This may offend some, and I could care less. Sometimes you need a little juvenile humor. I’m a big fan of I’ve been a reader for roughly four years. A recent post posted reader submitted poop and fart stories. I laughed outloud, which is rare for me, when I read two of them and I wanted to share.

My parents took me to New Orleans when I was about 12 years old; I spent most of the trip stuffing my face with beignets and complaining about the heat. One day, my parents decide to take me on a trolley ride down St. Charles. We board the trolley only to discover that is filled to the brim exclusively with elderly black women, dressed in their Sunday best, on their way to church. As a nebbishy Jewish kid from the North with bad skin and worse self-esteem, I found this situation to be somewhat intimidating. It started off ok but then I feel a fart coming. There’s no stomach pain, no queasiness, no sign whatsoever that this is going to be a bad one, so I lift up a bit in my seat and let it go: sure enough, it’s just a little guy.

Before I know it though, I realize I have unleashed the beast. I notice my dad’s face tighten and my mom’s eye’s begin to water, but they keep it together out of fear of embarrassing me. Not so the rest of the trolley car. “Whoa lordy,” one lady says, quietly at first, then a bit louder. “Whoooooaaaaa lordy!” she wails. All at once the previously silent trolley erupts into a teeming mass of shouting and activity: the fart had captivated this audience. One woman covered her face with her bonnet, another slumped forward in her seat, feigning death; everyone was laughing so hard I feared for their well beings. “Light a match!” one of them yelled; “no, don’t: you’ll set the whole car on fire!” another responded. I feared the trolley might derail. I made myself as small as possible but to no avail: they all knew it was me. Their laughter continued long after the smell had dissipated; indeed, I can still hear it today.

When I was in sixth grade I spent a lot of time at my friend Alex’s house, who happened to live very close to the local Taco Bell. I can only assume this is what we ate one night before we retired to Alex’s basement to play video games or whatever sixth grade boys do at sleepovers. Around ten or eleven o’clock, I felt a poop coming on. I went up to the bathroom which was across the hall from the top of the stairs. I don’t recall anything spectacular about the poop itself, except I think it may have required more wipes than average. I finished and went down to rejoin my friends. A few minutes later we heard a thud on the floor upstairs. We didn’t think anything of it, as it was about the time his parents were getting ready for bed. About 15 or 20 minutes later, Alex’s dad called down to us: “Uh, hey guys? Did one of you take a dump and not flush? Because the dog was walking past the bathroom and passed out.” The thud we had heard was Alex’s (elderly) Australian shepherd hitting the hardwood floor. Apparently the poop smelled so bad that the aroma migrated to the hallway, where it remained potent enough for the passing dog to actually lose consciousness. I admitted to his dad that I had taken the dump, but insisted that I had flushed (I had). This led to twenty minutes of gasping-for-air laughter from my friends. It happened almost 15 years ago, but I still take pride in telling the tale of the time I dropped a deuce so atrocious it stunned a 60 lb. animal.

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Joe Aiello is the founder of View From the Bleachers and one of the lead writers. Growing up in Chicago, he fondly remembers attending games in the bleachers before that was the popular thing to do. Currently Joe resides in North Carolina with his wife and three kids and helps people protect their assets as an independent insurance agent. Connect with Joe via Twitter / Facebook / E-mail