I got this from a different message board...i dont know if its more of a joke...or a funny story...but...its worth the long read
"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 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 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 diagional wirecutters is
having someone walk in on me while I am taking a shit.
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 shit 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 precidence over shit no matter what is about to come
slamming out of your ass. 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 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 shit the consistancy 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 shit 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 initally hit the toilet
seat.
Then I sat down.
Recall that when that event occured, 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
shit 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 shit 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 shit 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
shit. All while thick shit was spread all over my ass in a ring
curiously in the shape of a toilet seat.
And there was no fucking 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
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."
