Thought I would share this with you all. My roommate showed me this and it gave me a good laugh. If you like poop stories.
http://deadspin.com/time-for-your-worst-ever-poop-stories-1681086660. There is a whole list of wonderful stories, but this one I found to be the cream of the crop:
"A few years ago, I was down in Cabo San Lucas with my family and friends for vacation. My dad, my buddy and I decided to go play some golf, and end up at this very fancy, very expensive golf course.
Given that we're spending all that money, I decide to avail myself of all the services the club offers. This includes complimentary shrimp tacos, as many as I can eat.
Things are going great until the 10th hole, when I feel a sudden twinge. About 9 minutes later, standing in the middle of the 11th fairway, the gears of gastrointestinal apocalypse kick into full gear, and I am struck by the horrible realization that I am not going to make a bathroom, and if I don't want to spray paint a line of feces down the fairway, my only chance is to sprint 25 yards, into the desert. I start running, ripping at my belt as I go. I do not make it in time.
So I'm now running towards the desert, shitting 117 tacos into my shorts (thank God I had on boxer-briefs, so at least containment was maintained as I ran). I make the desert, still pooping, drop my shorts, pull down my saturated, heavily laden underwear, assume a standing squat with my ass pointed as far from the civilian population as possible, and continue the diarrhea tsunami for at least another minute.
At this point, I lose my balance in said squat, and begin to fall back towards the pond of evil I've just unleashed on the earth. Instinct takes over, I throw my hand back to find anything to grab to prevent me from falling into the little ocean of vileness, and land my left palm squarely on top of a spiny cactus. The barbs penetrate to the bone in my hand. I'm now screaming, crying, covered in my own waste, with my laden drawers still around my knees because I couldn't get them all the way off my body. In a desert. In Mexico.
My father, concerned for my well being (I ran towards the desert without explaining, and now he can hear me screaming 10 feet deep into a chaparral), tries to come in and find out what's going on. I scream for him to not come any closer, for if he were to see that little panorama of catastrophe, we would never be able to look each other in the eye again. I tell him to throw me his golf towel, my towel, and my buddy's towel so I can set to the unpleasant experience of delousing myself as I stand now naked, absolutely covered in diarrhea, with a bleeding hand that I can no longer use after slowly removing it from the cactus, and not wanting to get sepsis by getting it near my feces covered body. Cleanup takes about 10 minutes, at which point I hurl my ruined, shit-filled britches further into the desert, where they get stuck on a tree branch and drip out a steady stream of poo, a lasting visual reminder of a near impossible amount of shame. I pull my shorts back on, emerge from the desert with no towels, tell my Dad I don't want to talk about it, and, to my credit, finish the round. Later that afternoon I sit on the floor of the shower in my hotel, knees clutched to my chest, rocking slowly back and forth as I weep softly for an innocence lost."
