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 ones.
>
> 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...
>
> 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 tothe
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
> wirecutters 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 *** 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 anygiven
> 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 ***
> 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 *** 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 *******s 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 **** no matter what is about to
come
> slamming out of your ***. It is apparently an evolutionary thing
since
> shitting will not kill you, but vomiting takes apresence 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 *** 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 consistancy of thick mud with embedded pockets of greasy
liquid
> came flying out of my ***. 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 wich 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 **** 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 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 **** 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
> *** in a ring curiously in the shape of a toilet seat.
>
> And there was no f*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
> 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 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
andcarefully
> 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 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/****/puked.
I thought this was very funny and thought i would share. I searched for it so sorry if its a repost, and i would have edited so it wasn't in forward format but its too long.
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 ones.
>
> 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...
>
> 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 tothe
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
> wirecutters 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 *** 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 anygiven
> 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 ***
> 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 *** 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 *******s 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 **** no matter what is about to
come
> slamming out of your ***. It is apparently an evolutionary thing
since
> shitting will not kill you, but vomiting takes apresence 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 *** 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 consistancy of thick mud with embedded pockets of greasy
liquid
> came flying out of my ***. 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 wich 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 **** 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 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 **** 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
> *** in a ring curiously in the shape of a toilet seat.
>
> And there was no f*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
> 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 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
andcarefully
> 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 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/****/puked.
I thought this was very funny and thought i would share. I searched for it so sorry if its a repost, and i would have edited so it wasn't in forward format but its too long.
