Anus (and other) disasters.

Discussion in 'Diamond Lil's' started by Montigny-La-Palisse, Nov 16, 2010.

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  1. Earlier this evening, my brother had an unfortunate bottom accident which reminded me of one of the most horrific episodes of my colourful life, which for no other reason than comedy value, I have decided to share with you.

    Just prior to last christmas, I was going through a mild period of botty bother. For a couple of weeks I had been cultivating some particularly vicious farmer giles which had given me a small amount of gyp but I had just stuffed back up my mudeye and got on with.

    This one evening, stomach churning after a few ales and a huge dinner, I trotted off for a horrendoshite. It first occurred to me that something may be awry when I felt a grotesque pain from my clacker and squirted claret into the bowl at such ferocity it splattered my legs and the pan and looked like someone had just eaten a shotgun round.

    On peering down, the bog was heaving with shite and claret, and my ring was dripping blood at an alarming rate. I mopped up, through gritted teeth finished my shite and went to wipe.

    It felt like a thumb was sticking out my ricker, this, naturally alarmed me further so I dismounted the throne and ripped the mirror off the wall to conduct damass.

    Squatting over the mirror, between splashes of arse blood, I could see the remains of my tattered tea towel holder, it quite simply looked as if I'd been turned inside out, cue panic.

    I wedged a towel up my crack and told the missus that I was givng birth to myslef, she made me ring the NHS helpline and they told me to get down the hospital pronto, which we did, me holding my bikestand off the car seat in order to stop the bumps in the road sending me into a pain induced coma.

    After a quick chat about my situation, the lovely nurse bint on watch told me to take a seat. (Cheers, nice plastic arse wrecking seats) and wait. The doctor will see me soon.

    After about two hours of switching between standing and glaring at the pisspot slags who have cut their filthy feet on broken wine glasses down the highstreet and legging it to the bog to reload my blood sponging bog roll pantyliner, I was called in.

    The doctor rolled me over, pulled apart my arse cheeks and declared "Oh dear". The nurse behind him looked truly horrified, although had she looked in a mirror recently the sight of my butchered goats eye couldn't have been too dissimilar to her rats face.

    Doctor bastard prodded around then told me he had to have a better look up my fudge tunnel, he returned with the hubbel telescope and proceeded to ram it up my crimping tool with great aplomb. If it's not bad enough having the national observatory inserted into my god fearing octopus beak then it shearing it's way past the bits of me that were hanging out prompted me to chunder all over the place. I think by this point the nurse had fallen out with me. To cap it off, he disappeared and called some of his mates in to have a look at my "Terrible, terrible case".

    The next stages were a blur, he crammed more things up me and forced my distended rectum back into it's home with his hands that looked like five bananas stapled to a dinner plate. I looked down and their was shit and blood all over the parish. I threw up again.

    "We'll have to get you in for some further stitching and banding, but you should be fine for now, you had particularly bad haemorrhoids which had dragged part of your rectum into the world. "

    I drove home, mortified that my arse had let me down so badly, but glad that I wasn't dying of bot cancer.

    The moral of this story? Don't ignore your piles boys, you are just one bad shit away from rape and humiliation.

    I await your anatomy catastrophies with great anticipation.
  2. Pics or it didn't happen.
  3. Do you know, at no point during the whole evolution did I think; "Hang on, I'd better take a picture of my maimed dungbutton."

    I regret that decision now, it would look nice on the front of an xmas card.
  4. Did you swamp yourself just to get "the Grand Slam"??
  5. Monty - Move it to Health and Fitness

    I prefer a S/M Medic's description of a similar event: "Hanging down behind him like a muddy red football sock".
  6. No, he's right it could be bullshit without pics, preferably ones that can be put on the web asap please :twisted:
  7. Fukcing classic how i can write with laughter i dont know,read some to the misses and shes had to leave the room brill thanks MLP
  8. Man up FFS.Until its dragging on the floor behind you , leaving a claret snail trail , it aint worth bothering about.Its just getting old .
  9. My worst disaster to date was a case of poor judgement on my part and I take full blame for the consequences. To this day I wonder what could have been had I taken a step back and assessed the situation properly.

    I recount this story here in full as a warning to others:

    A little while back, I purchased a shiny new set of ceramic hair clippers. Due to the fact that my bonce has been receeding since I was 17, I have found it most practical to cut it myself (number 1 all over). On receipt of my new Gucci ceramic jobbies, I decided to relegate my trusty old and slightly blunt set to pube and arrse hair management duties only.

    Now to cut a long story short, I was practising some pube topiary with said clippers and accidently caught the wrinkly part of my sack between the blades. The blades jammed shut around my skin with a horrendous snapping sound, the instant shock and initial pain caused me to pull the clippers away sharply. Unfortunately this action ripped a sizeable chunk of my right bollock sack off and left an equally large piece flapping around in the wind.

    Surprisingly there was a lot more blood than I would have expected from that part of the anatomy. I spent the next ten minutes walking around the flat applying direct pressure whilst attempting to clean up the blood that was flowing freely from my starboard wurzel.

    The fcuker left a decent sized hole in my nad, the upside being that I could insert my maglite solitaire into the new orifice and light up my testicles like ET's finger.

    I now have a second hand pair of clippers for sale if anyone wants them, just need a good clean and they will be fine.
  10. I didn't swamp myself unfortunately. My usually tiny cock almost completely retracted inside me and failed to function for some time after said event. Needless to say, the queen elizabeth hospital gateshead is not my hospital of choice for future incidents. I fear the disdainful looks and knowing smiles.
  11. I recommend tapping 'goatse' and '1man1jar' into any reputable search engine.
  12. Cheers 2DD,

    I must remember that any recommendation from your good self is always well worth a good ignoring.
  13. Just sent this to the missis, shes a nurse and has a strange curoisty to things like this.......

    After reading that I'm going to be taking care of my orifice....
  14. Does she work at the Queen Elizabeth in Gateshead? If so, I may know her. And she's seen my special bits.
  15. What happened here by the way MLP. Was what happened to on the same calibre as you??
  16. He just had to have a boil the size of a golf ball lanced in his mutton crack. Weak.
  17. I cant compete with that event Monty, but my arse got me into an embarrassing situation in Londonderry one night.
    I had been down the Embassy dance hall, alternating between there and the Red Lion.
    It was at the time in NI between getting shot at but before they stopped our shore leave.
    So I have drunk about a bottle of Bacardi and as much Porter as I could ram down my neck as it was getting given us free with the Bacardi.
    Pissed as a newt I attempted a solo journey down the Foyle road to Sea Eagle and my pit.
    Half way down I had the worse onrush of "I need a Shit" pains as I have ever experienced. Now one side of the road is/was nothing but Dockyard wall, the other a humongous bomb site, so I need to get across the road. I am doubled over with pain, and about 15 to 20 seconds away from shitting myself and half way across the road.
    At this point a bus full of Paddies pulls up, the driver rushes out, grabs me and says, "Where are you hit son"? and lays me down on the deck in the road. I groan, shit myself and tell him to fuck off.
    I arise, shit dripping from the legs of my Levis and a filthy great stain all up my back. The driver rushes back to the bus, to announce the problem to half of Londonderry as I stagger away to the waste ground to wipe my arse etc etc with my coverted 60 odd verses of "Eskimo Nell". :cry: :cry:
  18. Having recently acquired a herniated disc in me lower back, together with hip joints that are about as useful as those on a fossilised wooly mammoth and a nice shiny cast iron knee-cap - I have a large cabinet full of assorted pain killers, muscle relaxants and other wonderful NHS drugs that I depend on to lower the pain threshold to an acceptable level. A side effect of swallowing all these pills is raging constipation. Oral Morphine is a recent addition and having recently chugged two bottles of the stuff so I could continue earning a crust - I suddenly realised that I had not had a spine shattering poopy-doo for several days.

    "Have some of my laxative tablets love", says the wife.
    "Oh alright"says I.

    Anyway, after a few hours, I can feel something "bubbling" down South, so I thought I had better adjourn to the crapper, sit down and wait to see what the outcome would be.

    All quite pleasant really. Lots of watery burbling noises (similar to blowing air through a straw into a glass of Diet Coke).......stuff was dribbling into the pan and I was becoming more and more convinced that I would soon have the mother of all shits and be on my way.

    Oh how wrong was very, very wrong.

    Y'see - the little "fartlets" that had been jetting from my ring-bolt, had been coming, not from the centre, but in a circular fashion around the outside of my fudge-pipe. The remaining arse space had been taken up with a dung-ball that was now the hardest substance known to man and could have been easily used as a spare bit on a North Sea drilling rig.

    Some sort of automatic pushing mechanism kicked in, and my pucker muscle started to contort and expand in a valiant attempt to shove a solid mass out of me and into the bog.

    I had taken laxatives, and NOT shite-softeners, so this hideous thing was still as hard as granite and about the size of a small family car by the feel of it.

    There followed some twenty minutes of screaming, wailing, sweating, pushing, sucking back in, shoving back out, nipping it thinner (if that were possible) and virtually chewing my own tongue off as I fought to rid myself of this turd-shaped breeze block.

    The wife heard the screams, so did the bloke next door, and so did a bus driver in the next street. The more of the thing I managed to push out, the wider my cheeky-cheeks parted and the further my eyes protruded out of their sockets. It was like trying to squeeze a three foot tall concrete garden gnome through the nozzle of an icing bag.

    With one final m-o-n-u-m-e-n-t-a-l effort - I sharted the thing out. It didn't even splash....didn't even touch the f***ing water...just sat there all spherical and huge. My bum cheeks crashed together like barn doors in a tornado and I was throbbing for the rest of the much so that I spent the rest of the evening watching the television - standing up.

    I can honestly say, hand on heart, that it was THE most agonising crap I have ever had in my entire life.

    I had to chop the arse asteroid up with a steel ruler from the shed, so I could flush it on its merry way to Plymouth Hoe.

    I miss a few days of the pills now, just to make sure I do not go through that kind of"Giganto-shit" ever again.

    * * * * * *


    You've just got to get one of these:-

  19. Never knew you were caught up in the infamous,but less publicized 'shitty sunday' incident in Londonderry RR. When unarmed matelots were attacked by enema forces. Bacardi and Guinness, eh? Nasty combo.congrats on your survival. :pottytrain4:

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