The most embarrassing plane pooping story ever.

[pile_it]

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

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 fucking client. Our fucking female fucking 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.

[GyvAir]

If you're about to read the above story and you're in process of having a snack, put all foodstuffs and drink aside, as either you will choke or you will soil your keyboard. One or the other.

[slowstream]

pile_it,

Thank you so much, you made me laugh so much that I thought I would pee myself.

I'm sorry I don't have anything nearly that funny

[Liquid Charlie]

Have you ever tried to crap in a sick bag -- lmfaoooooo -- don't ask !!!

[flyinthebug]

Cant seem to stop laughing at this insanity! I guess you have to had "been there" facing a bowel saying NOW...and a "toilet" in the back of a PA31-350 LOL. That was just too funny, thanks for posting!

[BTD]

I have IBS (Irritable Bowel Syndrome), and I can tell you this is not funny.




Just Kidding, I have IBS and this is extremely funny. I am so happy to be flying an airplane with a lav these days, but I will always cherish the I almost Sh*t myself stories, as I have more than most.

BTD

[GyvAir]

My kingdom for a shopping bag... and if it's not too much to ask, maybe a bucket over which to stretch it?
The ferry pilot's prayer.

[Meecka]

Oh. My. Good. God! I laughed so hard I thought I'd be sick. That was gold, unpleasant for you, yes. E'ffin entertaining as hell for the rest of us, absolutely. The fact that it is well writen makes it all the better.

[AirFrame]

The story that starts this thread, and many that show up in the replies, are pretty good too...

http://www.vansairforce.com/community/s ... p?t=105296

[Schooner69A]

BTD: did you ever tell a story that involved a dog and a pair of shorts...? Maybe in London?

JS

[1000 HP]

You should had the no snack warning first. I just about fired a peanut out of my nose

[Pratt X 3]

Here's an amazing selection of airplane poop stories:
Diarrhea in a freighter?

[CFR]

A friend of mine told me a story of a trip he took with his F104 squadron. I have the impression that a nozzle failure on the F-104 is a pretty serious emergency and requires immediate steps to get the plane on the ground. After a night of drinking and eating spicy food (those were the days) my friend said his wingman looked pretty rough when they departed. Shortly into the flight his wingman reported a "nozzle failure" and required an immediate return to base. When my friend tucked in and looked he reported that there was no indication of the nozzle failure on the plane to which his wingman replied that the nozzle failure was on him not the plane.

[BTD]

BTD: did you ever tell a story that involved a dog and a pair of shorts...? Maybe in London?

JS

Nope that wasn't me. But it sounds like a good one.

It was always nice to be on a reserve at 3 in the morning at -30 in the bushes with your pants hanging down. Glad those days are behind me

[Schooner69A]

BTD: I worked with a chap down east (NB) with a condition similar to yours who had the most marvelous stories concerning his successes and failures managing alimentary canal. I think I'll e-mail him and see if we can't get another story or two.

JS

[hawker driver]

Here's an amazing selection of airplane poop stories:
Diarrhea in a freighter?

I have been following that thread for the last 5 years.
It is up to 533 posts over 9 years.

In case you are not a member here are some of my favourites .

...................

We had an interesting event take place at the regional I use to work for. Male Captain, Female F/O flying in a good old J-31, no lav as you all know. Well this crew had a full load of pax and a scheduled 1 hour flight turned into 2 with weather enroute. The Captain realized he was getting a real bad case of the trots, he held it as long as possible.

When the pressure and pain were more than he could bare he took everything out of his flightbag, put a trash bag in it and then set the flightbag between the Capt and F/O seats. This particular J-31 had no cockpit door, just the curtin so when he droped his drawers and started to blow mud his a$$ was pointing right at the powerlevers and his female crewmember, and the rest of his body was in the isle between seats 1ABC. After the first round he was horrified when he had to go for round two. When it was all over he took the flight bag and put it in the rear onboard carry on closet. What a day at the office.


...................

Dateline 2005 - At a humble 121 night-freight operation, an un-named captain of rather large proportions thought he was relieving a little over-pressure and got a big wet surprise. He got up, went aft to dispose of his shorts, clean up and get some clean clothes on. The funny part was another captain riding in the aft jumpseat, an ex-AF fellow, sees the ship being left in command of an unrated SIC, hops up to sit in the vacant seat, and gets a smelly wet surprise of his own! The PIC returned, and sat on trash bags, I believe. The atmosphere was a bit heavy for the rest of the flight. After landing, 'twas said that MX transferred the seat cushion to the dumpster. I'd like to see the write-up....

"..................

When I worked for a certain regional in the northeast, we had 1900C's in addition to the 121 fleet. One such aircraft inbound to PVD called in range and advised they would need "urgent cabin attention" upon arrival. We all watched as they taxied in and the pax deplaned. Then the crew came down the stairs and they were not pleased. Seems a certain male pax walked up to the flight deck during the trip demanding that they land ... that he was in the throes of labor. The crew politely refused, saying they were only 20 or 30 out, whereupon the distressed passenger, in front of 18 others, folded his butt into the small storage area aft of the flight deck and let fly there, just about killing all on board with the toxic stench. The crew's flight bags, hats and jackets were in there too. It was pretty easy to tell which passenger it was just by watching the glares and death rays from the others.

.............

Heard a good one on a trip with an ASA captain today. A couple years back on the Brazilia a captain got ahold of some Colon Blow at some point durring the day. Probably from the Wendys in Concourse "C".....

Anyways, the captain started sweating bullets as the Colon Blow worked it's magic...Captain managed to ward off impending doom until short final until finally all hell broke loose- with such a forceful explosion it exited out the top of his pants (as he was leaning forward), up the seat back, and thus began to dispurse upon the rest of the back and sides of the cockpit. Oh yes- and upon the First Officer.

Do you get some kind of bonus if you get covered in someone else's poo while on a trip????

[moocow]

Read the story on Friday during work and I couldn't get rid of the smile on my face every time I had to poop since.

[DHC-1 Jockey]

An excerpt from 4 Day Follies (http://4dayfollies.com/mexican-turf-war):

Wake up around 1130. We kick off the day with a mile walk to the Loco Jalapeño which was actually 2 blocks away. We break out phones. Compare phones. Pull up maps. Compare maps. Turn around.

2 highly trained professional aviators standing in the middle of the street, rotating phones like we’re trying to guess the time of day. Divining directions we should have gotten from the front desk before we left. Assholes by any other name.

Finally ensconced in the Crazy Pepper, and after a eat by numbers perusal of the lunch specials, I ingest a “Number 8,” which later proves to be a highly unstable foundation of Mexican yumminess on which to construct the day’s shenanigans. If I’d had any inkling how much misery would result from this, I’d have just punched myself in the face and been done with it.

We take the not-retarded way back to the hotel. Mr. Jim Beam is waiting patiently for us when we get back.

There’s really only one way to describe the elegance and sophistication of the Milwaukee Airport Clarion – Prison sex. (And not the good kind.) It is misery incarnate. The kind of hotel that makes you question your career choices and dream of the good life in America.

It LOOKS like a prison. 2 floors. Small windows. Copious usage of Industrial beige. Clarion – helping you feel depressed about being away from home since 1987.

The rooms are antagonistically small. Opening the bathroom door completely blocks the main door. The accordion mirror door is off the track and won’t close. (Incidentally, I scare the shit out myself the next morning at 0430 thinking some fat Mexican in a towel is hiding in the corner.)
Everything looks like it’s probably bolted down. The TV actually is. The wall mounted AC unit is 6 feet off the floor in that uniquely Midwestern way. Apparently wall decorations would only conflict with the industrial “stop hitting yourself” motif.

Barbie gets ice. Cokes are $2 a piece from the vending machine. I buy $8 worth of mixers and off we go. We take turns with YouTube selections. We drink. We order pizza from some local Italian joint. Eat the whole thing. The Beam evaporates of its own accord in 5 hours of super-sedentary happy time.

Barbie turns me on to Method of Destruction: “Anally Inflicted Death Sentence (AIDS),” “Bubble Butt” and “Spandex Enormity.” I watch the flag waving outside and am proud to be an American. Hit the sack about 2000.

You’d think there would be more funny in this day, but as it turns out, 2 guys sitting in a prison cell drinking all day is a surprisingly monochromatic experience.

Day 3:

Wake up at 0200 and can’t go back to sleep. Give up and get in the shower at 0430. The scary Mexican is waiting for me when I get out.

Headed to <<HOME>>, my tummy begins to make ominous and uncomfortable sounds. There is cultural unrest. The Mexicans are fighting the Italians on the mean streets of my lower intestines. I can’t tell who’s winning, but I am going to lose. Bad. And soon.

Shitting on the airplane ranks just slightly above Nairing my balls. (A ”@#$! off it’s not funny!” experiment in being colossally stupid resulting in 2nd degree chemical burns. But that’s another story.) We have an hour to go when the streets of Intestinisco catch fire.

I look over at Capt. B. He fares no better. Wild cow eyes of incontinence. Waxy desperation is coming off him in waves. He looks tense. We make fun of each other. He caves. “I’m not gonna make it.” He lunges out the door for the lavatory after coordinating with the FAs. I spend 15 minutes in the oxygen mask of victory. It is fleeting, but it’ victory.
We’re 30 minutes early in <<HOME>>. I have to go poopy really bad now. Gate is occupied. We wait. Emergency out-gassing is not at all appreciated by the Capt. I sit very still and practice not shitting my pants. When we finally park, there’s no jetway driver. DANGER! DANGER! STRUCTURAL FAILURE IMMINIENT!

When the door opens, I bolt out of the cockpit and follow three little old ladies up the jetway. They are old people oblivious to my presence even though I’m ping-ponging back and forth looking for a hole. Takes most of my self control not to just punch them all in the back of the head.

I hit open turf in the terminal and speed-waddle to the John in that totally undignified ass-pinching way that screams “This man has to take a massive shit” or “is gay and in a real big hurry” to anyone who cares to look. (Which is of course most everyone.) Bowelvacuation is accompanied by “bath house dance party” sounds of ecstasy.

Back among the living, we push for SFO. At cruise I beg aspirin for my shoulder. Flipped my golfcart about 5 years ago. Never been the same. Digging for my relief, Barbie discovers half my “not properly screwed closed” bottle of Don Q has soaked through my clothes, bag, his bag and his clothes. Smells like professionalism and duty.

I fly us into SFO on the Quiet Bridge Visual to 28R. Basically a step down merge with the Pacific arrivals for 28L. This is a cool approach. The 2 runways are 1200 feet apart which means when we roll out over the bay headed west for the airport, I can tell what the guy in the big jet to my left in 37F is wiping off his tie. If you do the join quickly or aggressively, collision alarms go off. Children cry. People ask for your employee number.

I do it nice and easy. This is as close to formation flying as we ever get in the airline world. Big 777. I can see both our shadows on the water as we glide toward the runway complex. (Nice.) I do not descend while I’m enjoying the show. Eventually, it dawns on me that I’m high on the glidepath. Like 3000 feet high. They tell us not to pass the 777.

Now I’m in the awkward position of trying to slow down and go down. Something <<My Airplane>> is notorious for refusing to do. “@#$! you. Pick one.” Sums up the aerodynamic quandary I’ve put myself in.

We hang everything out. Landing gear, spoilers, flaps. Hover like a blimp as I bleed off 60 knots and 3000 feet of head up my ass. Get settled on the glideslope and engines spooled by 1000 feet. Barely.

Off to the hotel. We change into civies and march across the highway for resupply. (I’m down to a half bottle of rum and wringing out my clothes yielded only damp disappointment). We buy beer and nest in a human sized room.

About 1630, when the beer is mostly gone and we can’t think of any new YouTube selections, we embark for happy hour at yet another Mexican place. Barbie shames me into a tequila shot. I don’t like tequila. (Which is like saying I don’t like being stabbed.) I’m not about to back down, but I come really close to decorating the bar and his Jesus boots with Meximent.

A man reeking of car salesman sits down next to us at the bar as I quell my gorge. Dark suit. Slicked back hair. Shooter fingers for the bartender. And the watch. Big. Shiny. Lots of gold and silver. An extra link or two so it dangles on his wrist. He shoots his cuff a few times to make sure it’s in plain sight.

The Capt. and I launch (loudly) into a conversation about SPWs (Stupid Pilot Watches, of which I’ve owned more than a few.) Acres of dial. Multi-function and fierce. Big gaudy rotating bezel computer for quickly calculating how many chicks will assume you have a tiny or no penis.
If you can accessorize one of these wrist gargoyles with a pair of Ray Ban Aviators, you are guaranteed not to get laid. Ever. This is the sterilization ensemble. Add a class ring and a permanently attached Bluetooth and viola! You are a full blown asshole. Literally a walking O-ring of pretentious fuckheaditude.
Somehow, amazingly, I get the impression that The Closer next to us is taking all this as a complement. He preens.

We pay up and amble back to the hotel. En route, illustrating his point on how irritating and wondrous kids can be, Barbie kicks a purple flower. It explodes, and his right hippie slipper vanishes in midair. Literally.

We poke around in the shrubbery. Find a dead cat but no shoe. I try coaxing the shoe out with gentle language. Nothing. Maybe it’s seeking political asylum, realizing a lifelong dream of a place where liberal footwear is free to pursue its dreams without prejudice or fear. A place… O.K. seriously, where the @#$! did it go? We search for five minutes before I CSI that it might be behind us. There it is, lying on the sidewalk like a stupid punch line. We carry on.

Back in Barbie’s room we mourn the passing of Don Q with Everybody Loves Raymond re-runs and Bud Light. Things unspool pretty quickly and I’m nigh nigh by 2100.

Day 4:

As a “can’t we all just get along?” gesture, I try to drop the kids at the pool before heading downstairs. They don’t want to swim. This will not end well.

In the lobby, Barbie looks worried. Something in his posture suggests intestinal revolt in the near future. We share a Laugh of The Damned and get on the shuttle. Break formation in the airport for coffee and breakfast. My intestinal streets are quiet for the moment, but war is coming and I am afraid.

In preflight, ACARS comes back with an elevator trim setting of 6.66. This is a bad omen. We pass the point of no return as the main door closes and we push for home. At cruise it’s all over. I am going to Shit on the Airplane or shit my pants. But not first. He caves. I mock. We make the call.

The flight attendants assemble for our emergence. Their code word is “Thriller” in honor of Kato’s recently departed, kid can-poking compadre, Sir Michael Jackson. I try not to laugh and fail. Mr. “Soon to be in a better place” goes out to make poo poo. One of the friendly twins comes in and glares at me while I breathe free 100% oxygen. (We have to have someone watching the peep hole since somebody (me) has to fly the plane.) She wants to talk.

“Why you gotta wear that mask?” I have to pry it off my face to explain that the Time of Useful Consciousness at this altitude is probably about 5 seconds. If we had an explosive decompression with Capt. “Shitting-his-brains-out” locked in the happy place, and me up here alone, and I pass out………..

” I know that. I mean, why you gotta wear it?”

‘Oh. Sorry. Regulations.’

“Oh. It’s bright up here.”

He comes back a new man. I am jealous and tense in my concentration. It’s finally, and horribly, my turn. Winning the “not going first” contest rewards me with the fragrant company of whatever morally bankrupt abortion crawled out of his ass. This is not funny.

I hold my breath. Drop trau. I’m in the lav for 15 minutes. Hunched over so I don’t hit my head. Knees, elbows and shoulders pressed against all things pee. Decide holding my breath only exposes my delicate interior pink parts to his corrosive aftermath. Breathe shallow. NEVER shit on the plane. I reach my pants on the 2nd try. A personal best.

The rest of the flight is <<HOME>> standard. Vectors for spacing. Slow to 210. Speed up to 280. As we taxi to the gate, Barbie says he’s hungry.

‘Me too. Mexican?’

“@#$! you.”

[railroad]

My personal preference is to use the milk crate (usually one in the back filled with spare oils and herc straps), lined with a garbage bag. Black or orange garbage bags work, but I find the black ones to be most discrete. The milk crate has good handles which help with maintaining position over the target.

Yep, overall, a pretty good system.

P.S. Caution must be used if it is decided to dispose of the product while in flight. The left cockpit window is not a suitable disposal outlet! Experience has taught, keeping the product on board until proper disposal is available is the safest course of action.

[GyvAir]

The left cockpit window is not a suitable disposal outlet!

Good God.. I don't want to imagine.

[co-joe]

The story that starts this thread, and many that show up in the replies, are pretty good too...

http://www.vansairforce.com/community/s ... p?t=105296

My favorite so far:

"He later advised us that he had lost the battle with his sphincter somewhere around ten thousand feet going over five hundred knots. We all agreed with him that some kind of a record had probably been set."

[JMACK]

Have you ever tried to crap in a sick bag -- lmfaoooooo -- don't ask !!!

LC this bag reminded me of a day in Southern Sudan my airplane was given the task of picking up airdrop pallets. There was this fellow who worked for the World Food Program or UNICEF can't remember but he was a laugh and a dead ringer for Benny Hill. Well he really needed to go and we got a mixed group of men and women in the back of the Buf this day so Benny Hill he builds a shelter from 3 pallets so he has a bit of privacy! Well when he is set and directly over the bag we take a big bump the shelter falls over there he is arse in the wind staring at the shocked croud and then he falls on his arse causing the wee sickbag full of liquid poo to explode like a water balloon. OMG I'm glad this cat had a sense of humour cause what else can you do but laugh at this point. I quickly spun around and climbed back up to the safety of my cockpit seat. Trying to breath!

J

[AirFrame]

My favorite so far:

"He later advised us that he had lost the battle with his sphincter somewhere around ten thousand feet going over five hundred knots. We all agreed with him that some kind of a record had probably been set."

My favorite is the T-33 pilot who managed to get his belts off, flightsuit off his shoulders and down past the orifice, got his box underneath ready to take delivery, and only passed gas... All while maintaining altitude and heading in a jet with no auto-pilot...

[frozen solid]

Better to be broken-hearted than the possible alternative !

[ant_321]

I felt this thread deserved to be resurrected.