Hello everybody. I have been an observer here for a couple of months, but I have to chime in on this one. This is NOT my story. It came from the Powder Mag message board which I used to frequent. The topic was emergency craps in the backcountry, but it somehow lead to this story. I laughed so hard I cried when I read it, and I hope you all do too. I will warn you that it is VERY disgusting and VERY descriptive. But it is definately the best emergency crap story you are ever going to hear.
Sorry for the length, and sorry that this has to be my first post here, but here goes:
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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 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... 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 crap. 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 crap.
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 portions. 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 crap at the exact same second that one’s 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 is 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 crap no matter what is about to come slamming out
of your ass. It is apparently an evolutionary thing
since crapping 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 crap 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 crap 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. Needless to say, the crap 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 crap remaining on about
one-third of the seat rim which I had now just
collapsed upon.
Now, back to the vomit...
While all the crapping 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
sweatpants 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 crap 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 crap. All while thick crap 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.
Last edited by:
TJ Burke: Nov 9, 04 10:12