Unbeatable Bathroom Humor

Submitted by Steve Crisp sometime in 1998

Now, I know that there is a lot of embellishment 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
folk. 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 crap, 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 wire cutters is
having someone walk in on me while I am taking a poo. 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 poo at the exact same
second that ones ass is properly placed on the toilet seat. Done
properly, it even assures that the lizard is properly inserted into
the front rim of the toilet in the event that the pee 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 people 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 precedence over crapping no
matter what is about to come slamming out of your ass. It is
apparently an evolutionary thing since poopin' 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 crap 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 crap 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 crap 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
poo remaining on about one-third of the seat rim which I had now
just collapsed upon.

Now, back to the vomit...

While all the poopin 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 crap 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 ****. All while thick
poo was spread all over my ass in a ring curiously in the shape of a
toilet seat.

And there was no ****ing 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 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.

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Originally posted by Tony Eeds
LMAO ... Ya know, that story does have a Greenie ring to it, and I know there is a Ryan's within driving distance of Round Rock.

BTW - Loved the description of the "move". BTDT

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