Let’s see who can give the best description of a certain event, but lets make this event something funny to write about…
The setting: Mike is locked out of his house at 3am and he needs to take a most horrendously vile dump. So he pulls down his pants in his backyard and takes a dirty shit that covers not only the early morning dew but his pants as well. OK WHOEVER GIVES THE BEST DESCRIPTION OF THAT WINS. I won’t write a version so I can be the impartial judge.
nothing that long…a paragraph or two will suffice
…no
You are right. We should all just write some boring, sappy love poem thats been done a million times before. That would be fun.
Please, Billy, this is not philosophy. This is the ramblings of a man who has failed at building a time machine. If, let’s say, you succeeded, you would be bright eyed and bushy tailed, and posting decent content and subject matter.
Am I right or am I right? Damn that sucks, man.
He didn’t score, but was locked out of his house at three in the morning with no toilet paper, instead.
The idea of fecal matter and morning dew is disturbing to me, Billy, and creating a plot for such a story isn’t very challenging.
Here’s a homework assignment that is more becomming of an intelligent young man such as yourself:
How does one synthesize a mentholated alkaloid?
I thought this was a creative writing forum. Not a philosophy forum.
??
Are you retarded?
Why…I mean, why would I want to write something about a guy taking a vile dump? Just because you’d think it’s cool?
boggles
I do see the humor of a colourfull description of such an event. Please Billy, tell us what we can win 
. Making some gain gets people being creative 
.
Nah, he’s just bored, aren’t ya’ Billy?
Show Raf what ya’ got, dude. Don’t let him talk to you like that, man. Take up the gauntlet and reproach your aggressor.
Actually I will fess up. I am writing a story for my english class. Its a true story about a friend of mine, who during one part of the story, had to take a dump in his back yard at 3am in the morning. I was hoping for someone to be able to write a phenomenal description of which I could then insert into my story. Here is what i have written at that part.
“He continued his best impression of the duke at a showdown around to the back of the house, where his dream of relieving himself into a toilet with some dignity came crashing down like Sonny Bono on a double black diamond. The window was shut and locked.
Now there comes a moment in time when the body which has been expecting an event to occur will no longer cower to the power of the mind. Like the messages in Mission: Impossible that inform the reader of their impending self-destruction, there comes a point where one’s ass says, “If you do not get your pants down in five seconds, you will shit yourself.”
And so it began. The time required to unbuckle his belt and unzip his pants was, from an objective standpoint, a relatively short period of time. To Mike though, life seemed to stop. However, as he approached the point at which no human sphincter could constrict any further, he finally managed to get his pants down, and the shit poured out like a burst pipe. His body shuddered with a feeling that was almost orgasmic. The shit was pouring rhythmically now out onto the ground. Every few seconds a new wave of the vilest, most foul liquid Mike had ever seen squirted joyously from him. The sounds shrieking into the cool night air were that of the tuba section of a fourth grade orchestra with Helen Keller playing the role of conductor. Squatting with his head in between his knees, he could see intermittent bursts issue forth from above his head. Finally, the geyser quieted, and Mike squatted motionless for a few moments, a few peaceful and content moments before he realized that he hadn’t been able to get his pants down all the way nor remembered to lift up his shirt. Every article of clothing he was wearing was covered in the stuff.”
See, Raf, what did I tell ya’?
Billy was holding out on us.
Have you ever seen such prose before?
Thank you, Billy, you have given new meaning and inspiration to the bowel movement.
I will never take a number 2 the same way again.
Hmm. Well, Bill, that’s pretty good. But can you beat James Joyce? From Ulysses:
HEY! I FOUND NOTHING WRONG WITH THE TOPIC… kinda gross yeah but so are boys and I still f*ck em.
Did you know there’s a g-spot in your ass so that when you take a dump, it doesn’t hurt so much?
Go anal sex go! go! go! go!
Since you already wrote the short story about the dump, can I write a cheer? Something to motivate your friend, i’ll be like Paul Shaeffer or some other loser “warm up guy”.
That’s just nasty, psyko. Well let’s try a new topic, one that isn’t feces-based. How about a paragraph of someone hitting a water-bong. I’m sure we’ve all done that …
well if you start reading a story about a dude getting high, you’d be running off getting that ganja urself… see, pot is one thing i’d rather do than read about…
taking a dump in my backyard at 3am is something i’d rather read about, than do!
Yet surely you’d rather read about and smoke pot before reading about feces. And I haven’t smoked in three years, but I can still read/write about it. [/i]
The bong was passed to Donny right before Rat started coughing into his lap, his arms curled around his stomach, a look of passive pain on his pain. Donny packs the bud into the bowl with one finger, then takes the Bic to it, watching the flame get sucked into the bowl, scorching past the green bud, it curling and turning bright orange as smoke is pulled into the chamber, through ice cubes and water making a bubbling sound distinct only to water-bongs, slowly filling the red-glassed 3-foot chamber with thick, milky-white smoke that dances inside the chamber as singular strands before fusing as one to become a dense cluster of brain numbing herbal med. He resists the pounding urge to stop until the chamber is filled to the top, his friends looking on in admiration and doubt, removes the bowl, pauses, and sucks the remaining smoke deep into his lungs, reaching deep and forcing more smoke through him, his stomach muscles tightening and lungs screaming. Once ones lungs are full the esophagus closes, creating a vacuum inside the mouth and the chamber, which doubles the amount of saliva production and just as Donny’s face turns a light blue, a long line of saliva drips halfway down the chamber, but most the smoke is gone and he holds it away from him, as if it were a bomb, and holds off a cough, causing a violent jerk and making a noise like a closed hiccup, then cocks his head and lets it out in one long line of thick gray smoke pointed at the sky, it meeting the wooden ceiling and curving and layering a thick circle amongst itself in each direction. With the last strands straying from his lips comes a violent cough and he holds one fist to his mouth. The room is still. Time has stopped. When his fit subsides, he turns to his friend.
“Aww demn, I’m stoned now.”
actually it doesn’t really matter. I would rather smoke pot and go to some strangers backyard and relieve myself. That’s because I’m a nasty bastard.
I know this is old, but when I read it I had to reply…
Bill…you realize what you were asking? You wanted someone to write something for you that you were going to take credit for. That’s low.
so is one trying to write about smoking a spliff or taking a dump???