long story
10-25-2004, 04:45 PM
#1
Hey check out my tank bag
Thread Starter
Join Date: Oct 2002
Location: hooksett NH
Age: 42
Posts: 860
long story
Ok this is really long but one of the funniest things i have ever read!
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 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 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 ****, 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 wirecutters
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 *** 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 *** 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 *** 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 **** 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 sequenceof 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 ***. 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 *** 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 ***. 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 *** 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.
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 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 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 ****, 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 wirecutters
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 *** 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 *** 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 *** 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 **** 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 sequenceof 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 ***. 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 *** 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 ***. 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 *** 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.
10-25-2004, 08:15 PM
#5
Registered User
Join Date: Sep 2004
Location: Concord, NH
Age: 39
Posts: 712
Re: long story
Reminds me of a time I went to Canada and one of my buddies **** his pants (literally)...it's way too long of a story to tell on here.
Anyway that's one you'll be able to tell your grandkids :YEAH
Anyway that's one you'll be able to tell your grandkids :YEAH
10-25-2004, 10:22 PM
#7
Registered User
Join Date: Nov 2003
Location: drama vegas, n'ampsher
Age: 43
Posts: 373
Re: long story
wow, i was at this party in bedford about 5-6 years ago.and one of my boys meet some chick, i think she was from central, and he wanted to hook up her...but he had one problem, he couldnt find her anywhere, minutes passed and i had a few drinks, so naturally i had to ****, i went to the bathroom, but it was locked, so i went to the master bathroom, and the door was closed but not locked, so i knocked, no answer, so i walk in...all i can say is that i my first job was a janitor at a nursing home, so i have a lot experence with gross ****. all i see in the bathroom is a pair of jean and thongs layin on the floor...as well as it all was covered in ****, i mean the nastiest runny nutty **** smeared all over the floor 
then i see the toilet and it is just covered in puke, hotdogs, beans, corn, dude the whole buffet. Dude the room smelled of funk and the werid **** is that there is noone in the room, being the type of person that i am, when i drink to be exact, i had to get to the bottom of this, i started to look around, looked in the closet nothin weird here, the i opend the shower door to find the chick from central passed out in the tub, half naked, with puke on her shirt and **** on her leg and her...everthing she had **** everywhere...i think she **** some more in the tub. to make a long story short a couple of the girls at the party cleand her up, got her some shorts and locked her in one of the bedrooms. it was pretty funny. also i haven't seen that girl since.
also some of ya guys pandy, adam, chris might remember the girl pissin herself at sara dupris apt that night we came back from bickfords, "everyone pees their from where i am from" or " It tastes like
PEE!!!" 
then i see the toilet and it is just covered in puke, hotdogs, beans, corn, dude the whole buffet. Dude the room smelled of funk and the werid **** is that there is noone in the room, being the type of person that i am, when i drink to be exact, i had to get to the bottom of this, i started to look around, looked in the closet nothin weird here, the i opend the shower door to find the chick from central passed out in the tub, half naked, with puke on her shirt and **** on her leg and her...everthing she had **** everywhere...i think she **** some more in the tub. to make a long story short a couple of the girls at the party cleand her up, got her some shorts and locked her in one of the bedrooms. it was pretty funny. also i haven't seen that girl since.also some of ya guys pandy, adam, chris might remember the girl pissin herself at sara dupris apt that night we came back from bickfords, "everyone pees their from where i am from" or " It tastes like
PEE!!!" 
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