Mith
07-26-2009, 01:01 AM
The Steakhouse Incident
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
**** 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 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 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 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 **** 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 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 Fifi" 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 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 which it initially hit the
toilet seat. Then I sat down.
Recall that when that event occurred, 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 ****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 the 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 ****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 ******* 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 intendended
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.
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
**** 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 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 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 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 **** 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 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 Fifi" 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 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 which it initially hit the
toilet seat. Then I sat down.
Recall that when that event occurred, 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 ****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 the 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 ****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 ******* 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 intendended
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.