Following through - Sport of Kings

smeg-head

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In the heat of the moment the best practiced drills work, when all else turns to ratshit your training will take over.
Which is why there are organisations that are fond of using them.

One such is called the "British Army" - you may possibly have heard of it.
What is the saying? "The plan is only viable until contact with the enemy is established"
 

smeg-head

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Have you got the recipe?
Yes.
To two pounds of rancid neck of lamb, add varieties of any and every pulse you can think of, preferably those passed their sell by date. Add a can of compo mixed veg c.1974, half a bottle of vinegary Rioja and a bottle of dodgy merlot. Chuck in a couple of dodgy old's c.1982 and cover and hung in the oven on gas mark 3 for at least four hours of until it becomes the colour and consistency of something scraped off a baby's nappy. Serve in mess tin with a chunk of rock hard scale bread.

Note: Do not travel far from a toilet!
 
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Yes.
To two pounds of rancid neck of lamb, add varieties of any and every pulse you can think of, preferably those passed their sell by date. Add a can of compo mixed veg c.1974, half a bottle of vinegary Rioja and a bottle of dodgy merlot. Chuck in a couple of dodgy old's c.1982 and cover and hung in the oven on gas mark 3 for at least four hours of until it becomes the colour and consistency of something scraped off a baby's nappy. Serve in mess tin with a chunk of rock hard scale bread.

Note: Do not travel far from a toilet!
Wish i hadn't asked now.
$_35.jpg
 
Yes.
To two pounds of rancid neck of lamb, add varieties of any and every pulse you can think of, preferably those passed their sell by date. Add a can of compo mixed veg c.1974, half a bottle of vinegary Rioja and a bottle of dodgy merlot. Chuck in a couple of dodgy old's c.1982 and cover and hung in the oven on gas mark 3 for at least four hours of until it becomes the colour and consistency of something scraped off a baby's nappy. Serve in mess tin with a chunk of rock hard scale bread.

Note: Do not travel far from a toilet!
On a side note, may I congratulate you on having possibly the best avatar on this site, surpassing even @eodmatt ...
 

panzermeyer

Old-Salt
Yes.
To two pounds of rancid neck of lamb, add varieties of any and every pulse you can think of, preferably those passed their sell by date. Add a can of compo mixed veg c.1974, half a bottle of vinegary Rioja and a bottle of dodgy merlot. Chuck in a couple of dodgy old's c.1982 and cover and hung in the oven on gas mark 3 for at least four hours of until it becomes the colour and consistency of something scraped off a baby's nappy. Serve in mess tin with a chunk of rock hard scale bread.

Note: Do not travel far from a toilet!
That sounds fucking lush! Salivating all over my keyboard.
 
Followed through last night, with the off licence running low I bought some kilkenny, maybe it didnt travel too well down under, but it traveled fast from my mouth to my down under.

An innocent little pump was all it took to soil the pants, I waited 5 minutes to get up and clean up so the wife didnt suspect anything, not that it will matter when she lifts a pair of shitty duds out of the wash basket.
 
Followed through last night, with the off licence running low I bought some kilkenny, maybe it didnt travel too well down under, but it traveled fast from my mouth to my down under.

An innocent little pump was all it took to soil the pants, I waited 5 minutes to get up and clean up so the wife didnt suspect anything, not that it will matter when she lifts a pair of shitty duds out of the wash basket.
You filthy beast - congratulations, a role model for us all.
 

smeg-head

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Followed through last night, with the off licence running low I bought some kilkenny, maybe it didnt travel too well down under, but it traveled fast from my mouth to my down under.

An innocent little pump was all it took to soil the pants, I waited 5 minutes to get up and clean up so the wife didnt suspect anything, not that it will matter when she lifts a pair of shitty duds out of the wash basket.
Fecking minger! You could at least have rinsed them out!
 
Followed through last night, with the off licence running low I bought some kilkenny, maybe it didnt travel too well down under, but it traveled fast from my mouth to my down under.

An innocent little pump was all it took to soil the pants, I waited 5 minutes to get up and clean up so the wife didnt suspect anything, not that it will matter when she lifts a pair of shitty duds out of the wash basket.
My current SOP in this situation is to bin the trollies as soon as possible.Rinsing them hasn't fooled her once yet.:oops:
Damp kecks in the washing basket are a dead giveaway,you just have to accept your loss and send them to the great laundry basket in the sky, theoretically.
 
this was a good one and i still dont know to this day how i got out of it. Saturday night after consuming several stowford press ciders missus decided to order some chinkynosh. Got said menu out and decided to go for singapore fried rice with extra scotch bonnets not really appreciating the potential severity burden on ones' ringpiece. anyway munched through it in about 20 seconds. 20 minutes later, a few ruptions abound but nothing at this stage of concern. Sunday mornings is gym bunny time for me which means sitting in the steam room and sweating the previous nights crap out my system. As i was banned from driving at this time, ordered missus to drop me off. During the short ride to the gym, ruptions commenced, but at this stage nothing to indicate a massive volcanic explosion was imminent. My gym attire consists of budger smugglers (for the steam) room and knee length rip curl shorts colour off white and a beater vest. On arrival, gym entrance is approx 50yards. Up the lift takes you to reception with a toilet on the left. You then have to climb a couple of sets of steep stairs for the changing rooms/steam room/showers et al. Bode farewell to missus and ordered the return pick up to arrive in 1 hour sharp. step out of car and ruptions re-commence but at a more painful and frequent rythmn than before to the point after 25 yards my butt cheeks had locked. The pain now had become quite unbearable and something big was on the cards. And then it started. My stomach literally burst and shit started running at a rapid pace of knots down my leg. i limped over the finishing line and made the lift up to reception. No staff just clock in ideal. Toilet to the left.....decided there could be no more. headed for stairs. 2nd burst. more lava streaming down my leg. few people around quieter than normal. Next set of stairs. 3rd burst.......where is it coming from.....my whole body mass is coming out....streamed down the whole of the shiny recently buffed stairs. still coming down....look back stairs looks like mount etna has erupted. still coming. make the changing rooms. pass to gym bunnies just out of the shower.....look at me.....i look back gormless....they look down at the lava consistently trailing behind me.....make some grunts and then proceed to grass me up to the on duty fitness freak staff. i estimate i have 2.5 minutes to get into the shower, hose myself down, rip of the rip curls and rinse out the budger smugglers, get a towel round me, rummage through my gym back before the arrival....and i was right...on arrival 2 gym staff i searching for the guilty....i muttered whats happening.....oh oh nothing was the reply.....they then darted back out.....result...straight into the steam room. In the steam room there are 2 doors..........i can see the duty cleaner recalled and is on all fours scrubbing the deck......i double up on my shift to 30 mins in the steam room until duty cleaner is released from duty. i witness the silouette of the duty cleaner and gym staff deep in convo. feeling the coast is clear i head for a well earned shower.
 
this was a good one and i still dont know to this day how i got out of it. Saturday night after consuming several stowford press ciders missus decided to order some chinkynosh. Got said menu out and decided to go for singapore fried rice with extra scotch bonnets not really appreciating the potential severity burden on ones' ringpiece. anyway munched through it in about 20 seconds. 20 minutes later, a few ruptions abound but nothing at this stage of concern. Sunday mornings is gym bunny time for me which means sitting in the steam room and sweating the previous nights crap out my system. As i was banned from driving at this time, ordered missus to drop me off. During the short ride to the gym, ruptions commenced, but at this stage nothing to indicate a massive volcanic explosion was imminent. My gym attire consists of budger smugglers (for the steam) room and knee length rip curl shorts colour off white and a beater vest. On arrival, gym entrance is approx 50yards. Up the lift takes you to reception with a toilet on the left. You then have to climb a couple of sets of steep stairs for the changing rooms/steam room/showers et al. Bode farewell to missus and ordered the return pick up to arrive in 1 hour sharp. step out of car and ruptions re-commence but at a more painful and frequent rythmn than before to the point after 25 yards my butt cheeks had locked. The pain now had become quite unbearable and something big was on the cards. And then it started. My stomach literally burst and shit started running at a rapid pace of knots down my leg. i limped over the finishing line and made the lift up to reception. No staff just clock in ideal. Toilet to the left.....decided there could be no more. headed for stairs. 2nd burst. more lava streaming down my leg. few people around quieter than normal. Next set of stairs. 3rd burst.......where is it coming from.....my whole body mass is coming out....streamed down the whole of the shiny recently buffed stairs. still coming down....look back stairs looks like mount etna has erupted. still coming. make the changing rooms. pass to gym bunnies just out of the shower.....look at me.....i look back gormless....they look down at the lava consistently trailing behind me.....make some grunts and then proceed to grass me up to the on duty fitness freak staff. i estimate i have 2.5 minutes to get into the shower, hose myself down, rip of the rip curls and rinse out the budger smugglers, get a towel round me, rummage through my gym back before the arrival....and i was right...on arrival 2 gym staff i searching for the guilty....i muttered whats happening.....oh oh nothing was the reply.....they then darted back out.....result...straight into the steam room. In the steam room there are 2 doors..........i can see the duty cleaner recalled and is on all fours scrubbing the deck......i double up on my shift to 30 mins in the steam room until duty cleaner is released from duty. i witness the silouette of the duty cleaner and gym staff deep in convo. feeling the coast is clear i head for a well earned shower.
 
this was a good one and i still dont know to this day how i got out of it. Saturday night after consuming several stowford press ciders missus decided to order some chinkynosh. Got said menu out and decided to go for singapore fried rice with extra scotch bonnets not really appreciating the potential severity burden on ones' ringpiece. anyway munched through it in about 20 seconds. 20 minutes later, a few ruptions abound but nothing at this stage of concern. Sunday mornings is gym bunny time for me which means sitting in the steam room and sweating the previous nights crap out my system. As i was banned from driving at this time, ordered missus to drop me off. During the short ride to the gym, ruptions commenced, but at this stage nothing to indicate a massive volcanic explosion was imminent. My gym attire consists of budger smugglers (for the steam) room and knee length rip curl shorts colour off white and a beater vest. On arrival, gym entrance is approx 50yards. Up the lift takes you to reception with a toilet on the left. You then have to climb a couple of sets of steep stairs for the changing rooms/steam room/showers et al. Bode farewell to missus and ordered the return pick up to arrive in 1 hour sharp. step out of car and ruptions re-commence but at a more painful and frequent rythmn than before to the point after 25 yards my butt cheeks had locked. The pain now had become quite unbearable and something big was on the cards. And then it started. My stomach literally burst and shit started running at a rapid pace of knots down my leg. i limped over the finishing line and made the lift up to reception. No staff just clock in ideal. Toilet to the left.....decided there could be no more. headed for stairs. 2nd burst. more lava streaming down my leg. few people around quieter than normal. Next set of stairs. 3rd burst.......where is it coming from.....my whole body mass is coming out....streamed down the whole of the shiny recently buffed stairs. still coming down....look back stairs looks like mount etna has erupted. still coming. make the changing rooms. pass to gym bunnies just out of the shower.....look at me.....i look back gormless....they look down at the lava consistently trailing behind me.....make some grunts and then proceed to grass me up to the on duty fitness freak staff. i estimate i have 2.5 minutes to get into the shower, hose myself down, rip of the rip curls and rinse out the budger smugglers, get a towel round me, rummage through my gym back before the arrival....and i was right...on arrival 2 gym staff i searching for the guilty....i muttered whats happening.....oh oh nothing was the reply.....they then darted back out.....result...straight into the steam room. In the steam room there are 2 doors..........i can see the duty cleaner recalled and is on all fours scrubbing the deck......i double up on my shift to 30 mins in the steam room until duty cleaner is released from duty. i witness the silouette of the duty cleaner and gym staff deep in convo. feeling the coast is clear i head for a well earned shower.
Did your shits contain all the full stops and commas, maybe some paragraphs as well.
 

Cavuman

Swinger
Paradise Lost or It Ain’t Necessarily So

Ah! Paradise! I was twenty-nine years of age living in a large home we owned on the tropical island nirvana called St. Simon’s Island, Georgia, USA. I had my Cessna 152 and a Bertram 47’ yacht to enjoy. A beautiful, loving wife, an intelligent, innately curious, and well formed ten-year-old son, an obedient, affectionate Siberian husky, and Oceanus Atlanticus as our back yard were mine in which to immerse myself and have an enduring sense of uninterrupted marvel. Until THAT DAY...

I had awakened and taken my early morning swim in the ocean. The sun had barely arisen. I returned to the house and reveled in the scent of gardenia and hyacinth and the fiery beauty of azalea and gentle pastels of dogwood. Raz (Rasputin), our Husky, looked at me with his impenetrable and inscrutable blue-eyed gaze – he wanted to go for a run on the beach. As I leaned over to pat him, I noted a distinct focal pain erupting in my nether regions. “Great”, I thought, “An ass pimple! Just what I need! NOT!” Raz and I went for a run and returned to a sumptuous breakfast of scrambled eggs, sausage, waffles, and tomato juice with a generous squeeze of lemon juice. As I got up from the kitchen table, I winced with the pinching pain bedeviling my “Taint”. For the medically uninitiated, the Taint is that exquisitely tender and sensitive parcel of skin which separates one’s rectum from one’s genitalia. ‘T’aint neither, as the olde saying goes...

I went to my office and had a fairly successful day selling residential real estate to unsuspecting victims, errr, grateful clientele. The only downside of the day was the crescendo of pain proximal to my keister. I had to sit on a seat cushion to enjoy a dinner of rare roast beef, fresh asparagus, potatoes au gratin, and lemon meringue pie (my death row meal!) I went to bed glad to be alive but with a literal pain in the ass.

A well-aimed ray of sunshine and an intractable stabbing unpleasantness du derrière awakened me with unwelcomed promptness. I leapt from the bed and walked slowly and bow-leggedly to the bathroom. I may as well have won an Emmy for imitating His Dukeness, John Wayne: as I passed my wide-eyed wife in the hallway, I said “There’s only room for the one of us in this town, Pilgrim!” Our shared laughter failed to erase my pain. I felt sufficiently agued to return to bed and to take the day off.

When High Noon was chiming on our grandfather clock, my considerate Bride waltzed into the bedroom, bearing a plate and bowl of delectables. (You should know at this point that she was the Secretary to the Teaching Professional at the Sea Island Golf Club. Sea Island is the sole Five-Star resort on our East Coast. Everything they do, including cooking, is top shelf.) She had brought a feast of crispy butter and bacon grease-brown fried chicken and cooked-all-morning-with-meaty-ham-hocks collard greens. All with lotsa NaCl. Who cares at that age, right? There were lighter than air biscuits as well. Note well that I am certain that I am an octoroon: I cannot bypass collards; their pot liquor – likker – is the nectar of the gods and good for you in seven different ways!

So it came to pass that I consumed a breast, a thigh, and a leg of tender, juicy, and perfect free-range chicken and, oh, about a half-bushel of greens and, let’s say, a cup of collard decant. I felt a moment of preternatural satisfaction which was immediately shattered by the bounding pulse I could feel – in my bottom! CURSES!

My Bride suggested that I contact our friend Tom, who was a talented Urologist and good friend whom I whupped at backgammon at regular intervals. She dialed the number, handed me the ‘phone, and went back to work. “Dr. Frankenstein’s office!” said Tom’s receptionist in her sexy voice, though she was sufficiently ugly to make a train take a dirt road. “May I help you?” “Yes. Yes you can!” I cried plaintively. “I have this pain in my, errr, ummm, and I can barely walk! I, aye, aye, aye!” I yelped as she broke into my pained rendition of Cielito Lindo, saying “Tom is free right now. Can you make it to the Mainland alright?” “I’ll be right there”, I exclaimed, moaning, groaning, and bitching, wishing that I had had unlimited access to NCC-1701 Starship Enterprise’s transporter.

I John-Wayne-Walked to my own Enterprise, a 1977 Oldsmobile 98 Regency (19’6” long! Curb weight 3 short tons!) with all the trimmings, including six-way velour seats and a tilting/telescoping steering wheel. Sitting was right out! I adjusted the wheel such that I could hold myself off the seat long enough to voyage the six miles to Tom’s office without sitting into a vat of superheated radioactive lava.

I got a number of quizzical looks as I negotiated the causeway, but somehow made it to Tom’s office in one piece. Ringpiece, that is! Tom, who had obviously watched my clumsy exit from “The Enterprise”, met me in his anteroom. He said “Nice Wayne impression! Get your ass back to Exam Room #2!” I waddled back there. Tom commanded: “Drop trou!” I complied. “Bend over!” he said in Hitlerian tone of voice. After a cursory examination including a finger the size of the Empire State Building being inserted into an orifice the size of an Up Quark, Tom shrugged his shoulders as he removed his gloves. “You have a perineal cyst, mostly internal, the size of an orange. We have got to get it out NOW!” “Whuyut?” I asked in my finest I-really-don’t-want-surgery-today voice. “If that thing perforates, you’ll go into full-blown peritonitis. Best case: your plumbing, including John Thomas, never works again. Worst case: you’ll be taking a dirt nap!” Tom exclaimed. He pointed in the direction of Brunswick Hospital, immediately across the street. He said “I’ll meet you there!” gravely.

I waddled like a duck with cerebral palsy to the hospital and presented myself to the Emergency Room Admissions Nurse. I filled out enough bureaucratic paperwork to occupy several wings of the National Archives and presented my insurance information. The lovely nurse, who was obviously repressing the urge to say “I’m your biggest fan, Mr. Wayne!” asked if I had eaten anything over the last twelve hours. When I replied in the affirmative; she stated blandly “We’ll have to give you spinal anesthesia.”

And so it came to pass that I was curled up like a fetus on an operating table as a needle the size of a sawfish snout sought and found my L-3/L-4 intervertebral space. The anesthesiologist must’ve used blowfish poison; I was paralyzed from the waist down immediately. Ah! Blessed relief! By that time, I would have used a dull axe to rid my hurting self from the intractable pain. Plus, there was the Valium. I was thinking we should do this every day when I realized that my legs were being spread and my feet being clamped into gynecological examination stirrups. Uh Oh! Now they are taping my flaccid member to my right leg! Double Uh Oh!

Tom walks into the operating room, accompanied by an assistant surgeon, his nurse, and some stranger they probably found wandering around drunkenly on one of Sea Island’s numerous well-manicured golf courses. This makes a total of six people in the O.R., not counting me. They are all capped and gowned and ready for action. I am certain that they are barely able to contain their laughter regarding my plight. I don’t care. This benzodiazepine is sho’ ‘nuff de gude stoff, man!!! BRING IT ON!

Tom walks up to my right shoulder and asks if I would like to watch the procedure. I reply in the definite affirmative, hoping for an appearance in Grey’s Anatomy or America’s Most Wanted. A couple of staff members arrange overhead lights and trundled mirrors until I am rewarded with a clear view of a full blue/harvest/super Moon, which, when my visual focal length resolves, turns out to be the immensity of my back fanny! (Were they using fun house mirrors? I still don’t know the answer.)

Suddenly, Tom and two assistants appear at my rear. Tom looks at the clock and says “First incision 1400 hours.” He cuts me up like a mother on speed might partition a banana with a microtome for her beloved child! Blood and pus. Something brown and ugly. Brown 29? No pain. A tornadic swirl of sponges and clamps and gloved hands and fingers. A cold swab across my forehead. Someone asks if I’m alright. I say “Hell YES!” Who needs wives and sons and dogs and planes and boats and sunrises and night’s sparkling constellations and oceans when ya got somebody cuttin’ ya up, but good?

Uh Oh! Look back a couple of paragraphs wherein I reference the paralytic effects of spinal anesthesia. See where it says that “I was paralyzed from the waist down immediately.” ‘S’truth. Including my rectal sphincter.

With apologies to Clement Clarke Moore - And then from my ass there arose such a clatter, I was afraid for all humans the Earth I would splatter. A veritable cacophony resembling the tuba sections of every marching band ever assembled on the face of this fragrant home planet burst forth! Once in total control, the circlet of orbicular musculature which had, at least for the most part for my twenty-nine years, controlled the gaseous and fecal exudates of my lower intestinal tract with admirable composure, gave way in complete surrender to the flatulogenic and malodorous effects of collards, fried chicken, anxiety, and some curry I had eaten a week before. CatASStrophe!

Tom and the operative team beat a hasty Dunkirkian retreat to the corner of the O.R. Tom ejaculated “Good God, Ed, WTF did you eat for lunch?” Everyone was frantically fanning their faces with their hands. One of the nurses could be seen dry heaving behind her mask. Another ran away!

A few minutes later, they re-approached the operative site with the same caution a mongoose shows a King Cobra during monsoon season in the parking lot of a convenience store. Their foresight was well-founded; I did not disappoint. Just as Tom was using an admirable “interrumpted” suture technique to close my surgical wound, I let loose with a contrabassoon version of my two favorite composers’, Rimsky and Korsakov, master oeuvre “Flight of the Bumblebee”. For a radius of one half mile, trees bent in supplication. The U.S. Army approached me to see if they could patent the horrid aroma of my flatulence to paralyze enema/y troops on the battle field. Skunks slunk away, disheartened and beaten.

Thus are the ways of perinea and perianalia.

It hurts to laugh!

- Ed

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