Fudgey
Master of Disaster
So I figure everyone must have had a couple of jobs before getting into the engineering world. Even if it was just a college job. I bet it would be fun for people to post about what they did. Here is one of mine from a college summer job.
A couple of years ago I was working painting houses in the summers. I was on a crew and everything, but as this story begins they were off prepping another location while I was putting the finishing touches on a job. The work was down in a basement, and the woman of the house was home. And man, when I tell you I had to take a ****, I mean, I had to take a ****.
I was certainly prairie dogging it at that point. And a few minutes before that, I had squeezed off a fart so smelly it was like I was working at a sulfur factory. My innards were irate. So I knew something on deck was ready to kill.
I was also quite certain it was going to be one of those burning ass shits -- one that burns your hole on the way out and makes you question even using toilet paper afterwards. I mean, it feels like your bunghole is so hot that you're going to set fire to the asswipe if it even gets inches near your cornhole. I've heard this phenomenon called ring-sting before and yes it does sting like the dickens.
So I really had to take a dump. Now, normally when I'm at someone's house, I'll just use their toilet, no problem. But I knew the smell of this would be horrid, and there was no bathroom down there in that basement. The woman of the house was indeed home (she was upstairs) but to that point hadn't been very accommodating to the crew of painters. She was an older woman, and you could tell she was a bit wary of having us working in her home. It was clear she wanted to keep us in the basement and away from her good things.
So I was almost finished with the job, and I had this empty five gallon bucket. You know, the type of bucket that makes a good seat when you flip it over. Since I was almost done with the pulling all the tape off the walls, I figured I could just use that.
Now I just needed something to wipe with. I had a couple of old rags on hand I could use. I got those together with the bucket and headed into the closet under the basement stairs. I set up shop in there, and I hovered over the bucket, and I started my business.
And just as I started just as the first piece of hot (and I do mean hot) dung was leaving my buttocks, the woman called down to me. "I'm bringing down some lemonade!" she said.
Now, mind you, I have zero business being in this closet. I have even less business being in that closet with my pants down at my ankles, and even less business than that being in that closet filling a five-gallon bucket with my excrement. And she's on her way down?!
"Uh, just leave it on the, leave it up - uh, I'll get it later! No thanks!" I said franticly, spouting gibberish as I tried to cut my hot **** short. The burning of my asshole rivaled that of a hot cattle branding iron being shoved up my ass. I heard her foot hit the top stair, and then the next stair, and the sounds were right over the closet, meaning she was right over me! I painfully pinched and pulled my pants up, no doubt getting crap everywhere, thinking to myself, "Oh god, let me get away with this. Let me get away with this."
That's when the smell hit me. My god, the smell! I realized in that increasingly small amount of time I had that I must keep her away from the closet -- I had to intercept her at the bottom of the stairs before the smell did. There would be no way she wouldn't figure out what I was up to if she caught wind of the brown sculpting clay I left in the bucket.
I got my pants up in record time, and I got out of the closet okay, but in order not to make noise, I had to leave the closet door open a bit. I could barely walk with the ring-sting burning my brown-eye. Oh god, did it ever hurt. I think I got to the bottom of the stairs before the stink did. I met her there and said, "Thanks for the drink, but that I'm almost done. I'll bring the glass back up in a second. I'll only be a few more minutes. I'll be right up." I tried to say anything I could think of to get her back upstairs before the smell hit her.
Finally she turned around and headed up the stairs. But all I could smell was ****, and maybe she smelled it as well and that's why she was heading upstairs. I'll never truly know. Regardless, I had some precious time to work with, and the evidence needed to be disposed of.
I got back to my newly formed **** closet and finished up my work. I still had some in there that needed to be let loose. And the sting was almost unbearable. I had to suppress the urge to whimper. And when I turned around to look, I realized I had made quite a mess of things in that bucket. I really needed a power washer, and a radioactive suit or something. The smell nearly made me gag.
I did a quick job on myself with the rags I had and dumped them in the bucket, along with the underwear I had indeed ruined while having to cut myself off. I then ran that bucket outside through the basement door and into the back of the truck. I finished the rest of the job downstairs in record time, called her down there, got my check, and God dammit, I got out of there. I drove away knowing that I hit that bucket with everything I had, and that I really got away with one. Had she decided to investigate any further at all, there simply would've been no explaining a five gallon bucket of feces in her closet.
A couple of years ago I was working painting houses in the summers. I was on a crew and everything, but as this story begins they were off prepping another location while I was putting the finishing touches on a job. The work was down in a basement, and the woman of the house was home. And man, when I tell you I had to take a ****, I mean, I had to take a ****.
I was certainly prairie dogging it at that point. And a few minutes before that, I had squeezed off a fart so smelly it was like I was working at a sulfur factory. My innards were irate. So I knew something on deck was ready to kill.I was also quite certain it was going to be one of those burning ass shits -- one that burns your hole on the way out and makes you question even using toilet paper afterwards. I mean, it feels like your bunghole is so hot that you're going to set fire to the asswipe if it even gets inches near your cornhole. I've heard this phenomenon called ring-sting before and yes it does sting like the dickens.
So I really had to take a dump. Now, normally when I'm at someone's house, I'll just use their toilet, no problem. But I knew the smell of this would be horrid, and there was no bathroom down there in that basement. The woman of the house was indeed home (she was upstairs) but to that point hadn't been very accommodating to the crew of painters. She was an older woman, and you could tell she was a bit wary of having us working in her home. It was clear she wanted to keep us in the basement and away from her good things.
So I was almost finished with the job, and I had this empty five gallon bucket. You know, the type of bucket that makes a good seat when you flip it over. Since I was almost done with the pulling all the tape off the walls, I figured I could just use that.
Now I just needed something to wipe with. I had a couple of old rags on hand I could use. I got those together with the bucket and headed into the closet under the basement stairs. I set up shop in there, and I hovered over the bucket, and I started my business.
And just as I started just as the first piece of hot (and I do mean hot) dung was leaving my buttocks, the woman called down to me. "I'm bringing down some lemonade!" she said.
Now, mind you, I have zero business being in this closet. I have even less business being in that closet with my pants down at my ankles, and even less business than that being in that closet filling a five-gallon bucket with my excrement. And she's on her way down?!
"Uh, just leave it on the, leave it up - uh, I'll get it later! No thanks!" I said franticly, spouting gibberish as I tried to cut my hot **** short. The burning of my asshole rivaled that of a hot cattle branding iron being shoved up my ass. I heard her foot hit the top stair, and then the next stair, and the sounds were right over the closet, meaning she was right over me! I painfully pinched and pulled my pants up, no doubt getting crap everywhere, thinking to myself, "Oh god, let me get away with this. Let me get away with this."
That's when the smell hit me. My god, the smell! I realized in that increasingly small amount of time I had that I must keep her away from the closet -- I had to intercept her at the bottom of the stairs before the smell did. There would be no way she wouldn't figure out what I was up to if she caught wind of the brown sculpting clay I left in the bucket.
I got my pants up in record time, and I got out of the closet okay, but in order not to make noise, I had to leave the closet door open a bit. I could barely walk with the ring-sting burning my brown-eye. Oh god, did it ever hurt. I think I got to the bottom of the stairs before the stink did. I met her there and said, "Thanks for the drink, but that I'm almost done. I'll bring the glass back up in a second. I'll only be a few more minutes. I'll be right up." I tried to say anything I could think of to get her back upstairs before the smell hit her.
Finally she turned around and headed up the stairs. But all I could smell was ****, and maybe she smelled it as well and that's why she was heading upstairs. I'll never truly know. Regardless, I had some precious time to work with, and the evidence needed to be disposed of.
I got back to my newly formed **** closet and finished up my work. I still had some in there that needed to be let loose. And the sting was almost unbearable. I had to suppress the urge to whimper. And when I turned around to look, I realized I had made quite a mess of things in that bucket. I really needed a power washer, and a radioactive suit or something. The smell nearly made me gag.
I did a quick job on myself with the rags I had and dumped them in the bucket, along with the underwear I had indeed ruined while having to cut myself off. I then ran that bucket outside through the basement door and into the back of the truck. I finished the rest of the job downstairs in record time, called her down there, got my check, and God dammit, I got out of there. I drove away knowing that I hit that bucket with everything I had, and that I really got away with one. Had she decided to investigate any further at all, there simply would've been no explaining a five gallon bucket of feces in her closet.
