> 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
diarrhoea. 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
diagonal wire cutters is having someone walk in on me while I am taking a
dump.
>
> 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 a$$ was
reaching Biblical proportions.
>
> I began "The Move."
>
> For those women who may be reading this, let me take a moment to explain
"The Move."
>
> Men know exactly what their bowels are up to at any given second. And when
the time comes to empty the cache, a sequence of physiological events occur
that can not be stopped under any circumstances. There is a move men make
that involves simultaneously approaching the toilet, beginning the body turn
to position ones a$$ 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 a
flawless expulsion at the exact same second that ones a$$ is properly placed
on the toilet seat. Done properly, it even assures that the choad is
properly inserted into the front rim of the toilet in the event that the
urine stream lets loose at the same time; it is truly a picture of
coordination rivalling that of a skilled ballet dancer.
>
> I was about half-way into "The Move" when I looked down at the floor and
saw a pile of vomit that had been previously expelled by one of those little
bast*rds attending kids night; it was mounded up in the corner so I did not
notice it when I had first walked into the stall.
>
> Normally, I would not have been bothered by such a thing, but I had eaten
so much and the pressure upward was so intense, that I hit a rarely
experienced gag reflex. And once that reflex started, combined with the
intense pressure upward caused by the bloated stomach, four plates of
macaroni and beef started coming up for a rematch.
>
> What happened next was so quick that the exact sequence of events are a
bit fuzzy, but I will try to reconstruct them as best I can.
>
> In that moment of impending projectile vomiting, my attention was diverted
from the goings-on at the other end.
>
> To put a freeze frame on the situation, I was half crouched down to the
toilet, pants pulled down to my knees, with a load of vomit coming up my
oesophagus. Now, most of you know that vomiting takes precedence over sh*t
no matter what is about to come slamming out of your a$$. It is apparently
an evolutionary thing since sh*tting 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 a$$ exploded in what can only be described
as a wake...you know, as in a newspaper headline along the lines of "30,000
Killed In Wake of Typhoon Fifi" or something similar. In what seemed to be
most suitably measured in cubic feet, an enormous plug of sh*t the
consistency of thick mud with embedded pockets of greasy liquid came flying
out of my a$$. But remember, I was only half-way down on the toilet at that
moment. The sh*t 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 sh*t 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 sh*t remaining on about one-third of the seat rim
which I had now just collapsed upon.
>
> Now, back to the vomit...
>
> While all the sh*tting 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 f*rts, a couple of
t*rds, and the event ended, yet I was now sitting there with my pants full
of vomit, my back covered in sh*t 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 sh*t. All while thick sh*t was spread all over my a$$ in a ring
curiously in the shape of a toilet seat.
>
> And there was no f*cking 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
brick 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 b*stard 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 centre 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
>
> bahahhhhhhhhhhhhhhaaahaha
>
>
> --
>
>
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