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Now, 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 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
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 diagonal wire cutters 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 cannot 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 halfway 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 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 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 consistency of thick mud with embedded pockets of greasy
liquid came flying out of my ass. But remember, I was only
halfway 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 initially hit the toilet seat.
Then I sat down. Recall that when that event occurred, I was
already halfway 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.
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