I found this on the net about 2 years ago. It was about 2 in the morning and I almost collapsed after reading cuz I was laughin so hard.
WARNING: This is a long ass story, but funny all the way through.
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This came from the triangle dining newsgroup, and is about Ryan's
SteakHouse Restaurant in Raleigh, NC.
One of the funniest true stories I have ever read!
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 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.
__________________ Club Mofo Trigger Happy MoFo
Quote:
Originally Posted by Firefly
Capt. Mal: You only have to scare him.
Jayne Cobb: Pain is scary.
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.
Steve Crisp
Hope you enjoyed it!!!!! Hope it never happens to you!!!!!!!!!!!!
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This is just a little extra that was in the same .doc
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The crap List
The science of categorizing crap has been thouroughly investigated
and developed over the year by our crap specialists. Some said you are
what you crap. This saying is true because the kind of food you eat
really does affect the nature of your crap and your crapting habits. The
following is the breakdown types of craps.
Ghost crap -- That's the kind where you feel the crap come out, have
crap on the toilet paper, but there is no crap in the toilet.
Clean crap -- The kind where you crap it out, see it in the toilet, but
there is nothing on the toilet paper.
Wet crap -- The kind where you wipe your but 50 times and it still feels
unwiped. So you have to put some toilet paper between your butt and
your underwear so you don't ruin them with brown stain.
Second Wave crap -- It happens when you're done crapting, you've
pulled your pants up to your knees, and you realize that you have to
crap some more.
Brain-Hemorrhage Through-Your-Nose-crap or the Pop-A-Vein-In-
Your-Forehead crap -- The kind where you strain so much to get it out
that you practically have a stroke.
Richard Simmons crap -- The kind where you crap so much that you
lose 30 pounds.
Corn crap -- Self-explanatory.
Lincoln Log crap -- The kind of crap that is so huge that you're afraid
to flush the toilet without breaking it into a few pieces with your toilet
brush.
Drinker's crap -- That is the kind of crap that you have the morning
after a long night of drinking. It's most noticeable trait is the
treadmarks left on the bottom of the toilet.
"Gee, I Wish I Could crap" crap -- It's the kind where you want to crap,
but all you do is sit on the toilet cramped and fart a few times.
Spinal Tap crap -- That's the kind where it hurts so much coming out
that you swear it was leaving you sideways.
Wet Cheeks crap or the Power Dump -- That's the kind that comes out
of your ass so fast that you butt cheeks get splashed with the toilet
water.
Liquid crap -- That's the kind where yellowish-brown liquid shoots out
of your butt, splatters all over the inside of the toilet bowl, the whole
time chronically burning your tender anus.
Mexican Food crap -- A class all its own!!
__________________ Club Mofo Trigger Happy MoFo
Quote:
Originally Posted by Firefly
Capt. Mal: You only have to scare him.
Jayne Cobb: Pain is scary.
lol, yea, i cried too, but it was 10x funnier cuz it was in the middle of the night when I was half asleep....I was off into it bad. I was literally laying on the floor crying.
__________________ Club Mofo Trigger Happy MoFo
Quote:
Originally Posted by Firefly
Capt. Mal: You only have to scare him.
Jayne Cobb: Pain is scary.
It's hard to laugh so much in the middle of a lab, but dayum, that's priceless! The definitions at the end are great, too. So true!
__________________ Chief Engineer for Club MoFo
Can I put a turbo in my non-turbo? Yes. The trunk is quite large.
Can I put a Supercharger in my Z31?Yes. You can probably put it next to the turbo.
Can I put a Z32/newer 300ZX/VG30DETT in my Z31? This one is iffy. You'd have to disassemble it to get it in the trunk.
Yea for real, the story is funny enough, but the definitions are so true its side splitting. I can recall just about each one.
I read it again today for the first time in a long time after I originally posted it. Im sick as a dog and can hardly breath...but I was still crying.
__________________ Club Mofo Trigger Happy MoFo
Quote:
Originally Posted by Firefly
Capt. Mal: You only have to scare him.
Jayne Cobb: Pain is scary.
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Hilarious story
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