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

cirgreat timesstances, 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 pbumed 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…

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 ****, 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 ****. 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 cirgreat timesstances. By the time I had walked into the regular stall, the

pressure on my bum 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 cirgreat timesstances. There is a move men make that involves simultaneously

approaching the toilet, beginning the body turn to position ones bum 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 **** at the exact same second that ones bum is properly placed on

the toilet seat. Done properly, it even bumures that the choad is properly inserted into the

front rim of the toilet in the event that the **** stream lets loose at the same time; it is

truly a picture of coordination rivaling that of a 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 **** no matter

what is about to come slamming out of your bum. It is apparently an evolutionary thing since

****ting 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 bum 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 **** the consistency of thick mud with embedded pockets of

greasy liquid came flying out of my bum. But remember, I was only half-way down on the

toilet at that moment. The **** 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 **** 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 **** remaining

on about one third of the seat rim which I had now just collapsed upon. Now, back to the

vomit…

While all the ****ting 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 **** 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 **** was spread all over my bum 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 bumuming that I had ****ed 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 bumumed 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 bumured 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 pbumed 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.

NOT MINE