DO NOT EAT WHILE READING THIS STORY ! ! ! ! ! ! !
Craig Stevens
Guys sorry about the fucked up text...LM.
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 seemthat the
events about to be told have little connection to thosetwocircumstances,
but all will be clear in a moment.
We went through the line and placed our orders for the all-you-can-eathot
bar then sat down as far away from the front of the restaurant aspossible
in order to keep the density of kids down a bit. Then Istarted my move to
the hot bar. Plate after plate of macaroni and
beefwere consumed that evening, I tell you-in all, four heaping platesof
the pseudo-Italian ambrosia were shoved into my belly. I was sated.
Perhaps bit too much, however. I had not really been feeling well allday,
what with a bit of gas and such. By the time I had eaten fouroverwhelmed
plates of food, I was in realtrouble. There was so muchpressure on my
diaphragm that I was having trouble breathing. At thesame time, the
downward pressure was building. At first, I thought
it was only gas which could have been passed in batches right at thetable
without to much concern. Unfortunately, that was not to be.After a minute
or so it was clear that I was dealing withexplosivediarrhea. It's amazing
how grease can make its way through your
intestines far faster than the food which spawned the grease to beginwith,
but I digress...
I got up from the table and made my way to the bathroom. Uponentering, I
saw two sinks immediately inside the door, two urinalsjust to the right of
the sinks, and two toilet stalls against the backwall. One of them was a
handicapped bathroom. Now, normally I
wouldhave gone to the handicapped stall since I like to stretch out
abitwhen I take a good shit, but in this case, the door lock wasbrokenand
the only thing I hate worse than my wife telling me to stopcutting my
toenails with a pair of diagional wirecutters is having
someone walk in on me while I am taking a shit. I went to thenormalstall.
In retrospect, I probably should have gone to the large,handicappedstall
even though the door would not lock because that bit of timelost in making
the stall switch proved to be a bit too long under thecircumstances. By the
time I had walked into the regular stall,
thepressure on my ass was reaching Biblical proportions. I began
"TheMove." For those women who may be reading this, let me take a momentto
explain "The Move."
Men know exactly what their bowels are up to at any given second. Andwhen
the time comes to empty the cache, a sequence ofphysiologicalevents occur
that can not be stopped under any circumstances.There isa move men make
that involves simultaneously approaching thetoilet,beginning the body turn
to position ones ass toward said toilet,hooking ones fingers into ones
waistline, and pulling down the pantswhile beginning the squat at the same
time. It is a very fluid motionthat, when performed properly, results in
the flawless expulsionofshit at the exact same second that ones ass is
properly placed on thetoilet seat. Done properly, it even assures that the
choad isproperly inserted into the front rim of the toilet in the
eventthatthe piss stream lets loose at the same time; it is truly a picture
ofcoordination rivaling that of a skilled ballet dancer.
I was about half-way into "The Move" when I looked down at thefloorand saw
a pile of vomit that had been previously expelled by oneofthose little
bastards attending kids night; it was mounded up inthecorner 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 Ihadeaten so
much and the pressure upward was so intense, that Ihit a rarely experienced
gag reflex. And once that reflex started,combined with the intense pressure
upward caused by the bloatedstomach, four plates of macaroni and beef
started coming up for arematch. What happened next was so quick that the
exact sequenceofevents are a bit fuzzy, but I will try to reconstruct them
as bestIcan.
In that moment of impending projectile vomiting, my attention wasdiverted
from the goings-on at the other end. To put a freezeframeon 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 vomitingtakes precidence over shit no matter what
is about to comeslammingout of your ass. It is apparently an evolutionary
thing sinceshitting will not kill you, but vomiting takes a presence of
mindtoaccomplish so that you do not aspirate any food into the
bronchialtubes and perhaps choke to death. My attention was thus diverted.
At that very split second, my ass exploded in what can only bedescribed as
a wake...you know, as in a newspaper headline alongthelines of "30,000
Killed In Wake of Typhoon Fiji" or something similar.In what seemed to be
most suitably measured in cubic feet, an
enormousplug of shit the consistancy of thick mud with embedded pockets
ofgreasy liquid came flying out of my ass. But remember, I was onlyhalf-way
down on the toilet at that moment. The shit wave was of suchforce and of
just such an angle in relation to the back curve ofthetoilet seat that it
ricocheted off the back of the seat andslammed
into the wall at an angle of incidence equal to the angle at which
itinitally hit the toilet seat. Then I sat down.
Recall that when that event occured, I was already half-way to
sittinganyway and had actually reached the point of no return. I have
alwaysconsidered myself as relatively stable gravitationally, but
whenyouget beyond a certain point, you're going down no matter how limber
youmay be. Needless to say, the shit wave, though of considerable
force,was not so sufficient so as to completely glance off the
toiletseatand deposit itself on the walls, unlike what you would see
whenhitting a puddle with a high-pressure water hose; even though youthrow
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 remainingon
about one-third of the seat rim which I had now just collapsedupon. Now,
back to the vomit...
While all the shitting was going on, the vomit was still on itswayup. By
the time I had actually collapsed on the toilet, my mouthhadfilled up with
a goodly portion of the macaroni and beef I hadjustconsumed. OK, so what
does the human body instinctively do whenvomiting? One bends over. So I
bent over. I was still sitting on thetoilet, though. Therefore, bending
over resulted in me placing myhead above my now slightly-opened legs,
positioned in between my kneesand waist. Also directly above mypants which
were now pulled down to a point just midway between myknees and my ankles.
Oh, did I mention that I was wearing not justpants, but sweat pants with
elastic on the ankles?
In one mighty push, some three pounds of macaroni and beef, two orthree
Cokes, and a couple of Big, Fat Yeast Rolls were depositedin mypants...on
the inside...with no ready exit at the bottom down bymyfeet. In the next
several seconds, there were a handful of farts,acouple of turds, and the
event ended, yet I was now sitting there withmy pants full of vomit, my
back covered in shit that had bouncedoffthe toilet, spattered on three
ceramic-tiled walls to a height ofabout five feet, and still had enough
force to come back at me,covering the back of my shirt with droplets of
liquid shit. All whilethick shit was spread all over my ass in a ring
curiously in the shapeof a toilet seat.
And there was no fucking toilet paper.
What could I do but laugh. I must have sounded like a complete maniacto
the guy who then wandered into the bathroom. He actually askedif Iwas OK
since I was laughing so hard I must have sounded like I wascrying
hysterically. I calmed down just enough to ask him if he wouldget the
manager. And told him to have the manager bring sometoilet
paper. When the manager walked in, he brought the toilet paperwithhim,
but in no way was prepared for what happened next. I simply toldhim that
there was no way I was going to explain what washappening inthe stall, but
that I needed several wet towels and I needed himto goask my wife to come
help me. I told him where we were sitting and
heleft. At that point, I think he was probably assuming that I hadpissed
just a bit in my pants or something similarly benign.
About two minutes later, my wife came into the bathroom notknowingwhat was
wrong and with a certain amount of worry in her voice. Iexplained to her
(still laughing andhaving trouble getting out words) that I had a slight
accident andneeded her help. Knowing that I had experienced some close
callsinthe past, she probably assumed that I had laid down a small
turdorsomething and just needed to being the car around so we could
boltimmediately.
Until I asked her, I'm sure she had no idea that she was about togoacross
the street and purchase me new underwear, new socks, new pants,a new shirt,
and (by that time due to considerable leakage around theelastic ankles
thingies) new sneakers. And she then started to laughherself since I was
still laughing. She began to ask for anexplination as to what had happened
when I promised her that Iwouldtell her later, but that I just needed to
handle damage controlforthe time being. She left.
The manager then came back in with a half-dozen wet towels and afewdry
ones. I asked him to also bring a mop and bucket upon which heassured me
that they would clean up anything that needed to becleaned. Without giving
him specific details, I explained that
whatwas going on in that stall that night was far in excess of what Iwould
expect anyone to deal with, what with most of the folks workingat Ryan's
making minimum wage of just slightly above. At that moment,I think it
dawned on him exactly the gravity of the situation.
Thenthat manager went so far above the call of duty that I will
beeternally grateful for his actions. He hooked up a hose.
Fortunately, commercial bathrooms are constructed with tile walls andtile
floors and have a drain in the middle of the room in order tomake clean up
easy. Fortunately, I was in a commercial bathroom.Hehooked up the hose to
the spigot located under the sink as I begancleaning myself up with the wet
towels. Just as I was finishing,mywife got back with the new clothes and
passed them into the stall,whereupon I stuffed the previously worn clothing
into the plastic bagthat came from the store, handing the bag to my wife. I
finishedcleaning myself off and carefully put on my new clothes,
stillstuckin the stall since I figured that it would be in bad taste to
gooutof the stall to get redressed in the event I happened to
bestandingthere naked and some little bastard kid walked in. At that
point,Ihad only made a mess; I had not yet committed a felony andintended
tokeep it that way.
When I finished getting dressed, I picked up the hose and cleanedupthe
entire stall, washing down the remains toward the drain in thecenter of the
room. I put down the hoseand walked out of thebathroom. I had intended to
go to the manager and thank him forall
hehad done, but when I walked out, three of the management staffwerethere
to greet me with a standing ovation. I started laughing so hardthat I
thought I was going to throw up again, but managed toscurryout to the car
where my wife was now waiting to pick me up by thefront door.
The upshot of all this is that I strongly recommend eating dinneratRyan's
Steak House. They have, by far, the nicest management staff ofany
restaurant in which I have eaten.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
CheechWizard
In article <34d8031e.0@cactus>, "Craig Stevens" <cr...@starwon.com.au> wrote:
>Guys sorry about the fucked up text...LM.
>
..yer one 'wordy' motha fucker................
BadLeRoyB
Craig writes:Subject: DO NOT EAT WHILE READING THIS STORY ! ! ! ! ! ! !
From: "Craig Stevens" <cr...@starwon.com.au>
Date: Wed, Feb 4, 1998 00:48 EST
Message-id: <34d8031e.0@cactus>
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Been there, done that, but didn't think anybody would want to
read about it. Diarrhea is not a popular subject, but it isn't
caused by overeating. It's caused by drinking too much liquid.
I learned the hard way to avoid drinking carbonated soft drinks
at those buffets, too, especially don't eat all the ice cream and
drink cokes on top of it.
thefish¤
On Wed, 04 Feb 1998 15:51:12 GMT, loc...@a.tittybar (CheechWizard)
wrote:
>In article <34d8031e.0@cactus>, "Craig Stevens" <cr...@starwon.com.au> wrote:
>>Guys sorry about the fucked up text...LM.
>>
>
>..yer one 'wordy' motha fucker................
i just shit myself laughing............
DAVID HIPS
You should be a fuckin' shit house author !
thefish¤ wrote in message <34d91c5c...@news.uq.edu.au>...
>On Wed, 04 Feb 1998 15:51:12 GMT, loc...@a.tittybar (CheechWizard)
>wrote:
>
>>In article <34d8031e.0@cactus>, "Craig Stevens" <cr...@starwon.com.au>
wrote:
>>>Guys sorry about the fucked up text...LM.
>>>
>>
Frotter
BadLeRoyB wrote in message
> For those women who may be reading this, let me take a momentto
>explain "The Move."
> Men know exactly what their bowels are up to at any given second. Andwhen
>the time comes to empty the cache, a sequence ofphysiologicalevents occur
>that can not be stopped under any circumstances.There isa move men make
Women have to defrag sometimes too.