I didn't think this was something you would admit in public :)
--
Timothy Heald
Web Portfolio Manager
Overseas Security Advisory Council
U.S. Department of State
571.345.2319
The opinions expressed here do not necessarily reflect those of the U.S.
Department of State or any affiliated organization(s). Nor have these
opinions been approved or sanctioned by these organizations. This e-mail is
unclassified based on the definitions in E.O. 12958.
-----Original Message-----
From: Critter [mailto:[EMAIL PROTECTED]
Sent: Friday, January 23, 2004 9:08 AM
To: CF-Community
Subject: Re: He sharted!!!
oi Tim!!
not i, got it off of some board.... laughed my @$$ off.
--
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Friday, January 23, 2004, 8:58:12 AM, you wrote:
HT> damn dewd.
HT> I blew a gasket, or you did.
HT> --
HT> Timothy Heald
HT> Web Portfolio Manager
HT> Overseas Security Advisory Council
HT> U.S. Department of State
HT> 571.345.2319
HT> The opinions expressed here do not necessarily reflect those of the U.S.
HT> Department of State or any affiliated organization(s). Nor have these
HT> opinions been approved or sanctioned by these organizations. This e-mail
is
HT> unclassified based on the definitions in E.O. 12958.
HT> -----Original Message-----
HT> From: Critter [mailto:[EMAIL PROTECTED]
HT> Sent: Thursday, January 22, 2004 11:29 PM
HT> To: CF-Community
HT> Subject: He sharted!!!
HT> oi CF-Community,!!
HT> Funniest damn thing that has ever happened to me. A couple of weeks ago
we
HT> decided to cruise out to Ryan's Steakhouse for dinner. It was a
Wednesday
HT> night which means that macaroni and beef was on the hot bar, indeed the
only
HT> night of the week that it is served.
HT> Wednesday night is also kid's night at Ryan's, complete with Dizzy the
Clown
HT> wandering from table to table entertaining the little bastards.
HT> It may seem that the events about to be told have little connection to
those
HT> two circumstances, but all will be clear in a moment.
HT> We went through the line and placed our orders for the all-you-can-eat
hot
HT> bar then sat down as far away from the front of the restaurant as
possible
HT> in order to keep the density of kids down a bit. Then I started my move
to
HT> the hot bar. Plate after plate of macaroni and beef were consumed that
HT> evening, I tell you -- in all, four heaping plates of the pseudo-Italian
HT> ambrosia were shoved into my belly. I was sated.
HT> Perhaps bit too much, however. I had not really been feeling well all
day,
HT> what with a bit of gas and such. By the time I had eaten four
overwhelmed
HT> plates of food, I was in real trouble.
HT> There was so much pressure on my diaphragm that I was having trouble
HT> breathing.
HT> At the same time, the downward pressure was building. At first, I
thought it
HT> was only gas which could have been passed in batches right at the table
HT> without to much concern.
HT> Unfortunately, that was not to be.
HT> After a minute or so it was clear that I was dealing with explosive
HT> diarrhoea. It's amazing how grease can make its way through your
intestines
HT> far faster than the food which spawned the grease to begin with, but I
HT> digress...
HT> I got up from the table and made my way to the bathroom. Upon entering,
I
HT> saw two sinks immediately inside the door, two urinals just to the right
of
HT> the sinks, and two toilet stalls against the back wall.
HT> One of them was a handicapped bathroom. Now, normally I would have gone
to
HT> the handicapped stall since I like to stretch out a bit when I take a
good
HT> shit, but in this case, the door lock was broken and the only thing I
hate
HT> worse than my wife telling me to stop cutting my toenails with a pair of
HT> diagonal wire cutters is having someone walk in on me while I am taking
a
HT> dump.
HT> I went to the normal stall.
HT> In retrospect, I probably should have gone to the large, handicapped
stall
HT> even though the door would not lock because that bit of time lost in
making
HT> the stall switch proved to be a bit too long under the circumstances. By
the
HT> time I had walked into the regular stall, the pressure on my a$$ was
HT> reaching Biblical proportions.
HT> I began "The Move."
HT> For those women who may be reading this, let me take a moment to explain
HT> "The Move."
HT> Men know exactly what their bowels are up to at any given second. And
when
HT> the time comes to empty the cache, a sequence of physiological events
occur
HT> that can not be stopped under any circumstances. There is a move men
make
HT> that involves simultaneously approaching the toilet, beginning the body
turn
HT> to position ones a$$ toward said toilet, hooking ones fingers into ones
HT> waistline, and pulling down the pants while beginning the squat at the
same
HT> time.
HT> It is a very fluid motion that, when performed properly, results in a
HT> flawless expulsion at the exact same second that ones a$$ is properly
placed
HT> on the toilet seat. Done properly, it even assures that the choad is
HT> properly inserted into the front rim of the toilet in the event that the
HT> urine stream lets loose at the same time; it is truly a picture of
HT> coordination rivalling that of a skilled ballet dancer.
HT> I was about half-way into "The Move" when I looked down at the floor and
saw
HT> a pile of vomit that had been previously expelled by one of those little
HT> bast*rds attending kids night; it was mounded up in the corner so I did
not
HT> notice it when I had first walked into the stall.
HT> Normally, I would not have been bothered by such a thing, but I had
eaten so
HT> much and the pressure upward was so intense, that I hit a rarely
experienced
HT> gag reflex. And once that reflex started, combined with the intense
pressure
HT> upward caused by the bloated stomach, four plates of macaroni and beef
HT> started coming up for a rematch.
HT> What happened next was so quick that the exact sequence of events are a
bit
HT> fuzzy, but I will try to reconstruct them as best I can.
HT> In that moment of impending projectile vomiting, my attention was
diverted
HT> from the goings-on at the other end.
HT> To put a freeze frame on the situation, I was half crouched down to the
HT> toilet, pants pulled down to my knees, with a load of vomit coming up my
HT> oesophagus. Now, most of you know that vomiting takes precedence over
sh*t
HT> no matter what is about to come slamming out of your a$$. It is
apparently
HT> an evolutionary thing since sh*tting will not kill you, but vomiting
takes a
HT> presence of mind to accomplish so that you do not aspirate any food into
the
HT> bronchial tubes and perhaps choke to death. My attention was thus
diverted.
HT> At that very split second, my a$$ exploded in what can only be described
as
HT> a wake...you know, as in a newspaper headline along the lines of "30,000
HT> Killed In Wake of Typhoon Fifi" or something similar. In what seemed to
be
HT> most suitably measured in cubic feet, an enormous plug of sh*t the
HT> consistency of thick mud with embedded pockets of greasy liquid came
flying
HT> out of my a$$. But remember, I was only half-way down on the toilet at
that
HT> moment. The sh*t wave was of such force and of just such an angle in
HT> relation to the back curve of the toilet seat that it ricocheted off the
HT> back of the seat and slammed into the wall at an angle of incidence
equal to
HT> the angle at which it initially hit the toilet seat.
HT> Then I sat down.
HT> Recall that when that event occurred, I was already half-way to sitting
HT> anyway and had actually reached the point of no return. I have always
HT> considered myself as relatively stable gravitationally, but when you get
HT> beyond a certain point, you're going down no matter how limber you may
be.
HT> Needless to say, the sh*t wave, though of considerable force, was not so
HT> sufficient so as to completely glance off the toilet seat and deposit
itself
HT> on the walls, unlike what you would see when hitting a puddle with a
HT> high-pressure water hose; even though you throw water at the puddle, the
HT> puddle gets moved and no water is left to re-form a puddle. There was a
HT> significant amount of sh*t remaining on about one-third of the seat rim
HT> which I had now just collapsed upon.
HT> Now, back to the vomit...
HT> While all the sh*tting was going on, the vomit was still on its way up.
By
HT> the time I had actually collapsed on the toilet, my mouth had filled up
with
HT> a goodly portion of the macaroni and beef I had just consumed.
HT> OK, so what does the human body instinctively do when vomiting?
HT> One bends over. So I bent over. I was still sitting on the toilet,
though.
HT> Therefore, bending over resulted in me placing my head above my now
HT> slightly-opened legs, positioned in between my knees and waist. Also
HT> directly above my pants which were now pulled down to a point just
midway
HT> between my knees and my ankles. Oh, did I mention that I was wearing not
HT> just pants, but sweat pants with elastic on the ankles?
HT> In one mighty push, some three pounds of macaroni and beef, two or three
HT> Cokes, and a couple of Big, Fat Yeast Rolls were deposited in my
pants...on
HT> the inside...with no ready exit at the bottom down by my feet.
HT> In the next several seconds, there were a handful of f*rts, a couple of
HT> t*rds, and the event ended, yet I was now sitting there with my pants
full
HT> of vomit, my back covered in sh*t that had bounced off the toilet,
spattered
HT> on three ceramic-tiled walls to a height of about five feet, and still
had
HT> enough force to come back at me, covering the back of my shirt with
droplets
HT> of liquid sh*t. All while thick sh*t was spread all over my a$$ in a
ring
HT> curiously in the shape of a toilet seat.
HT> And there was no f*cking toilet paper.
HT> What could I do but laugh. I must have sounded like a complete maniac to
the
HT> guy who then wandered into the bathroom. He actually asked if I was OK
since
HT> I was laughing so hard I must have sounded like I was crying
hysterically. I
HT> calmed down just enough to ask him if he would get the manager. And told
him
HT> to have the manager bring some toilet paper. When the manager walked in,
he
HT> brought the toilet paper with him, but in no way was prepared for what
HT> happened next. I simply told him that there was no way I was going to
HT> explain what was happening in the stall, but that I needed several wet
HT> towels and I needed him to go ask my wife to come help me. I told him
where
HT> we were sitting and he left.
HT> At that point, I think he was probably assuming that I had pissed just a
bit
HT> in my pants or something similarly benign.
HT> About two minutes later, my wife came into the bathroom not knowing what
was
HT> wrong and with a certain amount of worry in her voice. I explained to
her
HT> (still laughing and having trouble getting out words) that I had a
slight
HT> accident and needed her help. Knowing that I had experienced some close
HT> calls in the past, she probably assumed that I had laid down a small
brick
HT> or something and just needed to being the car around so we could bolt
HT> immediately.
HT> Until I asked her, I'm sure she had no idea that she was about to go
across
HT> the street and purchase me new underwear, new socks, new pants, a new
shirt,
HT> and (by that time due to considerable leakage around the elastic ankles
HT> thingies) new sneakers.
HT> And she then started to laugh herself since I was still laughing. She
began
HT> to ask for an explanation as to what had happened when I promised her
that I
HT> would tell her later, but that I just needed to handle damage control
for
HT> the time being.
HT> She left.
HT> The manager then came back in with a half-dozen wet towels and a few dry
HT> ones. I asked him to also bring a mop and bucket upon which he assured
me
HT> that they would clean up anything that needed to be cleaned.
HT> Without giving him specific details, I explained that what was going on
in
HT> that stall that night was far in excess of what I would expect anyone to
HT> deal with, what with most of the folks working at Ryan's making minimum
wage
HT> of just slightly above.
HT> At that moment, I think it dawned on him exactly the gravity of the
HT> situation. Then that manager went so far above the call of duty that I
will
HT> be eternally grateful for his actions. He hooked up a hose.
HT> Fortunately, commercial bathrooms are constructed with tile walls and
tile
HT> floors and have a drain in the middle of the room in order to make clean
up
HT> easy. Fortunately, I was in a commercial bathroom.
HT> He hooked up the hose to the spigot located under the sink as I began
HT> cleaning myself up with the wet towels. Just as I was finishing, my wife
got
HT> back with the new clothes and passed them into the stall, whereupon I
HT> stuffed the previously worn clothing into the plastic bag that came from
the
HT> store, handing the bag to my wife. I finished cleaning myself off and
HT> carefully put on my new clothes, still stuck in the stall since I
figured
HT> that it would be in bad taste to go out of the stall to get redressed in
the
HT> event I happened to be standing there naked and some little b*stard kid
HT> walked in. At that point, I had only made a mess; I had not yet
committed a
HT> felony and intended to keep it that way.
HT> When I finished getting dressed, I picked up the hose and cleaned up the
HT> entire stall, washing down the remains toward the drain in the centre of
the
HT> room. I put down the hose and walked out of the bathroom. I had intended
to
HT> go to the manager and thank him for all he had done, but when I walked
out,
HT> three of the management staff were there to greet me with a standing
HT> ovation. I started laughing so hard that I thought I was going to throw
up
HT> again, but managed to scurry out to the car where my wife was now
waiting to
HT> pick me up by the front door.
HT> The upshot of all this is that I strongly recommend eating dinner at
Ryan's
HT> Steak House. They have, by far, the nicest management staff of any
HT> restaurant in which I have eaten.
HT> Steve Crisp
HT> bahahhhhhhhhhhhhhhaaahaha
---
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