[Found this gem of a story online someplace. It is a Classic ]

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King **** (by The Checkered Demon 1, circa 1991)

All these excrement stories are stirring up memories of a
fine foul day, some 12 years ago, when my little brother decided
to give anal birth to the biggest turd I have ever seen.

I was raised, in typical appalachian style, as poor white
trash without running water. The outhouse is the center of many
fond and wondrous memories for me; spiders, the combination of
summer heat and the overpowering stench of centuries-old feces
and urine allowed to fester, wasps, billions of biting flies,
freezing cold winters, and little or no privacy available. But
then, I am tasteless. My brother is not.

To his little-kid brain, the outhouse was a place of great
terror and fear. He had been stung, as I remember, one time while
trying his first on-my-own poop. He was terrified, and decided
that the ****ter was a BAD place, and little kids didn't even
poop in bad places. So, with that knowledge, he decided. "I am
not going to poop anymore."

My parents and I first noticed his odd behavior four days
into his Ironman Sphincterclench Endurance Competition. He seemed
to be sick, as he would occasionally get glassy-eyed and stand in
deep concentration. Mom was concerned, but didn't say much other
than "Are you feeling well? Are you sick?"

He was fine, he just hadn't **** in four days. And, his
little-kid brain had neglected to realize that if you don't want
to **** anymore, you must AT LEAST cut down on the amount of food
you intake. If anything, he doubled the amount of food he ate,
since he was not going to have to poop anymore.

He tells me now that day four was the worst day. After that,
his butt seemed to enjoy the vacation, and didn't mind letting
its work pile up, so to speak. Days five and six passed without
much difference, but his odd attacks seemed to be more frequent
and of a little more intensity than before, but a lot briefer.
Mom really began to get worried. She thought he might be
epileptic.

Day seven rolls around with a force that would not be denied
much longer. Struggle and strain though he did, my brother
decided that it was better to do that than ever have to dump
anymore. He tells me that at this point, he had decided to poop
again, but was afraid to, because of what might actually come out
of his butt. (His brain, most likely). And the final clincher, he
has an anal spasm during a vacation bible school meeting, and
they bring him home because THEY think he is having an epileptic
fit. I would wager that my anus would have puckered up about that
time as well. Also, I'll bet that several of them thought he was
going to speak in tongues, and kiss a rattlesnake, or something
like that.

Mom would not let him talk his way out of this; the truth
had to come out. He confessed his crime against nature, and said
he would start ****ting again if Mom swore she wouldn't punish
him, and that she would take him to the doctor if anything...
unusual happened to him while he was excreting. She agreed, under
the condition that he use a potty chair in the house, so that we
could run to his side and laugh hysterically if something
happened. That last bit wasn't strictly a part of the
negotiations, but that is what happened.

By God's grace, I happened to be in earshot when the
ThunderFudge(tm) decided to part company with my brother. The
actual sounds went something like; "fart oh. Oh. fart, fart
OH. fart, fart, grumble, gears grinding, hellspawned demons
screaming for release, ow. Ow. OWWWWWWWWWW! OWWWWWWWWW!
OWWWWWWWW! OWWWWWWWW!!!"

Oh, the humanity of it all.

I knew that he could hear me if I snickered, so I tried to
suppress the urge, which, as we have seen in the last few
paragraphs or so, urge suppression does not run in my genes.

I laughed out loud.
Repeatedly.
Louder each time.

He was ****ed, but then, I wasn't the one who had decided to
pinch a loaf for the rest of my life.

He and Mom then left to apply some medication to the area,
leaving me wondering if I ever had children, would I ever have
the inner strength to cope with a son as brain-dead as this one?

I snuck a peek into the storage room they had been in. What
I saw astounded me. The butt-monster had run the length of the
pot, a good seven inches, and then formed an L-shape and
continued upwards for another solid (heh) foot. Towards the end
of the process, my brother must have stood, to be able to fully
excrete this DungO'Death (tm). It was smooth-surfaced, and looked
like it was about five inches around. It was about the same color
as mahogany.

It was taken to the outhouse, and laid to rest 15 feet below
the surface of the seat. It didn't even break when it impacted
with the mound; instead, it just sank in, like the King **** that
it truly was, ruling over all the other worthless pieces of ****
around it. Nobility suited it well.

My brother recovered, eventually developed something similar
to intelligence, and later on we both moved out of the house.
That particular outhouse was abandoned, and another was
constructed. But I still think of King ****, covered now by many
others, still the greatest one of all time.

"MondoPhatt" wrote:
[Found this gem of a story online someplace. It is a Classic ]

-snip-

LMFAO!