oceansbreeze
Petty Officer 1st Class
- Joined
- May 9, 2005
- Messages
- 276
Mods: this is rather graphic, but we're adults, and it's funny as hell.... 
Delete it if you wish. <br /><br />Folks, this story may be long, but it's a good read, and all of us guys can relate to it.<br /><br />Now, I am aware that a small number of things are perhaps sheer fabrication,<br />but I have a story to tell that is the absolute truth. Funniest damn thing<br />that has ever happened to me. A couple of weeks ago we decided to cruise out<br />to Ryan's Steakhouse for dinner. It was a Wednesday night which means that<br />macaroni and beef was on the hot bar, indeed the only night of the week that<br />it is served. Wednesday night is also kid's night at Ryan's, complete with<br />Dizzy the Clown wandering from table to table entertaining the little<br />*******s. It may seem that the events about to be told have little<br />connection to those two circumstances, but all will be clear in a moment.<br /><br />We went through the line and placed our orders for the all-you-can-eat hot<br />bar then sat down as far away from the front of the restaurant as possible<br />in order to keep the density of kids down a bit. Then I started my move to<br />the hot bar. Plate after plate of macaroni and beef were consumed that<br />evening, I tell you -- in all, four heaping plates of the pseudo-Italian<br />ambrosia were shoved into my belly. I was sated. Perhaps a bit too much,<br />however. I had not really been feeling well all day, what with a bit of gas<br />and such. By the time I had eaten four overwhelming plates of food, I was in<br />real trouble. There was so much pressure on my diaphragm that I was having<br />trouble breathing. At the same time, the downward pressure was building. At<br />first, I thought it was only gas which could have been passed in batches<br />right at the table without to much concern. Unfortunately, that was not to<br />be.<br /><br />After a minute or so it was clear that I was dealing with explosive<br />diarrhea. It's amazing how grease can make its way through your intestines<br />far faster than the food which spawned the grease to begin with, but I<br />digress... I got up from the table and made my way to the bathroom. Upon<br />entering, I saw two sinks immediately inside the door, two urinals just to<br />the right of the sinks, and two toilet stalls against the back wall. One of<br />them was a handicapped bathroom. Now, normally I would have gone to the<br />handicapped stall since I like to stretch out a bit when I take a good ****,<br />but in this case, the door lock was broken and the only thing I hate worse<br />than my wife telling me to stop cutting my toenails with a pair of diagonal<br />wire cutters is having someone walk in on me while I am taking a ****. I<br />went to the normal stall. In retrospect, I probably should have gone to the<br />large, handicapped stall even though the door would not lock because that<br />bit of time lost in making the stall switch proved to be a bit too long<br />under the circumstances.<br /><br />By the time I had walked into the regular stall, the pressure on my *** was<br />reaching Biblical proportions. I began "The Move". For those women who may<br />be reading this, let me take a moment to explain "The Move." Men know<br />exactly what their bowels are up to at any given second. And when the time<br />comes to empty the cache, a sequence of physiological events occur that can<br />not be stopped under any circumstances. There is a move men make that<br />involves simultaneously approaching the toilet, beginning the body turn to<br />position ones *** toward said toilet, hooking ones fingers into ones<br />waistline, and pulling down the pants while beginning the squat at the same<br />time. It is a very fluid motion that, when performed properly, results in<br />the flawless expulsion of **** at the exact same second that ones *** is<br />properly placed on the toilet seat. Done properly, it even assures that the<br />choad is properly inserted into the front rim of the toilet in the event<br />that the **** stream lets loose at the same time; it is truly a picture of<br />coordination rivaling that of a skilled ballet dancer.<br /><br />I was about half-way into "The Move" when I looked down at the floor and saw<br />a pile of vomit that had been previously expelled by one of those little<br />*******s attending kids night; it was mounded up in the corner so I did not<br />notice it when I had first walked into the stall. Normally, I would not have<br />been bothered by such a thing, but I had eaten so much and the pressure<br />upward was so intense, that I hit a rarely experienced gag reflex. And once<br />that reflex started, combined with the intense pressure upward caused by the<br />bloated stomach, four plates of macaroni and beef started coming up for a<br />rematch. What happened next was so quick that the exact sequence of events<br />are a bit fuzzy, but I will try to reconstruct them as best I can. In that<br />moment of impending projectile vomiting, my attention was diverted from the<br />goings-on at the other end. To put a freeze frame on the situation, I was<br />half crotched down to the toilet, pants pulled down to my knees, with a load<br />of vomit coming up my esophagus. Now, most of you know that vomiting takes<br />precedence over **** no matter what is about to come slamming out of your<br />***. It is apparently an evolutionary thing since ****ting will not kill<br />you, but vomiting takes a presence of mind to accomplish so that you do not<br />aspirate any food into the bronchial tubes and perhaps choke to death. My<br />attention was thus diverted.<br /><br />At that very split second, my *** exploded in what can only be described as<br />a wake...you know, as in a newspaper headline along the lines of "30,000<br />Killed In Wake of Typhoon Fifi" or something similar. In what seemed to be<br />most suitably measured in cubic feet, an enormous plug of **** the<br />consistency of thick mud with embedded pockets of greasy liquid came flying<br />out of my ***. But remember, I was only half-way down on the toilet at that<br />moment. The **** wave was of such force and of just such an angle in<br />relation to the back curve of the toilet seat that it ricocheted off the<br />back of the seat and slammed into the wall at an angle of incidence equal to<br />the angle at which it initially hit the toilet seat. Then I sat down. Recall<br />that when that event occurred, I was already half-way to sitting anyway and<br />had actually reached the point of no return. I have always considered myself<br />as relatively stable gravitationally, but when you get beyond a certain<br />point, you're going down no matter how limber you may be. Needless to say,<br />the **** wave, though of considerable force, was not so sufficient so as to<br />completely glance off the toilet seat and deposit itself on the walls,<br />unlike what you would see when hitting a puddle with a high-pressure water<br />hose; even though you throw water at the puddle, the puddle gets moved and<br />no water is left to re-form a puddle. There was a significant amount of ****<br />remaining on about one-third of the seat rim which I had now just collapsed<br />upon.<br /><br />Now, back to the vomit...<br /><br />While all the ****ting was going on, the vomit was still on its way up. By<br />the time I had actually collapsed on the toilet, my mouth had filled up with<br />a goodly portion of the macaroni and beef I had just consumed. OK, so what<br />does the human body instinctively do when vomiting? One bends over. So I<br />bent over. I was still sitting on the toilet, though. Therefore, bending<br />over resulted in me placing my head above my now slightly-opened legs,<br />positioned in between my knees and waist. Also directly above my pants which<br />were now pulled down to a point just midway between my knees and my ankles.<br />Oh, did I mention that I was wearing not just pants, but sweat pants with<br />elastic on the ankles? In one mighty push, some three pounds of macaroni and<br />beef, two or three Cokes, and a couple of Big, Fat Yeast Rolls were<br />deposited in my pants...on the inside...with no ready exit at the bottom<br />down by my feet.<br /><br />In the next several seconds, there were a handful of farts, a couple of<br />turds, and the event ended, yet I was now sitting there with my pants full<br />of vomit, my back covered in **** that had bounced off the toilet, spattered<br />on three ceramic-tiled walls to a height of about five feet, and still had<br />enough force to come back at me, covering the back of my shirt with droplets<br />of liquid ****. All while thick **** was spread all over my *** in a ring<br />curiously in the shape of a toilet seat. And there was no ****ing toilet<br />paper. What could I do but laugh. I must have sounded like a complete maniac<br />to the guy who then wandered into the bathroom. He actually asked if I was<br />OK since I was laughing so hard I must have sounded like I was crying<br />hysterically. I calmed down just enough to ask him if he would get the<br />manager. And told him to have the manager bring some toilet paper. When the<br />manager walked in, he brought the toilet paper with him, but in no way was<br />prepared for what happened next. I simply told him that there was no way I<br />was going to explain what was happening in the stall, but that I needed<br />several wet towels and I needed him to go ask my wife to come help me. I<br />told him where we were sitting and he left.<br /><br />At that point, I think he was probably assuming that I had pissed just a bit<br />in my pants or something similarly benign. About two minutes later, my wife<br />came into the bathroom not knowing what was wrong and with a certain amount<br />of worry in her voice. I explained to her (still laughing and having trouble<br />getting out words) that I had a slight accident and needed her help. Knowing<br />that I had experienced some close calls in the past, she probably assumed<br />that I had laid down a small turd or something and just needed to bring the<br />car around so we could bolt immediately. Until I asked her, I'm sure she had<br />no idea that she was about to go across the street and purchase me new<br />underwear, new socks, new pants, a new shirt, and (by that time due to<br />considerable leakage around the elastic ankles thingies) new sneakers. And<br />she then started to laugh herself since I was still laughing. She began to<br />ask for an explanation as to what had happened when I promised her that I<br />would tell her later, but that I just needed to handle damage control for<br />the time being. She left.<br /><br />The manager then came back in with a half-dozen wet towels and a few dry<br />ones. I asked him to also bring a mop and bucket upon which he assured me<br />that they would clean up anything that needed to be cleaned. Without giving<br />him specific details, I explained that what was going on in that stall that<br />night was far in excess of what I would expect anyone to deal with, what<br />with most of the folks working at Ryan's making minimum wage or just<br />slightly above. At that moment, I think it dawned on him exactly the gravity<br />of the situation. Then that manager went so far above the call of duty that<br />I will be eternally grateful for his actions. He hooked up a hose.<br />Fortunately, commercial bathrooms are constructed with tile walls and tile<br />floors and have a drain in the middle of the room in order to make clean up<br />easy. Fortunately, I was in a commercial bathroom. He hooked up the hose to<br />the spigot located under the sink as I began cleaning myself up with the wet<br />towels.<br /><br />Just as I was finishing, my wife got back with the new clothes and passed<br />them into the stall, whereupon I stuffed the previously worn clothing into<br />the plastic bag that came from the store, handing the bag to my wife. I<br />finished cleaning myself off and carefully put on my new clothes, still<br />stuck in the stall since I figured that it would be in bad taste to go out<br />of the stall to get redressed in the event I happened to be standing there<br />naked and some little ******* kid walked in. At that point, I had only made<br />a mess; I had not yet committed a felony and intended to keep it that way.<br />When I finished getting dressed, I picked up the hose and cleaned up the<br />entire stall, washing down the remains toward the drain in the center of the<br />room. I put down the hose and walked out of the bathroom. I had intended to<br />go to the manager and thank him for all he had done, but when I walked out,<br />three of the management staff were there to greet me with a standing<br />ovation. I started laughing so hard that I thought I was going to throw up<br />again, but managed to scurry out to the car where my wife was now waiting to<br />pick me up by the front door. The upshot of all this is that I strongly<br />recommend eating dinner at Ryan's Steak House. They have, by far, the nicest<br />management staff of any restaurant in which I have eaten.
Delete it if you wish. <br /><br />Folks, this story may be long, but it's a good read, and all of us guys can relate to it.<br /><br />Now, I am aware that a small number of things are perhaps sheer fabrication,<br />but I have a story to tell that is the absolute truth. Funniest damn thing<br />that has ever happened to me. A couple of weeks ago we decided to cruise out<br />to Ryan's Steakhouse for dinner. It was a Wednesday night which means that<br />macaroni and beef was on the hot bar, indeed the only night of the week that<br />it is served. Wednesday night is also kid's night at Ryan's, complete with<br />Dizzy the Clown wandering from table to table entertaining the little<br />*******s. It may seem that the events about to be told have little<br />connection to those two circumstances, but all will be clear in a moment.<br /><br />We went through the line and placed our orders for the all-you-can-eat hot<br />bar then sat down as far away from the front of the restaurant as possible<br />in order to keep the density of kids down a bit. Then I started my move to<br />the hot bar. Plate after plate of macaroni and beef were consumed that<br />evening, I tell you -- in all, four heaping plates of the pseudo-Italian<br />ambrosia were shoved into my belly. I was sated. Perhaps a bit too much,<br />however. I had not really been feeling well all day, what with a bit of gas<br />and such. By the time I had eaten four overwhelming plates of food, I was in<br />real trouble. There was so much pressure on my diaphragm that I was having<br />trouble breathing. At the same time, the downward pressure was building. At<br />first, I thought it was only gas which could have been passed in batches<br />right at the table without to much concern. Unfortunately, that was not to<br />be.<br /><br />After a minute or so it was clear that I was dealing with explosive<br />diarrhea. It's amazing how grease can make its way through your intestines<br />far faster than the food which spawned the grease to begin with, but I<br />digress... I got up from the table and made my way to the bathroom. Upon<br />entering, I saw two sinks immediately inside the door, two urinals just to<br />the right of the sinks, and two toilet stalls against the back wall. One of<br />them was a handicapped bathroom. Now, normally I would have gone to the<br />handicapped stall since I like to stretch out a bit when I take a good ****,<br />but in this case, the door lock was broken and the only thing I hate worse<br />than my wife telling me to stop cutting my toenails with a pair of diagonal<br />wire cutters is having someone walk in on me while I am taking a ****. I<br />went to the normal stall. In retrospect, I probably should have gone to the<br />large, handicapped stall even though the door would not lock because that<br />bit of time lost in making the stall switch proved to be a bit too long<br />under the circumstances.<br /><br />By the time I had walked into the regular stall, the pressure on my *** was<br />reaching Biblical proportions. I began "The Move". For those women who may<br />be reading this, let me take a moment to explain "The Move." Men know<br />exactly what their bowels are up to at any given second. And when the time<br />comes to empty the cache, a sequence of physiological events occur that can<br />not be stopped under any circumstances. There is a move men make that<br />involves simultaneously approaching the toilet, beginning the body turn to<br />position ones *** toward said toilet, hooking ones fingers into ones<br />waistline, and pulling down the pants while beginning the squat at the same<br />time. It is a very fluid motion that, when performed properly, results in<br />the flawless expulsion of **** at the exact same second that ones *** is<br />properly placed on the toilet seat. Done properly, it even assures that the<br />choad is properly inserted into the front rim of the toilet in the event<br />that the **** stream lets loose at the same time; it is truly a picture of<br />coordination rivaling that of a skilled ballet dancer.<br /><br />I was about half-way into "The Move" when I looked down at the floor and saw<br />a pile of vomit that had been previously expelled by one of those little<br />*******s attending kids night; it was mounded up in the corner so I did not<br />notice it when I had first walked into the stall. Normally, I would not have<br />been bothered by such a thing, but I had eaten so much and the pressure<br />upward was so intense, that I hit a rarely experienced gag reflex. And once<br />that reflex started, combined with the intense pressure upward caused by the<br />bloated stomach, four plates of macaroni and beef started coming up for a<br />rematch. What happened next was so quick that the exact sequence of events<br />are a bit fuzzy, but I will try to reconstruct them as best I can. In that<br />moment of impending projectile vomiting, my attention was diverted from the<br />goings-on at the other end. To put a freeze frame on the situation, I was<br />half crotched down to the toilet, pants pulled down to my knees, with a load<br />of vomit coming up my esophagus. Now, most of you know that vomiting takes<br />precedence over **** no matter what is about to come slamming out of your<br />***. It is apparently an evolutionary thing since ****ting will not kill<br />you, but vomiting takes a presence of mind to accomplish so that you do not<br />aspirate any food into the bronchial tubes and perhaps choke to death. My<br />attention was thus diverted.<br /><br />At that very split second, my *** exploded in what can only be described as<br />a wake...you know, as in a newspaper headline along the lines of "30,000<br />Killed In Wake of Typhoon Fifi" or something similar. In what seemed to be<br />most suitably measured in cubic feet, an enormous plug of **** the<br />consistency of thick mud with embedded pockets of greasy liquid came flying<br />out of my ***. But remember, I was only half-way down on the toilet at that<br />moment. The **** wave was of such force and of just such an angle in<br />relation to the back curve of the toilet seat that it ricocheted off the<br />back of the seat and slammed into the wall at an angle of incidence equal to<br />the angle at which it initially hit the toilet seat. Then I sat down. Recall<br />that when that event occurred, I was already half-way to sitting anyway and<br />had actually reached the point of no return. I have always considered myself<br />as relatively stable gravitationally, but when you get beyond a certain<br />point, you're going down no matter how limber you may be. Needless to say,<br />the **** wave, though of considerable force, was not so sufficient so as to<br />completely glance off the toilet seat and deposit itself on the walls,<br />unlike what you would see when hitting a puddle with a high-pressure water<br />hose; even though you throw water at the puddle, the puddle gets moved and<br />no water is left to re-form a puddle. There was a significant amount of ****<br />remaining on about one-third of the seat rim which I had now just collapsed<br />upon.<br /><br />Now, back to the vomit...<br /><br />While all the ****ting was going on, the vomit was still on its way up. By<br />the time I had actually collapsed on the toilet, my mouth had filled up with<br />a goodly portion of the macaroni and beef I had just consumed. OK, so what<br />does the human body instinctively do when vomiting? One bends over. So I<br />bent over. I was still sitting on the toilet, though. Therefore, bending<br />over resulted in me placing my head above my now slightly-opened legs,<br />positioned in between my knees and waist. Also directly above my pants which<br />were now pulled down to a point just midway between my knees and my ankles.<br />Oh, did I mention that I was wearing not just pants, but sweat pants with<br />elastic on the ankles? In one mighty push, some three pounds of macaroni and<br />beef, two or three Cokes, and a couple of Big, Fat Yeast Rolls were<br />deposited in my pants...on the inside...with no ready exit at the bottom<br />down by my feet.<br /><br />In the next several seconds, there were a handful of farts, a couple of<br />turds, and the event ended, yet I was now sitting there with my pants full<br />of vomit, my back covered in **** that had bounced off the toilet, spattered<br />on three ceramic-tiled walls to a height of about five feet, and still had<br />enough force to come back at me, covering the back of my shirt with droplets<br />of liquid ****. All while thick **** was spread all over my *** in a ring<br />curiously in the shape of a toilet seat. And there was no ****ing toilet<br />paper. What could I do but laugh. I must have sounded like a complete maniac<br />to the guy who then wandered into the bathroom. He actually asked if I was<br />OK since I was laughing so hard I must have sounded like I was crying<br />hysterically. I calmed down just enough to ask him if he would get the<br />manager. And told him to have the manager bring some toilet paper. When the<br />manager walked in, he brought the toilet paper with him, but in no way was<br />prepared for what happened next. I simply told him that there was no way I<br />was going to explain what was happening in the stall, but that I needed<br />several wet towels and I needed him to go ask my wife to come help me. I<br />told him where we were sitting and he left.<br /><br />At that point, I think he was probably assuming that I had pissed just a bit<br />in my pants or something similarly benign. About two minutes later, my wife<br />came into the bathroom not knowing what was wrong and with a certain amount<br />of worry in her voice. I explained to her (still laughing and having trouble<br />getting out words) that I had a slight accident and needed her help. Knowing<br />that I had experienced some close calls in the past, she probably assumed<br />that I had laid down a small turd or something and just needed to bring the<br />car around so we could bolt immediately. Until I asked her, I'm sure she had<br />no idea that she was about to go across the street and purchase me new<br />underwear, new socks, new pants, a new shirt, and (by that time due to<br />considerable leakage around the elastic ankles thingies) new sneakers. And<br />she then started to laugh herself since I was still laughing. She began to<br />ask for an explanation as to what had happened when I promised her that I<br />would tell her later, but that I just needed to handle damage control for<br />the time being. She left.<br /><br />The manager then came back in with a half-dozen wet towels and a few dry<br />ones. I asked him to also bring a mop and bucket upon which he assured me<br />that they would clean up anything that needed to be cleaned. Without giving<br />him specific details, I explained that what was going on in that stall that<br />night was far in excess of what I would expect anyone to deal with, what<br />with most of the folks working at Ryan's making minimum wage or just<br />slightly above. At that moment, I think it dawned on him exactly the gravity<br />of the situation. Then that manager went so far above the call of duty that<br />I will be eternally grateful for his actions. He hooked up a hose.<br />Fortunately, commercial bathrooms are constructed with tile walls and tile<br />floors and have a drain in the middle of the room in order to make clean up<br />easy. Fortunately, I was in a commercial bathroom. He hooked up the hose to<br />the spigot located under the sink as I began cleaning myself up with the wet<br />towels.<br /><br />Just as I was finishing, my wife got back with the new clothes and passed<br />them into the stall, whereupon I stuffed the previously worn clothing into<br />the plastic bag that came from the store, handing the bag to my wife. I<br />finished cleaning myself off and carefully put on my new clothes, still<br />stuck in the stall since I figured that it would be in bad taste to go out<br />of the stall to get redressed in the event I happened to be standing there<br />naked and some little ******* kid walked in. At that point, I had only made<br />a mess; I had not yet committed a felony and intended to keep it that way.<br />When I finished getting dressed, I picked up the hose and cleaned up the<br />entire stall, washing down the remains toward the drain in the center of the<br />room. I put down the hose and walked out of the bathroom. I had intended to<br />go to the manager and thank him for all he had done, but when I walked out,<br />three of the management staff were there to greet me with a standing<br />ovation. I started laughing so hard that I thought I was going to throw up<br />again, but managed to scurry out to the car where my wife was now waiting to<br />pick me up by the front door. The upshot of all this is that I strongly<br />recommend eating dinner at Ryan's Steak House. They have, by far, the nicest<br />management staff of any restaurant in which I have eaten.