The Steak House incident
Steve Crisp
Now, I know that there is a lot of embellisment 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
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 explination 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.
Steve Crisp
Mustng001
>Subject: The Steak House incident
>From: Steve Crisp <cr...@pageplanet.com>
>Now, I know that there is a lot of embellisment 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.
>
<<<<snip meticulously crafted, highly entertaining story>>>>
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
>
>
>
>
And the fuckers that fabricate stories about unwed mothers in the projects get
the Pulitzers. Shit.
PAARNG "Standing O right now" Lee
Frank Frankly
Steve Crisp wrote:
>
> Now, I know that there is a lot of embellisment 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
Hey Steve,
Where is this Ryan's Steakhouse of which you speak?
I don't know where you live, but if I am ever passing
through, I would love to visit the site of this
blessed event.
There's a Ryans not too far from me in Cary, NC. and
I think another one in Raleigh.
From now on, whenever I cruise out to Ryan's Steakhouse
it just won't be the same.
Frank
Steve Feldberg
Steve Crisp wrote:
>SNIP funniest shit / vomit incident story I have read in a LONG time
Good thing your SO was in the restaurant.
ObT: Walking out of the men's room with your grogan-laden pants around
your ankles "Table for one, please..."
Eviscerator
Steve Crisp
Frank Frankly wrote:
> Where is this Ryan's Steakhouse of which you speak?
> I don't know where you live, but if I am ever passing
> through, I would love to visit the site of this
> blessed event.
>
> There's a Ryans not too far from me in Cary, NC. and
> I think another one in Raleigh.
It was the one at Crossroads Center in Cary.
Steve Crisp
Murray Chapman
Wow. Maestro!
Hilarious! More!
Murray
--
-- Murray Chapman Zheenl Punczna --
-- muz...@it.uq.edu.au zhm...@vg.hd.rqh.nh --
-- University of Queensland Havirefvgl bs Dhrrafynaq --
-- Brisbane, Australia Oevfonar, Nhfgenyvn --
CatS...@worldnet.atthatesspam.net
Steve Crisp wrote the best shit/vomit tale ever woven:
> Wednesday night is also kid's night at Ryan's, complete with Dizzy the
> Clown wandering from table to table entertaining the little bastards.
I wonder exactly how Dizzy the clown "entertains" said rugrats.
>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.
Whoa, you should have known better than to consume four helpings of
over-glorified Hamburger Helper(Tm).
>Now, normally I would have gone to the
> handicapped stall since I like to stretch out a bit when I take a good
> shit,
I usually am the same way. I prefer the TardTreatment(Tm) when I
unload grogans in a public restroom.
> 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.
Much the same thing happened to me. However, I was not in a
restaurant but in the comfort of my own ShitTank(Tm). Unfortunately,
for me I had eaten a entirely different concotion. I had not been
feeling well that day but decided to scarf down 2 heaping portions of
Linguini a la Marinara my mother so lovingly crafted for a couple
hours from scratch. Big mistake.
Although I was sick, I could not resist the Italian delight. I was
so hungry from my flu that I forgo my starving battle plan and ate a
shitload. Unfortunately, my hunger (hadn't ate in two days) got the
best of my better judgement and I did not chew my food well. I like to
swallow my food whole. (insert choadsmoker jokes here) Well, anyway I
felt the familiar, projectile Liquishit rumblings and proceeded to
report to the latrine.
As I attempted the move (much like you) Mt. Anus erupted halfway
before final position. Shit sprayed out (though nowhere as severe as
your case) across the toilet seat and the back of the toilet. Because,
I was in a residential bathroom the tank spared the walls. I collapsed
in the fecal spraypaint because I too was distracted by a particulary
viscous vomit. However; I am relatively sure my vomit is a rare and
special case. It was WHOLE LINGUINI. And it was getting stuck in my
mouth! As if it wasn't bad enough that I deposited the first wave of
linguini (courteousy of Marco Polo) in my trousers.
So here I am, soaked with shit, feet warmed by semi-digested
linguini and hanging out of my mouth is more linguini. Gagging.
Gagging. Choking. Endless waves of linguini. This wasn't the way I
wanted to die. I thought what a fucking way to go.Choking on dinner in
reverse! So, I did what any AT'er would do. I pulled it out.
That's right. I pulled the endless streams of linguini as if they
were paper jams in a paper shredder. I pushed both sets of fingers in
my mouth and pulled the streams of linguini out. This was the first
and hopefully last time I ever had to manually feed my puke out. I
threw them across the tiled floor in a festive, streamer like pattern.
The linguini was a pasty white covered in red sauce which was partly
absored in the porous treat. There were pools of yellowish stomach
acid or bile on the tile floor and in my trousers. The hell if I know
what it was. I just sat there for a second and surveyed the damage.
When it was all said and done I reported the casualties to mom.
Being the good kid I was I hoped mom would clean it up. She didn't. I
found much the same situation downstairs in our powder room. Only she
was fortunate enough to get the wastebasket while she was on the
toilet. And here dad wanted to make his nightly log deposit! He didn't
get to in our house that night. Needless to say. :-)
> And there was no fucking toilet paper.
Ain't that a bitch?
-----------------------------------------
Al Dente? Never heard of 'em!
po_bo...@hotmail.com
Where is this Ryan's Steakhouse of which you speak?
I don't know where you live, but if I am ever passing
through, I would love to visit the site of this
blessed event.
There's a Ryans not too far from me in Cary, NC. and
I think another one in Raleigh.
From now on, whenever I cruise out to Ryan's Steakhouse
it just won't be the same.
Frank
I live in Garner and there's more than just one in Raleigh...
there's also one here too... but I digress.
Ryan's has to be the single most "white trash" restaurant I've
ever had the pleasure to go to over and over again. They don't
always do such a good job cleaning utensils properly. Not like
that's always a problem... just an annoyance. I may be tasteless, but I don't enjoy having chunks of other people's shit all over my knife.
Don'tcha hate that? :)
DL
Steve:
That was such a beautiful and emotionally moving account that I think you
should send it to the corporate management headquarters of Ryan's
Steakhouse, in praise of their management staff. Send them the account you
posted, precisely as is. You may just end up getting raises for the
managers who helped you out of this messy situation.
-Ed
trans-fat
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