The Night Nicole John Pooped on my Carpet

Written by anthonyrosania

Friday, 27 August 2010


The story you are trying to access may cause offense, may be in poor taste, or may contain subject matter of a graphic nature. This story was written as a satire or parody. It is entirely fictitious.

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image for The Night Nicole John Pooped on my Carpet
Not coffee.

I come home late one night and my roommate has people over. I'm sober, but none of them are.

I decide to sit down and have a few beers with them before heading to bed. When I walk in my room there are a few people passed out on the floor.

I walk over them, climb into my bed and pass out right away. I'm dead asleep when I feel someone poking me. I open my eyes and it's my friend Derek who is giggling like a school girl. D tells me he has to show me something. I push him away and roll over to go back to sleep. D keeps poking me telling me "come on man, you gotta see this!"

I ask him, "what the hell is it?" but he just starts laughing again. I ask again, but he pulls me out of bed. We walk out of my room and into the kitchen. It smells like stale beer and dog a--hole. Derek tells me to stop and he turns the kitchen light on.

I look down on the floor and there's sh-t smeared all over the floor. Not guinea-pig raisin-turds. I'm talking an emu with salmonella.

It was epic.

I follow the smeared shit and it leads me to a pair of Seven jeans that has one pant leg inside out and is full of sh=t. Next to the jeans is a blue pair of panties that again is full of sh-t.

D can't stop laughing and soon I start laughing too. We both can't stop and when we look over we see my neighbor's daughter, Nicole, passed out on the couch with no pants on and her lower torso covered in what looks like butterscotch pudding.

When not covered in excrement, she was like a six and a half at best, but such a self-important twat, I was thrilled to see her so belittled.

We laugh for a few more minutes and I say "I'm not cleaning that sh-t up." Derek looks at me and says he isn't cleaning it up either. I grab a bottle of water and head back to bed. I make a stop in the bathroom on the way back, but when I turn the light on I see sh-t smeared all over the toilet. I gag a little and go back to bed.

The next morning I wake up wondering how the sh-t situation played out. I walk into the kitchen and see no smears, no sh-tty pants and no sh-tty underwear.

I wake up my roommate and tell him the story, but he doesn't believe me. I wake up Derek and bring him in to confirm the story. We all walk out into the kitchen and ask where the six-and-a-half-at-best girl was.

He said she was in the shower. I wretch. Derek laughs.

We tell the others about our findings, but they didn't believe us. We then proceed to search the high-rise apartment trying to find Consuela Poopypants' earlier disgrace, to prove our story.

Alas, no feces-laden clothing to be found. If only I had thought to take a picture!

Six-and-a-half-at-best got out of the shower and Derek and I broke into laughter again. We played it off like we had just hit the punch line of a really long joke. She was in fresh clean clothes and acting as if she hadn't smothered $550.00 worth of expensive ropa with the remains of last night's digested curried chicken.

I so badly wanted to say something, but I didn't know what the proper way to ask a chick if she sh-t her pants was?

The story above is a satire or parody. It is entirely fictitious.

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