Bon Apetit(sp?)!
SplashPattern.Com - Dave
Found this gem over on rec.models.rockets. Who knew rocket geeks had such a
finely developed sense of tastelessness? Or have I just reposted something
that originated here (God, it has the feel of fine craftsmanship that isn't
found very often outside of AT.)?
Sorry, didn't include the headers (too lazy!) but enjoy!
--------------------
I thought this would go well with the steak dinner thing!
My thanks to Mack Yocum for a great laugh!
neil tarasoff
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 diagonal 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 crouched 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 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 consistency 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 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
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 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 or 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. >>
--
David Hall
http://www1.iwvisp.com/thehalls
http://splashpattern.com
Bill
> I pulled out the list and attempted to delete all of the immediate
> followups. (Which must have been cretins quoting the entire damned
> story!) This trimmed the list to 150 more-or-less new posts. And
> it's incredible the length of time this story has been circulating,
> and the range of newsgroups it has been over. I list only the first
> 25 so you can get some idea:
>
> alt.humor - 29 Jul 1998 by Joseph S. Ferraro
> alt.support.ibs - 29 Jul 1998 by Michael Mattox
> alt.tasteless.jokes - 07 Jun 1998 by Royle
> alt.humor - 07 Jun 1998 by Royle
> alt.fan.greaseman - 07 Jun 1998 by Royle
> alt.fan.dragonlance - 05 Jun 1998 by Styx
> comp.sys.newton.misc - 04 May 1998 by Don
> misc.education.medical - 27 Apr 1998 by Uvulopalatopharyngoplasty
> alt.tasteless.jokes - 14 Apr 1998 by Charley Hager
> aus.jokes - 14 Apr 1998 by BonzoDog
> alt.tasteless.jokes - 06 Apr 1998 by Divyak
> alt.support.mult-sclerosis - 26 Mar 1998 by Chanoch Weil
> comp.cad.pro-engineer - 18 Mar 1998 by M T Brackbill
> alt.basement.graveyard - 16 Mar 1998 by Space Cowboy
> alt.tasteless - 19 Feb 1998 by Steve Crisp
> alt.gothic - 04 Feb 1998 by ren
> alt.tasteless.jokes - 04 Feb 1998 by Craig Stevens
> houston.eats - 31 Jan 1998 by Bill
> alt.tasteless - 30 Jan 1998 by djnoble
> rec.motorcycles.harley - 19 Dec 1997 by Panhead
> alt.fan.howard-stern - 18 Dec 1997 by Tim Markoski
> alt.tasteless - 18 Dec 1997 by Guilty As Charged
> alt.tasteless.jokes - 30 Nov 1997 by phu...@aol.com
> triangle.dining - 18 Nov 1997 by Steve Crisp
> alt.tasteless - 17 Nov 1997 by Steve Crisp
I think Dave's posting is the only one in AT that was not done in first
person.