Originally Posted by
scrybe
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, 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 ****, 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 wire cutters
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 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 cannot be stopped under any circumstances. Here 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 **** 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 he 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 halfway 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, 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 is 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 **** no matter what is about to come slamming out of
your ass. It is apparently an evolutionary thing since ****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 the lines of "30,000
Killed In Wake of Typhoon Fiji" or something similar. In what seemed to be
most suitably measured in cubic feet, an enormous plug of **** the
consistency of thick mud with embedded pockets of greasy liquid came flying
out of my ass. But remember, I was only halfway 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 which it initially hit the toilet seat. Then I sat down.
Recall that when that event occurred, I was already halfway 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 ****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 **** 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 he back of my shirt with droplets
of liquid ****. All while thick **** was spread all over my ass in a ring
curiously in the shape of a toilet seat.
And there was no f*** 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 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.
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