JamesK
Contributor
Before you read this, I can not take credit for it. This was posted about 4 years ago on another message board by the person this suppsoedly happened to. I just thought it was very funny, so I kept it.
Now, I know that there is a lot of embellishment that occurs on this group and I am aware that a
small number of things are perhaps sheer fabrication, but I have a story to tell that is the absolute
truth.
Funniest damn thing that has ever happened to me. 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 buttheads. 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 too 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...
I got up from the table and made my way to the bathroom. Upon 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 poopoo, 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 wirecutters is having someone
walk in on me while I am taking a poopoo. 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 arse 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 arse 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 poo at the exact same
second that ones arse is properly placed on the toilet seat. Done properly, it even assures that
everything 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 skilled 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 bastiches 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 poo no matter what is about to come slamming out of your butt.
It is apparently an evolutionary thing since pooing 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 arse 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 poo the consistency of thick mud with embedded pockets of greasy liquid
came flying out of my arse. But remember, I was only half-way down on the toilet at that moment.
The shiite 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 poo 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 poo
remaining on about one-third of the seat rim which I had now just collapsed upon.
Now, back to the vomit...
While all the pooing 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 poo 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 poo. All while thick
poo was spread all over my bum in a ring curiously in the shape of a toilet seat. And there was no
farging 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 or 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 bastiche 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.
Now, I know that there is a lot of embellishment that occurs on this group and I am aware that a
small number of things are perhaps sheer fabrication, but I have a story to tell that is the absolute
truth.
Funniest damn thing that has ever happened to me. 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 buttheads. 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 too 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...
I got up from the table and made my way to the bathroom. Upon 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 poopoo, 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 wirecutters is having someone
walk in on me while I am taking a poopoo. 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 arse 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 arse 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 poo at the exact same
second that ones arse is properly placed on the toilet seat. Done properly, it even assures that
everything 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 skilled 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 bastiches 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 poo no matter what is about to come slamming out of your butt.
It is apparently an evolutionary thing since pooing 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 arse 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 poo the consistency of thick mud with embedded pockets of greasy liquid
came flying out of my arse. But remember, I was only half-way down on the toilet at that moment.
The shiite 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 poo 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 poo
remaining on about one-third of the seat rim which I had now just collapsed upon.
Now, back to the vomit...
While all the pooing 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 poo 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 poo. All while thick
poo was spread all over my bum in a ring curiously in the shape of a toilet seat. And there was no
farging 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 or 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 bastiche 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.
