Warning, this story contains strong bathroom references and some language, but I promise you will laugh:

 
Now, I know that there is a lot of embellisment that occurs on the internet
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.

This is:  The 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 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 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 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 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.

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 explination 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