Otherwise known as "The sh*t"
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
A couple of weeks ago we decided to cruise out to Ryan's Steakhouse for
dinner. It was a Wednesday night which means that macaroni and beef was
on the hot bar, indeed the only night of the week that it is served.
Wednesday night is also kid's night at Ryan's, complete with Dizzy the
Clown wandering from table to table entertaining the little bastards.
It may seem that the events about to be told have little connection to
those two circumstances, but all will be clear in a moment.
We went through the line and placed our orders for the all-you-can-eat
hot bar then sat down as far away from the front of the restaurant as
possible in order to keep the density of kids down a bit. Then I started
my move to the hot bar. Plate after plate of macaroni and beef were
consumed that evening, I tell you -- in all, four heaping plates of the
pseudo-Italian ambrosia were shoved into my belly. I was sated. Perhaps
a bit too much, however.
I had not really been feeling well all day, what with a bit of gas and
such. By the time I had eaten four overwhelmed plates of food, I was in
real trouble. There was so much pressure on my diaphragm that I was
having trouble breathing. At the same time, the downward pressure was
building. At first, I thought it was only gas which could have been
passed in batches right at the table without to much concern.
Unfortunately, that was not to be. After a minute or so it was clear
that I was dealing with explosive diarrhea. It's amazing how grease can
make its way through your intestines far faster than the food which
spawned the grease to begin with, but I digress...
Entering, I saw two sinks immediately inside the door, two urinals just
to the right of the sinks, and two toilet stalls against the back wall.
One of them was a handicapped bathroom. Now, normally I would have gone
to the handicapped stall since I like to stretch out a bit when I take a
good ****, but in this case, the door lock was broken and the only thing
I hate worse than my wife telling me to stop cutting my toenails with a
pair of diagonal wire cutters is having someone walk in on me while I am
taking a ****. I went to the normal stall. In retrospect, I probably
should have gone to the large, handicapped stall even though the door
would not lock because that bit of time lost in making the stall switch
proved to be a bit too long under the circumstances. By the time I had
walked into the regular stall, the pressure on my ass was reaching
Biblical proportions. I began "The Move."
For those women who may be reading this, let me take a moment to
explain. "The Move." Men know exactly what their bowels are up to at any
given second. And when the time comes to empty the cache, a sequence of
physiological events occur that can not be stopped under any
circumstances. There is a move men make that involves simultaneously
approaching the toilet, beginning the body turn to position ones ass
toward said toilet, hooking ones fingers into ones waistline, and
pulling down the pants while beginning the squat at the same time. It is
a very fluid motion that, when performed properly, results in the
flawless expulsion of **** at the exact same second that ones ass is
properly placed on the toilet seat. Done properly, it even assures that
the choad is properly inserted into the front rim of the toilet in the
event that the piss stream lets loose at the same time; it is truly a
picture of coordination rivaling that of a ballet dancer.
I was about half-way into "The Move" when I looked down at the floor and
saw a pile of vomit that had been previously expelled by one of those
little bastards attending kids night; it was mounded up in the corner so
I did not notice it when I had first walked into the stall. Normally, I
would not have been bothered by such a thing, but I had eaten so much
and the pressure upward was so intense, that I hit a rarely experienced
gag reflex. And once that reflex started, combined with the intense
pressure upward caused by the bloated stomach, four plates of macaroni
and beef started coming up for a rematch. What happened next was so
quick that the exact sequence of events are a bit fuzzy, but I will try
to reconstruct them as best I can.
In that moment of impending projectile vomiting, my attention was
diverted from the goings-on at the other end. To put a freeze frame on
the situation, I was half crouched down to the toilet, pants pulled down
to my knees, with a load of vomit coming up my esophagus. Now, most of
you know that vomiting takes precedence over **** no matter what is
about to come slamming out of your ass. It is apparently an evolutionary
thing since ****ting will not kill you, but vomiting takes a presence of
mind to accomplish so that you do not aspirate any food into the
bronchial tubes and perhaps choke to death. My attention was thus
diverted. At that very split second, my ass exploded in what can only be
described as a wake...you know, as in a newspaper headline along the
lines of "30,000 Killed In wake of Typhoon Fifi" or something similar.
In what seemed to be most suitably measured in cubic feet, an enormous
plug of **** the consistency of thick mud with embedded pockets of
greasy liquid came flying out of my ass. But remember, I was only
half-way down on the toilet at that moment. The **** wave was of such
force and of just such an angle in relation to the back curve of the
toilet seat that it ricocheted off the back of the seat and slammed into
the wall at an angle of incidence equal to the angle at which it
initially hit the toilet seat. Then I sat down. Recall that when that
event occurred, I was already half-way to sitting anyway and had
actually reached the point of no return. I have always considered myself
as relatively stable gravitationally, but when you get beyond a certain
point, you're going down no matter how limber you may be. Needless to
say, the **** wave, though of considerable force, was not so sufficient
so as to completely glance off the toilet seat and deposit itself on the
walls, unlike what you would see when hitting a puddle with a
high-pressure water hose; even though you throw water at the puddle, the
puddle gets moved and no water is left to re-form a puddle. There was a
significant amount of **** remaining on about one third of the seat rim
which I had now just collapsed upon. Now, back to the vomit...
While all the ****ting was going on, the vomit was still on its way up.
By the time I had actually collapsed on the toilet, my mouth had filled
up with a goodly portion of the macaroni and beef I had just consumed.
OK, so what does the human body instinctively do when vomiting? One
bends over. So I bent over. I was still sitting on the toilet, though.
Therefore, bending over resulted in me placing my head above my now
slightly opened legs, positioned in between my knees and waist. Also
directly above my pants which were now pulled down to a point just
midway between my knees and my ankles. Oh, did I mention that I was
wearing not just pants, but sweat pants with elastic on the ankles. In
one mighty push, some three pounds of macaroni and beef, two or three
Cokes, and a couple of Big, Fat Yeast Rolls were deposited in my
pants...on the inside...with no ready exit at the bottom down by my
feet.
In the next several seconds, there were a handful of farts, a couple of
turds, and the event ended, yet I was now sitting there with my pants
full of vomit, my back covered in **** that had bounced off the toilet,
spattered on three ceramic tiled walls to a height of about five feet,
and still had enough force to come back at me, covering the back of my
shirt with droplets of liquid ****. All while thick **** was spread all
over my ass in a ring curiously in the shape of a toilet seat. And there
was no ****ing toilet paper.
What could I do but laugh. I must have sounded like a complete maniac to
the guy who then wandered into the bathroom. He actually asked if I was
OK since I was laughing so hard I must have sounded like I was crying
hysterically. I calmed down just enough to ask him if he would get the
manager. And told him to have the manager bring some toilet paper. When
the manager walked in, he brought the toilet paper with him, but in no
way was prepared for what happened next. I simply told him that there
was no way I was going to explain what was happening in the stall, but
that I needed several wet towels and I needed him to go ask my wife to
come help me. I told him where we were sitting and he left. At that
point, I think he was probably assuming that I had pissed just a bit in
my pants or something similarly benign.
About two minutes later, my wife came into the bathroom not knowing what
was wrong and with a certain amount of worry in her voice. I explained
to her (still laughing and having trouble getting out words) that I had
a slight accident and needed her help. Knowing that I had experienced
some close calls in the past, she probably assumed that I had laid down
a small turd or something and just needed to bring the car around so we
could bolt immediately. Until I asked her, I'm sure she had no idea that
she was about to go across the street and purchase me new underwear, new
socks, new pants, a new shirt, and (by that time due to considerable
leakage around the elastic ankles thingies) new sneakers. And she then
started to laugh herself since I was still laughing.
She began to ask for an explanation as to what had happened when I
promised her that I would tell her later, but that I just needed to
handle damage control for the time being. She left.
The manager then came back in with a half dozen wet towels and a few dry
ones. I asked him to also bring a mop and bucket upon which he assured
me that they would clean up anything that needed to be cleaned. Without
giving him specific details, I explained that what was going on in that
stall that night was far in excess of what I would expect anyone to deal
with, what with most of the folks working at Ryan's making minimum wage
of just slightly above.
At that moment, I think it dawned on him exactly the gravity of the
situation. Then that manager went so far above the call of duty that I
will be eternally grateful for his actions. He hooked up a hose.
Fortunately, commercial bathrooms are constructed with tile walls and
tile floors and have a drain in the middle of the room in order to make
clean up easy. Fortunately, I was in a commercial bathroom. He hooked up
the hose to the spigot located under the sink as I began cleaning myself
up with the wet towels. Just as I was finishing, my wife got back with
the new clothes and passed them into the stall, whereupon I stuffed the
previously worn clothing into the plastic bag that came from the store,
handing the bag to my wife. I finished cleaning myself off and carefully
put on my new clothes, still stuck in the stall since I figured that it
would be in bad taste to go out of the stall to get redressed in the
event I happened to be standing there naked and some little bastard kid
walked in. At that point, I had only made a mess; I had not yet
committed a felony and intended to keep it that way.
When I finished getting dressed, I picked up the hose and cleaned up the
entire stall, washing down the remains toward the drain in the center of
the room. I put down the hose and walked out of the bathroom. I had
intended to go to the manager and thank him for all he had done, but
when I walked out, three of the management staff were there to greet me
with a standing ovation. I started laughing so hard that I thought I was
going to throw up again, but managed to scurry out to the car where my
wife was now waiting to pick me up by the front door. The upshot of all
this is that I strongly recommend eating dinner at Ryan's Steak House.
They have, by far, the nicest management staff of any restaurant in
which I have eaten.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Posted by Chuck98GT on musclestang.com
I got it from David Lyons on the RAMFM Usenet Newsgroup. He's lyonsd here.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
A couple of weeks ago we decided to cruise out to Ryan's Steakhouse for
dinner. It was a Wednesday night which means that macaroni and beef was
on the hot bar, indeed the only night of the week that it is served.
Wednesday night is also kid's night at Ryan's, complete with Dizzy the
Clown wandering from table to table entertaining the little bastards.
It may seem that the events about to be told have little connection to
those two circumstances, but all will be clear in a moment.
We went through the line and placed our orders for the all-you-can-eat
hot bar then sat down as far away from the front of the restaurant as
possible in order to keep the density of kids down a bit. Then I started
my move to the hot bar. Plate after plate of macaroni and beef were
consumed that evening, I tell you -- in all, four heaping plates of the
pseudo-Italian ambrosia were shoved into my belly. I was sated. Perhaps
a bit too much, however.
I had not really been feeling well all day, what with a bit of gas and
such. By the time I had eaten four overwhelmed plates of food, I was in
real trouble. There was so much pressure on my diaphragm that I was
having trouble breathing. At the same time, the downward pressure was
building. At first, I thought it was only gas which could have been
passed in batches right at the table without to much concern.
Unfortunately, that was not to be. After a minute or so it was clear
that I was dealing with explosive diarrhea. It's amazing how grease can
make its way through your intestines far faster than the food which
spawned the grease to begin with, but I digress...
Entering, I saw two sinks immediately inside the door, two urinals just
to the right of the sinks, and two toilet stalls against the back wall.
One of them was a handicapped bathroom. Now, normally I would have gone
to the handicapped stall since I like to stretch out a bit when I take a
good ****, but in this case, the door lock was broken and the only thing
I hate worse than my wife telling me to stop cutting my toenails with a
pair of diagonal wire cutters is having someone walk in on me while I am
taking a ****. I went to the normal stall. In retrospect, I probably
should have gone to the large, handicapped stall even though the door
would not lock because that bit of time lost in making the stall switch
proved to be a bit too long under the circumstances. By the time I had
walked into the regular stall, the pressure on my ass was reaching
Biblical proportions. I began "The Move."
For those women who may be reading this, let me take a moment to
explain. "The Move." Men know exactly what their bowels are up to at any
given second. And when the time comes to empty the cache, a sequence of
physiological events occur that can not be stopped under any
circumstances. There is a move men make that involves simultaneously
approaching the toilet, beginning the body turn to position ones ass
toward said toilet, hooking ones fingers into ones waistline, and
pulling down the pants while beginning the squat at the same time. It is
a very fluid motion that, when performed properly, results in the
flawless expulsion of **** at the exact same second that ones ass is
properly placed on the toilet seat. Done properly, it even assures that
the choad is properly inserted into the front rim of the toilet in the
event that the piss stream lets loose at the same time; it is truly a
picture of coordination rivaling that of a ballet dancer.
I was about half-way into "The Move" when I looked down at the floor and
saw a pile of vomit that had been previously expelled by one of those
little bastards attending kids night; it was mounded up in the corner so
I did not notice it when I had first walked into the stall. Normally, I
would not have been bothered by such a thing, but I had eaten so much
and the pressure upward was so intense, that I hit a rarely experienced
gag reflex. And once that reflex started, combined with the intense
pressure upward caused by the bloated stomach, four plates of macaroni
and beef started coming up for a rematch. What happened next was so
quick that the exact sequence of events are a bit fuzzy, but I will try
to reconstruct them as best I can.
In that moment of impending projectile vomiting, my attention was
diverted from the goings-on at the other end. To put a freeze frame on
the situation, I was half crouched down to the toilet, pants pulled down
to my knees, with a load of vomit coming up my esophagus. Now, most of
you know that vomiting takes precedence over **** no matter what is
about to come slamming out of your ass. It is apparently an evolutionary
thing since ****ting will not kill you, but vomiting takes a presence of
mind to accomplish so that you do not aspirate any food into the
bronchial tubes and perhaps choke to death. My attention was thus
diverted. At that very split second, my ass exploded in what can only be
described as a wake...you know, as in a newspaper headline along the
lines of "30,000 Killed In wake of Typhoon Fifi" or something similar.
In what seemed to be most suitably measured in cubic feet, an enormous
plug of **** the consistency of thick mud with embedded pockets of
greasy liquid came flying out of my ass. But remember, I was only
half-way down on the toilet at that moment. The **** wave was of such
force and of just such an angle in relation to the back curve of the
toilet seat that it ricocheted off the back of the seat and slammed into
the wall at an angle of incidence equal to the angle at which it
initially hit the toilet seat. Then I sat down. Recall that when that
event occurred, I was already half-way to sitting anyway and had
actually reached the point of no return. I have always considered myself
as relatively stable gravitationally, but when you get beyond a certain
point, you're going down no matter how limber you may be. Needless to
say, the **** wave, though of considerable force, was not so sufficient
so as to completely glance off the toilet seat and deposit itself on the
walls, unlike what you would see when hitting a puddle with a
high-pressure water hose; even though you throw water at the puddle, the
puddle gets moved and no water is left to re-form a puddle. There was a
significant amount of **** remaining on about one third of the seat rim
which I had now just collapsed upon. Now, back to the vomit...
While all the ****ting was going on, the vomit was still on its way up.
By the time I had actually collapsed on the toilet, my mouth had filled
up with a goodly portion of the macaroni and beef I had just consumed.
OK, so what does the human body instinctively do when vomiting? One
bends over. So I bent over. I was still sitting on the toilet, though.
Therefore, bending over resulted in me placing my head above my now
slightly opened legs, positioned in between my knees and waist. Also
directly above my pants which were now pulled down to a point just
midway between my knees and my ankles. Oh, did I mention that I was
wearing not just pants, but sweat pants with elastic on the ankles. In
one mighty push, some three pounds of macaroni and beef, two or three
Cokes, and a couple of Big, Fat Yeast Rolls were deposited in my
pants...on the inside...with no ready exit at the bottom down by my
feet.
In the next several seconds, there were a handful of farts, a couple of
turds, and the event ended, yet I was now sitting there with my pants
full of vomit, my back covered in **** that had bounced off the toilet,
spattered on three ceramic tiled walls to a height of about five feet,
and still had enough force to come back at me, covering the back of my
shirt with droplets of liquid ****. All while thick **** was spread all
over my ass in a ring curiously in the shape of a toilet seat. And there
was no ****ing toilet paper.
What could I do but laugh. I must have sounded like a complete maniac to
the guy who then wandered into the bathroom. He actually asked if I was
OK since I was laughing so hard I must have sounded like I was crying
hysterically. I calmed down just enough to ask him if he would get the
manager. And told him to have the manager bring some toilet paper. When
the manager walked in, he brought the toilet paper with him, but in no
way was prepared for what happened next. I simply told him that there
was no way I was going to explain what was happening in the stall, but
that I needed several wet towels and I needed him to go ask my wife to
come help me. I told him where we were sitting and he left. At that
point, I think he was probably assuming that I had pissed just a bit in
my pants or something similarly benign.
About two minutes later, my wife came into the bathroom not knowing what
was wrong and with a certain amount of worry in her voice. I explained
to her (still laughing and having trouble getting out words) that I had
a slight accident and needed her help. Knowing that I had experienced
some close calls in the past, she probably assumed that I had laid down
a small turd or something and just needed to bring the car around so we
could bolt immediately. Until I asked her, I'm sure she had no idea that
she was about to go across the street and purchase me new underwear, new
socks, new pants, a new shirt, and (by that time due to considerable
leakage around the elastic ankles thingies) new sneakers. And she then
started to laugh herself since I was still laughing.
She began to ask for an explanation as to what had happened when I
promised her that I would tell her later, but that I just needed to
handle damage control for the time being. She left.
The manager then came back in with a half dozen wet towels and a few dry
ones. I asked him to also bring a mop and bucket upon which he assured
me that they would clean up anything that needed to be cleaned. Without
giving him specific details, I explained that what was going on in that
stall that night was far in excess of what I would expect anyone to deal
with, what with most of the folks working at Ryan's making minimum wage
of just slightly above.
At that moment, I think it dawned on him exactly the gravity of the
situation. Then that manager went so far above the call of duty that I
will be eternally grateful for his actions. He hooked up a hose.
Fortunately, commercial bathrooms are constructed with tile walls and
tile floors and have a drain in the middle of the room in order to make
clean up easy. Fortunately, I was in a commercial bathroom. He hooked up
the hose to the spigot located under the sink as I began cleaning myself
up with the wet towels. Just as I was finishing, my wife got back with
the new clothes and passed them into the stall, whereupon I stuffed the
previously worn clothing into the plastic bag that came from the store,
handing the bag to my wife. I finished cleaning myself off and carefully
put on my new clothes, still stuck in the stall since I figured that it
would be in bad taste to go out of the stall to get redressed in the
event I happened to be standing there naked and some little bastard kid
walked in. At that point, I had only made a mess; I had not yet
committed a felony and intended to keep it that way.
When I finished getting dressed, I picked up the hose and cleaned up the
entire stall, washing down the remains toward the drain in the center of
the room. I put down the hose and walked out of the bathroom. I had
intended to go to the manager and thank him for all he had done, but
when I walked out, three of the management staff were there to greet me
with a standing ovation. I started laughing so hard that I thought I was
going to throw up again, but managed to scurry out to the car where my
wife was now waiting to pick me up by the front door. The upshot of all
this is that I strongly recommend eating dinner at Ryan's Steak House.
They have, by far, the nicest management staff of any restaurant in
which I have eaten.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Posted by Chuck98GT on musclestang.com
I got it from David Lyons on the RAMFM Usenet Newsgroup. He's lyonsd here.
