""The Most Embarrassing Plane Pooping Story Ever

Just over halfway through the flight,
all the coffee in my stomach feels like
it's percolating its way down into my
lower intestine. I hunker down and try
and focus on other things. What feels
like an hour, but probably isn't more
than twenty minutes, passes. We
then enter what turns out to be pretty
violent turbulence. With each bounce,
I have to fight my body, trying not to
****e my pants. "Thirty minutes to
landing, maybe forty five" I try and
tell myself, each jostle a gamble I
can't afford to lose. I signal to [the
flight attendant] and she heads
toward me.
"Excuse me, where is the bathroom,
because I don't see a door?" I ask
while still devoting considerable
energy to fighting off what starts to
feel like someone shook a seltzer
bottle and shoved it up my ass. She
looks at me, bemused, and says,
"Well, we don't really have one per
se." She continues, "Technically, we
have one, but it's really just for
emergencies. Don't worry, we're
landing shortly anyway."
"I'm pretty sure this qualifies as an
emergency," I manage to mutter
through my grimace. I can see the
fear in her face as she points
nervously to the back seat. The
turbulence outside is matched only by
the cyclone that is ravaging my
bowels. She points to the back of the
plane and says, "There. The toilet is
there." For a brief instant, relief
passes over my face. She continues,
"If you pull away the leather cushion
from that seat, it's under there.
There's a small privacy screen that
pulls up around it, but that's it." At
this point, I was committed. She had
just lit the dynamite and the mine
shaft was set to blow.
I turn to look where she is pointing
and I get the urge to cry. I do cry,
but my face is so tightly clenched it
makes no difference. The "toilet" seat
is occupied by the CFO, i.e. our
fricking client. Our fricking female
fricking client!
Up to this point, nobody has observed
my struggle or my exchange with the
flight attendant. "I'm so sorry. I'm so
sorry." That's all I can say as I limp
toward her like Quasimodo
impersonating a penguin, and begin
my explanation. Of course, as soon
as my competitors see me talking to
the CFO, they all perk up to find out
what the hell I'm doing.
Given my jovial nature and fun-loving
attitude thus far on the roadshow,
almost everybody thinks I'm joking.
She, however, knows right away that I
am anything but and jumps up,
moving quickly to where I had been
sitting. I now had to remove the seat
top – no easy task when you can
barely stand upright, are getting
tossed around like a hoodrat at a
block party, and are fighting against
a gastrointestinal Mt. Vesuvius.
I manage to peel back the leather
seat top to find a rather luxurious
looking commode, with a nice cherry
or walnut frame. It had obviously
never been used, ever. Why this
moment of clarity came to me, I do
not know. Perhaps it was the
realization that I was going to take
this toilet's virginity with a fury and
savagery that was an abomination to
its delicate craftsmanship and
quality. I imagined some poor Italian
carpenter weeping over the violently
soiled remains of his once beautiful
creation. The lament lasted only a
second as I was quickly back to
concentrating on the tiny muscle that
stood between me and molten hot
lava.
I reach down and pull up the privacy
screens, with only seconds to spare
before I erupt. It's an alka-seltzer
bomb, nothing but air and liquid
spraying out in all directions – a
Jackson Pollock masterpiece. The
pressure is now reversed. I feel like
I'm going to have a stroke, I push so
hard to end the relief, the tormented
sublime relief.
"I'm so sorry. I'm so sorry." My
apologies do nothing to drown out
the heinous noises that seem to carry
on and reverberate throughout the
small cabin indefinitely. If that's not
bad enough, I have one more major
problem. The privacy screen stops
right around shoulder level. I am
sitting there, a disembodied head, in
the back of the plane, on a bucking
bronco for a toilet, all while looking
my colleagues, competitors, and
clients directly in the eyes. "Pay no
attention to that man behind the
curtain!" briefly comes to mind.
I literally could reach out with my left
hand and rest it on the shoulder of
the person adjacent to me. It was
virtually impossible for him, or any of
the others, and by others I mean high
profile business partners and clients,
to avert their eyes. They squirm and
try not to look, inclined to do their
best to carry on and pretend as if
nothing out of the ordinary was
happening, that they weren't sharing
a stall with some guy crapping his
intestines out. Releasing smelly,
sweaty, shame at 100 feet per
second.
"I'm so sorry. I'm so sorry" is all the
ashamed disembodied head can say…
over and over again. Not that it
mattered."""

Sorry, no linky thingy, too many numbers in Url

Poor fella....that had to stink (literally) lol

I thought it was hilarious lol

You think that really happened-or was he full of it? ;)

I have every reason to believe its true....was on the interwebz

I never heard of a plane not having a " Real " bathroom, even in a small plane they have them with doors to close ! I try my best not to ever use them! They way to small and smell awful lol If the story is true, i can only say that poor guy , i be having nightmare's the rest of my life! Lol :)