> ## Content Index > Fetch the complete content index at: https://rough-edges.ghost.io/llms.txt > Use this file to discover other available public pages before exploring further. # I Took a Shit So Bad My Toilet Tried to Resign - URL: https://rough-edges.ghost.io/i-took-shit-so-bad-my-toilet-tried-to/ - Published: 2026-10-19T15:33:12.000Z - Updated: 2026-10-26T06:19:52.000Z - Description: Well, I reckon I ought to finish telling y'all what happened last night. Some of you saw my Facebook post about the shit I took. For those who didn't, congratulations. You were probably having a much better evening than I was. - Author: Joe Durst - Tags: Joe's Observations, #blogger-archive, #Import 2026-10-26 03:50 Well, I reckon I ought to finish telling y'all what happened last night. Some of you saw my Facebook post about the shit I took. For those who didn't, congratulations. You were probably having a much better evening than I was. Now, I've taken some impressive shits in my lifetime. I'm a grown-ass man. I've eaten gas station food, questionable barbecue, and things that probably should've been condemned by the health department. But last night was something different. I'm talking about the kind of shit where you stand up afterward and feel like you ought to weigh yourself. Like you just lost ten pounds and possibly an internal organ. And the smell. Jesus Christ Almighty. I've been around construction sites, septic tanks, and dumpsters sitting in the Tennessee heat. I've smelled things that would make a buzzard turn around and fly the other direction. But whatever came out of me last night deserved its own damn zip code. I flushed the toilet, washed my hands, and figured that was the end of it. It was not. An hour later, the bathroom still smelled like somebody had killed a fucking animal in there. Not a little lingering odor, either. This smell had settled in, unpacked its belongings, forwarded its mail, and apparently signed a twelve-month lease. I opened the window. Turned on the exhaust fan. Sprayed Lysol. Walked away for a while. Came back. Still there. At one point I even tried lighting a match, which, looking back, wasn't exactly the smartest thing to do after spraying stuff around. Didn't help worth a damn, either. Now, normally, Tucker has enough Scentsy products scattered around this house to make the place smell like a Christmas tree married a cinnamon roll. I've given that boy plenty of grief over all his good-smelling shit. But naturally, the one night I actually needed him and his little fragrance empire, he was nowhere to be found. So there I was. A grown man. Standing in his own hallway. Wondering whether his bathroom had become a permanent environmental hazard. And that's when the toilet started making noise. Not flushing. Just running. That little hissing sound coming from the tank. I stood there listening to it, thinking that poor bastard had finally had enough of my shit. Hell, I couldn't blame it. I went back into the bathroom, lifted the tank lid, and started checking things out. Turned out the flapper wasn't sealing right. For anybody who doesn't know, that's the little rubber piece down inside the toilet tank that lifts when you flush and drops back down to keep the water where it belongs. When it wears out, water can keep leaking into the bowl, and the tank keeps trying to fill itself back up. A simple repair. I replaced the damn thing. Problem solved. Well, one problem. The toilet was working again, but the bathroom still smelled like a crime scene. And I was starting to wonder whether the smell had gotten into the drywall. I've fixed plenty of things in my life, but I've never had to replace sheetrock because of something that came out of my own ass. Eventually, Tucker got home. And let me tell you something about raising a teenager. You spend years feeding them, clothing them, keeping a roof over their head, teaching them right from wrong, and trying to raise somebody who'll turn out halfway decent. Then one day you have a household emergency involving your digestive system, and all that boy can do is find the entire situation absolutely hilarious. Not one ounce of sympathy. Here's his daddy, a hardworking contractor who just spent the evening fighting a plumbing problem and a possible environmental catastrophe. And Tucker's carrying on like it's the funniest thing he's ever heard. But I'll give him credit. Once we'd cleaned everything up and gotten some fresh air through the house, he got some of his Scentsy stuff going. And eventually, the place started smelling like somewhere human beings ought to live again. So I reckon the boy saved the day. Which means I'm probably never going to hear the end of this. I've spent years telling him he doesn't need all that fragrance shit, and now he's got actual evidence that his little operation serves a purpose. Wonderful. The toilet's fixed. The house smells decent again. Tucker's still laughing. And I've lost whatever dignity I had left. Now, here's the part where things got even more ridiculous. I got to thinking this morning that the whole damn situation ought to be documented. After all, we had a plumbing malfunction, an air quality emergency, a teenage emergency responder, and a homeowner who was very nearly forced to evacuate his own property. So I did what any reasonable grown-ass man would do. I filed an official household incident report. Complete with findings, recommended emergency equipment, and photographic evidence. Yes, photographic evidence. And no, before anybody asks, it ain't a picture of what was in the toilet. I'm not that far gone. Yet. I even included a few things worth keeping around the house, because if there's one useful lesson to come out of this entire ordeal, it's that every grown-ass man ought to know how to handle a basic toilet problem. Matter of fact, I wrote a whole book about fixing everyday shit around the house. Apparently I should've included a chapter on surviving your own bowel movements. Anyway, the official report has been filed, and the case is closed. If you want to read the findings, see what Tucker contributed to the emergency response, and examine the photographic evidence, you can find the whole ridiculous thing here: [**READ THE OFFICIAL DURST BATHROOM INCIDENT REPORT**](https://joedurst.com/bathroom-incident-report/?ref=rough-edges.ghost.io) I'm just glad we survived the night. And apparently Tucker thinks I ought to start using the bathroom at the gas station down the road. Hell, I'm starting to think I should've named him Lysol. At least then he'd have been useful when I needed him.