DINING OUT
Now, 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 damned 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 the macaroni and beef was on the hot
Bar, indeed the only night of the week it is served. Wednesday night is also
Kids''s night at Ryan's complete with Dizzy the Clown wandering from table to
Table entertaining 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 the
Moment.
We went thru the line and place 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 was 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 too 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 handicap 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 worst than my wife telling me to
Stop cutting my toenails with the pair of diagonal wire cutters 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 handicap stall even though the door won't 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
Cannot be stopped under any circumstances. There is a move men make that
Involves simultaneously approaching the toilet, beginning the body turn to
Position one's ass toward said toilet, hooking one's fingers into one's
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 once ass is properly
Placed on a toilet seat. Done properly, it even assures that 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 Moves" when I looked down the floor and saw of
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 first walked into the stall. Normally, I would not have been bothered by
Such thing, but I had eaten so much and the pressure upward was so intense, that
I hit a rarely experienced gagged 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 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 seem 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 of 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
seating 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 glanced of the toilet seat and deposited itself
on the walls, unlike what you would see when hitting a paddle with high pressure
water hose: even though you throw water at the paddle, the paddle gets moved and
no water is left to re-form a paddle. There was a significant amount of shit
remaining on about one-third of the seat ream 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 - open 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 vomits,
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 the 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 whatever
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 need
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 thing 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 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 a 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 and excess of what I would expect any one 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 l eternally
grateful for his actions. He hooked up a hose.
Fortunately, commercial bathrooms are constructed with white 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 has 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
Steakhouse. They have, by far, the nicest management staff of any restaurant in
Which I have eaten.
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