Kristin Lets One Rip

Posted: April 14, 2008 in casting couch, kristin stories

Some things are just better left unsaid.

You may be saying this out loud, after you read the following post.

Let me explain:

My request for Guest Bloggers here at Mental Poo has led to my friend, Kristin, providing me with the following gem you’re about to read.

Kristin has also provided the following fodder:

1: How to Scare a Celebrity

2: How Her Husband Got a Stinky Winky

Thanks, Kristin!!

In the end, it’s simply a love story.

A gross, retina-burning, gag-reflex-inducing love story.

Here you go…enjoy.



Kristin’s Story (via email she sent to me):

“I had dinner with Linda after work one night.

On the way home, I started getting some MASSIVE stomach cramps.

You know the ones…

The kind that make you have to do Lamaze breathing.

I was only about 30 minutes from my house when they started…

…so I decided I could try to make it home.

Bad idea.

Bad, bad idea.

A little while later I’m now at the home stretch, in my own town…

…but the contractions are now much closer together.

I’m sweating.

Now I’m also starting to think strange things, like:

“Maybe I should pull over and run into the field. “

But I changed my mind figuring that I could probably get arrested or something for sh*tting on the side of the road.

Must. Keep it. In.

I was squeezing my butt cheeks together so hard that my ass muscles ended up hurting me for a week.


I was only about 10 minutes from home…

…when out of nowhere…

…it happened:


It really made a wicked *POP* sound…no lie.

TONS came out.


And then I peed too…

…because you know that when you sh*t, piss usually comes out too.


So I couldn’t sit on my seat anymore because it was squishing the poop into my tooty and it hurt like someone was douching me with acid.

It was horrible.

It smelled like death.

But I never even thought once to open my window.

All I knew was that I had to watch my speed because I couldn’t get pulled over like this.

So I called my husband, Jeff, and said:

Me: “Open the garage door and get me a towel! And send our daughter to her room!”

Jeff: “Why…?”

Me: “JUST DO IT!!!”

Jeff: “What’s wrong?”

Me: “I just completely sh*t my pants.”




(editor’s note: good question here, Jeff)

So I pull into the garage and Jeff brings the towel down.

I get out of the car and look at the seat and it’s just this MASSIVE puddle of brown water.

So I made it up to our bathroom and pull down my pants and all you could hear was piles of sh*t hitting the floor.

I was completely covered in it.

I had to throw my jeans away…

…and my underwear pretty much disintegrated.

(Editor’s Note: I wrote about this potential poo-disintegration phenomenon back in this post…see? I KNEW it could happen!)

And, boy, did the water hurt my Va-J-J when I got in the shower.

On the bright side:

I never got an infection…

…and Jeff cleaned up my car without me even asking.”




Quite a catch, eh fellas?

Hello? Hello?

Are you all still there?

Did you run away screaming?

I almost threw up WRITING IT.

See? I told you.

It’s a love story.

A really, really sh*tty love story.


Thanks, Kristin.

Don’t ever send me stuff like that again.

Thanks in advance.

Moog out.


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