”?