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Mass Fiction is a long running collaborative fiction effort.

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transformed into pre industrial dystopian nightmares.. the rulers of medieval city-states suddenly had access to technology thousands of years ahead of what their minds could comprehend...but there were a few who were more astute than they let on...they did fully understand the technology and what it could do...and like all power hungry beings...took advantage of this momentary glitch in the space time continuum and quietly set things in motion and prompted specific events to coincide with others that sent ripples throughout the multiverse... realities were altered...many collapsed...others never existed and the space that was left were they should have been spawned the true nightmares


Hi folks. I woke up at 1:45 in the morning and walked over to the bathroom to empty my throbbing bladder. I was slightly groggy from sleep and the initial stream of urine splashed the rim of the toilet bowl. I refocused the direction of the stream directly over the water. The bright gold liquid continued to flow for about 15 more seconds before slowing to a trickle and finally abating.

I took a was of TP and wiped the errant pee splash from the rim and proceeded to flush.


In other hockey news, Jean Beliveau is still dead despite efforts by Canadian scientists to clone the Shitmeister,as he was fondly called by his fans,from DNA extracted from a skid mark on his old uniform #4(which is on display in the Pants Crapping Hall of Fame). The scientists' efforts resulted only in a two meter long,65kg turd,which,according to a source who asked to remain anonymous,actually skated and shot better than Beliveau ever did. Negotiations are purportedly underway to replace each of the players of The Montreal Canadians Ice Hockey Club with a similar two meter long,65kg turd.

Why, penis, why?


Why? Because Jean Beliveau crapped his pants while he was sitting next to me on a flight from Montreal to Boston. I asked him politely to go into the restroom and clean himself off, but the drunk French Canadian told me to go fuck myself and then the bastard passed out.

I had to smell Jean Beliveau's horrid turds for the whole flight.

That is why!


Dear Commander,

Per your instructions, I, Valmorx, submit to you this update on my last bowel movement.

Having spent the previous evening drinking two six-packs of Schlitz Malt Liquor while watching old Match Game PM episodes on Youtube, I, Valmorx, was awakened in the middle of the night by an urgent need to defecate. Fearing the worst, I, Valmorx, hastened to the bathroom and sat down on the toilet, bracing myself for what I, Valmorx, was certain would be a very messy bowel movement.

Much to my relief, the modest quantity of fecal matter released was of ordinary consistency and color and consisted of two segments, the first being approximately 25 centimeters in length and the second being slightly more than half as long.

Satisfied that no further discharge was forthcoming, I, Valmorx, wiped my anal area, neatly folding the squares of toilet paper, as is my custom. To my surprise, the toilet paper retained no trace of fecal coloration. Naturally not wishing to have my undergarment soiled due to a less than thorough cleansing of my anal area, I, Valmorx, wiped a second time, using a different length of toilet paper, once again neatly folded, as is my custom. The results were the same, with no trace of feces being visible. Seeing no point in performing the procedure a third time, I, Valmorx, flushed, rose from the toilet, pulled up my undergarment and pajamas, and washed and dried my hands.

Glancing into the toilet bowl, I, Valmorx, was astonished to notice that though the feces had left no trace on the toilet paper, it had somehow become smeared on the porcelain of the toilet bowl, below the water level. I, Valmorx, flushed a second time, and the fecal smear was thankfully obliterated.

Too sleepy to ponder the mysteries of fecal mechanics, I, Valmorx, returned to my bed to resume my interrupted slumber.


My, but that was entertaining, wasn't it?


Hey hockey fans, it's me, Jean Beliveau. I'm dead now, so I don't crap my pants anymore. But as a fecal connoisseur, I invite you all to defecate on my place of burial. That's right, I want YOU, my loyal fans, to shit upon my grave to honor my life and death. The first person to poop on my headstone will get a free pass to the Pants-Crap Hockey Hall of Fame in downtown Toronto Canada, home of several million shitcocks and Rob Ford supporters.


My, but that was entertaining, wasn't it?

ψ(*`ー´ ;)ψ in this very same ocean o derp theres a place known as the plastic beach, a place you will soon call home. ...contribute to our story.


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