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THIS MUST BE RE-READ BY ALL! (not for the faint of heart)

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Old 11-05-2003, 01:00 PM
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No matter how bad soemthing seems to be, you could always be this
guy...Warning!!!!

ow, I know that there is a lot of embellisment that occurs on this site 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 crotched 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 precidence 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, 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 ****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 being 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.

-Steve Crisp
Old 11-05-2003, 01:20 PM
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[QUOTE]Originally posted by MOTU

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Old 11-05-2003, 01:23 PM
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Nah, I read this story on the internet before the S2000 was even out yet.

Still funny though.
Old 11-05-2003, 02:11 PM
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so who's the one sitting in the stall ? I can't wait to hear what Vince makes of it
Old 11-05-2003, 02:42 PM
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Oh man I posted that ages ago...still brings a tear to my eye heheh
Old 11-05-2003, 04:28 PM
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Yea sorry about not removing your profile Mike, I almost pissed laughing and had to repost it just before I left work. If this is a true story, it is the funniest shit I've ever read.
Old 11-05-2003, 09:37 PM
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hahaha i read this on OT just a few days ago.. and probably 5 yr. before that... still an Internet classic.
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