kfc

KFC Poop Story

KOC at KFC

A few days ago my fellow PoopReporters asked me to go to KFC and sample the fare -- to follow in the footsteps of other great PoopReporters, and to embarrass myself in front of a website of people. I did.
I do like spicy food. It has been that way with me since birth. I get the spiciest stuff possible. I know it is spicy when my nose is running like a toilet with a busted ballcock and my tongue is complaining like The Dumpster for this report. I also like to eat. A lot. As some of you know, I go to Cici's Pizza and run the place out of business. I can probably hold a gallon of food in my stomach, which is probably why I'm so fat.

Keeping in mind those guidelines, I placed my order. I got the four-piece spicy wing combo, the spicy strips, and a family meal. (It came to about thirty dollars -- can we get reimbursed for PoopReporting?) (Editor's note: *snort*) Eating all that food was moderately difficult, but I had to challenge myself and eat enough to get results that I could post on the site later that day.

My eyes were watering. My nose was running. My intestines were bloating. It reminded me of O. Henry's poem about the homeless schmoe who ate a huge Thanksgiving dinner and then had to eat another one.

I got home with some difficulty. The next day I went to the US Naval Academy for some scout jamboree. (Not the one this summer where people died.) I was walking into some building when the urge to shit hit me. I went to the restroom.

And I came right back out. The place was a literal piece of shit. There were two stalls -- one was busted, and the other had shit all over the seat and in the bowl; the flusher was broken. I had expected more from midshipmen.

I forced the load back in. The bloating hurt, but I would just have to wait. I went home.

I shouldn't say that, because I didn't go directly home -- oh, no. I sat in Washington DC traffic for five hours. The Woodrow Wilson Bridge was the worst part. The sun was baking my face on one side and I was shriveling up the other as I grunted and strained to keep the poop in my ass. It hurt. I had gone to hell and back and I WAS worse for the wear.

Finally I got home. I no longer had to poop. I think I had grunted and strained in the car so hard that it just went back in.

So I began to dutifully read PoopReport. Then I felt my stomach begin to balloon out again. It was going to be gassy and it was going to be bad. It was also going to hurt.

Then the fart came out. It was LOUD. And it STUNK. And others continued to come out. The room smelled terrible -- it would have permanently put any biological weapon to shame. I knew I had to get to my crapper in the basement -- and I was on the second floor. I had a poop E.T.A. of fifteen seconds and thirty-second trip time to my salvation.

I ran. I sprinted. I ran in slow motion. "No-- oo-- oooooooooo!" Dramatic music played in the background. I was descending the stairs to the basement. I thought I might have made it. Then a very hot and very smelly fart blew out of my ass. I thought I had sharted my pants.

I sat down on the crapper and examined my boxers. There was a small spot of liquid crap on them.

Then a load of Liqui-shit� came out. This stuff burned like gasoline in an oxygen-rich environment. It was hot. It was smelly. It was REALLY gas-filled. It *explodicated*.

Then the tsunami of shit ended. "Praise the Lord," says I, stupidly thinking it was over. It's KFC, for God's sake! How could it be over?

"Exhibit B," says the tour guide. "After the Havana Omelet we have the Shit Rock."

Finally, some solid shit. Famous last words. It started out innocently enough -- a small, half-inch piece of poo.

Then it got bigger.

My asshole is about .75 inches in diameter. It can dilate to about one inch. That is when it began hurting -- when the turd reached one-inch in diameter. I kept pushing, hoping to force it out fast. But no, it took its own sweet time, getting larger every second. When I reached one-and-a-half inches, I began to cry out. It began with "Oh, ahh, ahhhr, ahhrgg ARRGHH" and progressed up to "OH HOLY MOTHER OF SHIT [sobs] OH GOD THIS HURTS LIKE A BITCH AHHHH" when it reached the three inch mark. Crying and "oh, fuck" were accompanied by some other expletives I didn't know I knew, unprintable even on PoopReport.

Then it got really bad. (Oh, you thought that was bad?). It got stuck. The entire three-pound, three-inch mass of fat and chicken and more fat was stuck in the worst possible place -- half-in and half-out of my sphincter. And it was HOT. It was burning hot. You know how hot it is when you let off some beer-induced diarrhea -- it was that hot. The pain doubled, tripled, and possibly even quadrupled at that moment. I grunted and strained with all that pain for five minutes before it finally came out.

I waited to be sure that was it indeed all out. Then I waited some more to get over the shock.

Then I got out my plastic ruler. The super turd (unfortunately broken in half) measured 11.75 inches long and 3.95 inches in diameter.

Conclusion: KFC is not a good place to eat at.

Suggested Courses of Action: Place KFC on your list of places not to eat at.

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KFC Poop Story