I apologize if this has been posted. I received this via email this am and am still laughing my ass off.
I guarantee most of you will find this funny. It's rather long, but
the more you get into it, the more you don't want it to end. This came
from the triangle.dining newsgroup, and is about Ryan's Steak House
Restaurant in Raleigh, NC. Pretty damn funny. :)
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 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 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...
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 shit, 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 diagional
wirecutters is having someone walk in on me while I am taking a shit. 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 shit 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 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 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 shit no matter what is about to come slamming out
of your ass.
It is apparently an evolutionary thing since shitting 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 shit the
consistancy 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 shit 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 > initally hit the toilet seat. Then I sat down.
Recall that when that event occured, 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 shit 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 shit remaining on about one-third of the seat rim which I had now just collapsed
upon.
Now, back to the vomit...
While all the shitting 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 (those of you who have seen "Dumb and Dumber" will appreciate this scene), yet I was now sitting there with my pants full of vomit,
my back covered in shit 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 shit. All
while thick shit was spread all over my ass in a ring curiously in the shape of a
toilet seat.
And there was no fucking 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 I 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 little 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 explaination 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 f loors 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'sSteak House. They have, by far, the nicest
management staff of any restaurant in which I have eaten.
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