from the post below about the chick at the BCS game.....Here is an old one I think I saved from here. Long as hell, but it's funny. Enjoy.
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 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 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 *** 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 *** 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 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 ***.
It is apparently an evolutionary thing since shitting 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 *** 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 ***. 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, like 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 ##*!@@% 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 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
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
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 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 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 *** 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 *** 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 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 ***.
It is apparently an evolutionary thing since shitting 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 *** 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 ***. 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, like 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 ##*!@@% 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 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
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
