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 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...

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 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 **** 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 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 ass. It is apparently an
evolutionary thing since ******** 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 **** 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 **** 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 ******** 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 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 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 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.

JA?

oh mein gott ist das eklig!!
.
..
...
....
.....aber sooooooo lustig