Quote# 79619

Cecil left the hospital on a Wednesday and full recovery was an hour-by-hour situation. Some pains returned with constipation striking some fear into him. On Sunday morning Cecil began to see what the Lord was trying to show him and he began to do self-deliverance. The demons began to stir in his abominable area and actually “growled” as they were called out in the name of Jesus. After some 20 minutes of prayer and deliverance Cecil’s system “cleaned out” and he was back to normal. The next Sunday he again began self-deliverance and again there was intense growling and difficulty in expelling the demonic spirits, with gasping, throat trying to close, extreme gagging and coughing. But a number of demons came out.

Paul Nowlen, Free in the Lord Minisitries 94 Comments [2/22/2011 4:29:24 AM]
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I hope he flushed those demons and put the lid down.

2/22/2011 3:22:29 PM



2/22/2011 4:57:35 PM


Shitting in the NAME OF JESUS

2/22/2011 5:01:01 PM

The "Farting Preacher" videos come to mind...

2/22/2011 5:03:17 PM

The Jamo

Mr Petomaine wins 100 internets!!!

2/22/2011 5:04:25 PM


Those were not demons..... It was bad Mexican food. Sometimes it does that to you.

2/22/2011 5:08:02 PM


Poe. Nice.

2/22/2011 5:29:57 PM

Let's see - released from hospital, maybe surgery, common side affect is constipation from medications, especially those administered in surgery... nope, I'm not seeing the demons here, just someone who didn't read the fine print on the discharge papers.

/not a nurse, but a minor in nursing for kicks

2/22/2011 5:42:34 PM


I'd hate to mop up those demons afterward.

2/22/2011 5:50:45 PM

Satan's bride

This has got to be a joke......please let it be a joke!

2/22/2011 6:37:11 PM

Philbert McAdamia

@ Jezebel's Evil Sister
"Is this the same Cecil of 'Beanie and Cecil' fame?,"

Maybe it should be Cecil & Beano at his house.

2/22/2011 7:21:38 PM


That sounds like one massive load of shit! An abominable one, at that!

2/22/2011 7:53:01 PM


Please tell me this idiot is not allowed to vote or reproduce.

2/22/2011 8:02:24 PM


Poe. Someone who actively believed this would not be posting on the Internet, since their anti-virus strategies is to pour holy water on their computer to exorcise the technology demons.

2/22/2011 8:04:20 PM


Ooooh, fundie fan stories

2/22/2011 8:23:36 PM


The demons began to stir in his abominable area and actually “growled” as they were called out in the name of Jesus.

Try eating breakfast before your four hour Jesus lecture next time.

2/22/2011 9:06:35 PM


Funny, I thought demons in the colon were the cause of hommasexurality.

2/22/2011 10:03:50 PM


This thread is a scream! LOL!

2/23/2011 1:45:06 AM


Me name is William Braveheart, and there's fire and lightning coming out of me arse!

2/23/2011 4:11:46 AM

As a sufferer of that, I can understand his problem but my solution is to eat fresh plums and pears, not exorcism.

2/23/2011 4:44:04 AM

I'm all for metaphors, but this is way too elaborate for a description of going twosies.

2/23/2011 4:50:48 AM


"abominable area"

Abdominal. How old are you?

2/23/2011 8:24:57 AM


This reminds me of the old joke:

Squaw goes to army fort and sees the doc, muttering "Big Chief no shit!"

So doc gives her some laxatives for him. Next week Squaw comes back with same story. This time doc makes up a stronger laxative, but a week later it's still "Big chief no shit".

This time the doc makes up a laxative of everything he's got.

A week later the Squaw comes back to the doc who is now really bothered that she has returned. He says "Well?"

The squaw replies: "Big shit, no Chief."

And not a demon in site!

2/23/2011 9:09:10 AM


Something I received as an e-mailed text file from a friend years ago, that - even after readings uncountable - never fails to reduce me to such a state, that I can hardly breathe for laughing:

Shitty Day

All in all, it hadn't been a good day. Bad traffic, a malfunctioning computer, incompetent coworkers and a sore back all made me a seething cauldron of rage. But more importantly for this story, it had been over forty-eight hours since I'd last taken a dump. I'd tried to jumpstart the process, beginning my day with a bowl of bowel-cleansing fibre cereal, following it with six cups of coffee at work, and adding a bean-laden lunch at a Mexican restaurant. As I was returning home from work, my insides let me know with subtle rumbles and the emission of the occasional tiny fart that Big Things would be happening soon. Alas, I had to stop at the mall to pick up an order for my wife. I completed this task, and as I was walking past the stores on my way back to the car, I noticed a large sale sign proclaiming, "Everything Must Go!" This was prophetic, for my colon informed me with a sudden violent cramp and a wet, squeaky fart that everything was indeed about to go. I hurried to the mall toilet. I surveyed the five stalls, which I have numbered 0 through 4 (I write a lot of software) for your convenience:


1.Clean, but Toilet Protocol forbids its use, as it's next to the occupied one.

2.Poo on seat.

3.Poo and toilet paper in bowl, unidentifiable liquid splattered on seat.

4.No toilet paper, no stall door, unidentifiable sticky object near base of toilet.


Clearly, it had to be Stall no.1. I trudged back, entered, dropped trou and sat down. I'm normally a fairly Shameful Shitter. I wasn't happy about being next to the occupied stall, but Big Things were afoot.

I was just getting ready to bear down when all of a sudden the sweet sounds of Beethoven came from next door, followed by a fumbling, and then the sound of a voice answering the ringing phone. As usual for a mobile phone conversation, the voice was exactly 8 dB louder than it needed to be. Out of Shameful habit, my sphincter slammed shut. The inane conversation went on and on. Mr. Shitter was blathering to Mrs. Shitter about the shitty day he had. I sat there, cramping and miserable, waiting for him to finish. As the loud conversation dragged on, I became angrier and angrier, thinking that I, too, had a crappy day, but I was too polite to yak about in public. My bowels let me know in no uncertain terms that if I didn't get crapping soon, my day would be getting even crappier.

Finally my anger reached a point that overcame Shamefulness. I no longer cared. I gripped the toilet paper holder with one hand, braced my other hand against the side of the stall, and pushed with all my might. I was rewarded with a fart of colossal magnitude -- a cross between the sound of someone ripping a very wet bed sheet in half and of plywood being torn off a wall. The sound gradually transitioned into a heavily modulated low-RPM tone, not unlike someone firing up a Triumph motorbike. I managed to hit the resonance frequency of the stall, and it shook gently.


Once my arse cheeks stopped flapping in the breeze, three things became apparent: (1) The next-door conversation had ceased; (2) my colon's continued seizing indicated that there was more to come; and (3) the bathroom was now beset by a horrible, eldritch stench that would make even Cthulhu expire from olfactory terror.

It was as if a gateway to Hell had been opened. The foul miasma quickly made its way under the stall and began choking my poop-mate. This initial "herald" fart had ended his conversation in mid-sentence.

"Oh my God," I heard him utter, following it with suppressed sounds of choking, and then, "No, baby, that wasn't me (cough, gag), you could hear that (gag)??"

Now there was no stopping me. I pushed for all I was worth. I could swear that in the resulting cacophony of rips, squirts, splashes, poots, and blasts, I was actually lifted slightly off the pot. The amount of stuff in me was incredible. It sprayed against the bowl with tremendous force. Later, in surveying the damage, I'd see that liquid poop had actually managed to ricochet out of the bowl and run down the side on to the floor. But for now, all I could do was hang on for the ride.

Next door I could hear him fumbling with the paper dispenser as he desperately tried to finish his task. Little snatches of conversation made themselves heard over my anal symphony: "Gotta go... horrible... throw up... in my mouth... not... make it... tell the kids... love them... oh God..." followed by more sounds of suppressed gagging and retching.


Alas, it is evidently difficult to hold one's phone and wipe one's bum at the same time. Just as my high-pressure abuse of the toilet was winding down, I heard a plop and splash from next door, followed by string of swear words and gags. My poop-mate had dropped his phone into the karzi.

There was a lull in my production, and the restroom became deathly quiet. I could envision him standing there, wondering what to do. A final anal announcement came trumpeting from my behind, small chunks plopping noisily into the water. That must have been the last straw. I heard a flush, a fumbling with the lock, and then the stall door was thrown open. I heard him running out of the bathroom, slamming the door behind him.

After a considerable amount of paperwork, I got up and surveyed the damage. I felt bad for the janitor who'd be forced to deal with this, but I knew that flushing was not an option. No toilet in the world could handle that unholy mess. Flushing would only lead to a floor flooded with filth.

As I left, I glanced into the next-door stall. Nothing remained in the bowl. Had he flushed his phone, or had he plucked it out and left the shitehouse with nasty unwashed hands? The world will never know.

I exited the bathroom, momentarily proud and Shameless, looking around for a face glaring at me. But I saw no one. I suspect that somehow my supernatural elimination has managed to transfer my Shamefulness to my anonymous poop-mate. I think it'll be a long time before he can bring himself to poop in public -- and I doubt he'll ever again answer his mobile phone in the bog. And this, my friends, is why you should never talk on your phone in the toilet.



"I hope he flushed those demons and put the lid down."

Pauliepoos (pun may or may not be intended) had better not watch the anime series "Panty & Stocking (with Garterbelt)":

(Stocking: 'The crapper's gonna eat you!')

('Who's the hoebag covered in shit?! And the Goth with the stupidly long hair?!')

If he knows what's good for him!

X3 >:D

Ah, gotta love Gainax. Coming up with the pure bollocks-out WTF?!-fest that is "P&S". They must've had experience of British toilet humour (the "Carry On" films, "The Young Ones", "Bottom" et al) to have included such elements - and right from the start!

2/23/2011 9:40:07 AM


I call POE

No way anybody could be that much of an idiot and manage to use a keyboard

2/23/2011 10:15:12 AM

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