The Most Embarrassing Plane-Pooping Story Ever?
 

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 ****ing client. Our ****ing female ****ing 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.

http://jalopnik.com/this-is-the-most...ver-1456846301

a good friend of mine was on a flight with Rodney Dangerfield in the 90's........Rodney got so drunk, he shit himself......and the plane reeked of his fresh deposit in his pants.

LMAO

This thread has potential

Peter King has an interesting story:

http://sportsillustrated.cnn.com/200...27/mmqb/2.html

I was scheduled for a colonoscopy on Thursday in West Paterson, N.J. If you've had one, or if you've had any intestinal procedure, you know that the day before such an internal snaking you've got to be, well, cleaned out. One problem for me: On Wednesday, I was covering the Vince Young workout in Austin. My cleanout was due to begin at 1 p.m. My flight was due to leave Austin three hours later, and I was scheduled to get home by 8. In other words, I was not going to have the home-bathroom advantage for a good portion of the internal preparation.

Pretty tricky. I've had two prior colonoscopies -- you should have these things fairly regularly after turning 40, and I'm 48 -- and know that once you begin your prep work, it's about a six-hour process. So I figure, OK, I'll start on the plane home, then finish at home. When I advised a friend, Rich Fitter, of my plan, he shook his head and invoked an old Cosmo Kramer line. "Wet ... and wild,'' he said.

I took the first of the preparatory medication (and believe me, that's putting it very nicely) just before the three-plus-hour flight took off from Austin. I was in fine shape until maybe 40 minutes from landing when the captain came over the intercom and said, "Ladies and gentlemen, we've been told by the tower in Newark that we're going to have to slow things up a bit because of traffic into the New York area. They're putting us into a holding pattern, and we're going to head over to Pennsylvania to circle ...''

I heard nothing else. All I could think was: My worst nightmare is coming true. It would get worse 10 minutes later, as we were banking bumpily somewhere over southeastern Pennsylvania. The flight attendant came on and said, "Ladies and gentlemen, because of the bumpy ride, we're going to be turning on the fasten-seatbelt sign for the remainder of the flight...'' AAAAAAAARRRRRRGGGGGHHHHHH!

Take deep breaths. Long, deep breaths. Bumping around for 45 minutes. An eternity. Hold on. Just hold on. You raised two kids not to be ax murderers, you can survive this. I'm going to have to get up and brawl with this flight attendant in a minute because of the seat-belt sign...

Out of the holding pattern. And seven or eight minutes later, like the God of Aviation knew what was happening inside me at that moment, the captain came on and said, "Ladies and gentlemen, we're on our final approach into the Newark area.''

Day of my wedding. Births of my children. Red Sox win the World Series. Landing in Newark.

Once off the plane, I was as dignified as was humanly possible. I brisk-walked to the men's room, and the rest is history.

That's funny shit!

It's really hard to read the story with that Super Boob avatar next to it.

I read the entire story

Verdict = win

Shit like this is the reason I come to the planet.

The plane didn't have a restroom? WTF?

Anyway, I think I'd rather shit myself than use the crapper on a plane.

bet there was some good stories on 9/11

Too soon, brah.

Woah, woah, woah man. FFS!

ROFL