WARNING: This one is not for the faint of heart and watch out who's around
when you read it. Close the door (people may wonder why you're laughing
uncontrollably) and enjoy! Oh by the way, it's pretty sick!!

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 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
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 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 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 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 being 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.