Gross but hysterical
Posted: September 30, 2005 9:40 pm
I don't know the original source of this or the author but it brings tears to my eyes every time I re-read it. Definitely NOT for the weak of stomach or the easily offended .....
---------------------------------------------------------------------------------
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 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 s***, 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 s***. 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 s*** 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 p*** 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 s*** no matter
what is about to come slamming out of your ass. It is apparently an
evolutionary thing since s***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. In what seemed to be most suitably measured
in cubic feet, an enormous plug of s*** 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 s*** 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 s*** 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
s*** remaining on about one-third of the seat rim which I had now just
collapsed upon.
Now, back to the vomit...
While all the s***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 s*** 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 s***. All while thick
s*** was spread all over my ass in a ring curiously in the shape of a
toilet seat.
And there was no f***ng 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 toilet paper 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
p*** 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 explination 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 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.
---------------------------------------------------------------------------------
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 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 s***, 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 s***. 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 s*** 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 p*** 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 s*** no matter
what is about to come slamming out of your ass. It is apparently an
evolutionary thing since s***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. In what seemed to be most suitably measured
in cubic feet, an enormous plug of s*** 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 s*** 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 s*** 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
s*** remaining on about one-third of the seat rim which I had now just
collapsed upon.
Now, back to the vomit...
While all the s***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 s*** 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 s***. All while thick
s*** was spread all over my ass in a ring curiously in the shape of a
toilet seat.
And there was no f***ng 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 toilet paper 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
p*** 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 explination 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 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.
