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my big accident
Posted by: discooo ()
Date: July 25, 2009 12:43PM

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 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 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 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 hper hlp.

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 hperthat 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 myce I 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 myce I 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.

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Re: my big accident
Posted by: HAHAHAHAH ()
Date: July 25, 2009 01:17PM

HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA dude i lol'd sooo hardy

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Re: my big accident
Posted by: chillaxing ()
Date: July 25, 2009 01:19PM

haha classisc

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Re: my big accident
Date: July 25, 2009 02:11PM

This has been cut and pasted to about 1,000 other forums. Nice job, you lazy ass.

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Re: my big accident
Posted by: Warhawk ()
Date: July 25, 2009 02:51PM

To the OP:

__________________________________
That's not a ladybug, that's a cannapiller.
Attachments:
fail-lol.jpg

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Re: my big accident
Posted by: slyfox ()
Date: July 25, 2009 03:09PM

ive read this before but still shit my pants everytime i read it

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Re: my big accident
Posted by: nox ()
Date: July 25, 2009 03:11PM

Could you shorten this down into one or two sentences please?

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Re: my big accident
Posted by: Harry Tuttle ()
Date: July 25, 2009 03:20PM

"I pooped. I'm sorry"

nox Wrote:
-------------------------------------------------------
> Could you shorten this down into one or two
> sentences please?

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Re: my big accident
Posted by: babyDEE ()
Date: July 25, 2009 06:04PM

heehehehehheeheheheheheh this is hilarious

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Re: my big accident
Posted by: Jester ()
Date: July 25, 2009 06:08PM

Welcome back EJ

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Re: my big accident
Posted by: certificate of health inspection ()
Date: July 25, 2009 06:33PM

I always supected this place, like Old Country Buffet was white trash dining facility( where the hillbilly children lick the serving spoons and put back food) ,,,,this confirms those suspicions

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Re: my big accident
Posted by: Thurston Moore ()
Date: July 25, 2009 10:56PM

I think I've read about 12 different variations on this same story over the years.

It seems like the only part that varies is the restaurant, but the rest is practically verbatim.

scatalogical humor seems to enjoy widespread acceptance among the immature, uneducated and for some reason, the british.

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Re: my big accident
Posted by: SRE ()
Date: July 25, 2009 11:57PM

Damn!!!!!

I went through then same thing, at least initially, at Lurkers place, but I didn't bother to clean it up...

Lurk, sorry about the mess, but that is what you get for allowing forum people in to your place!

:-)

You can pay t back any time @ Mr. T's place!

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Re: my big accident
Posted by: Trk ()
Date: August 02, 2009 05:37PM

I took the biggest shit in Borders once, it was 9pm and I rushed in there after eating at macoroni grill. The tiles behind me where all brown.

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On the Ranch
Posted by: Nate ()
Date: August 02, 2009 06:48PM

When I was 13, I spent part of the summer on my Uncle Bill's ranch in Montana. The far edge of his property line was marked by a creek, which fed down into a small lake. One morning I found a trail down to the water. I removed my clothes, jumped in, and swam around. After an hour I began to get sunburned. I got dressed and climbed back up the trail.

Beneath a cottonwood tree, about a thirty yards away, a man had pitched a pup tent. He had a leather knapsack opened beside a small fire, and he was frying bacon in a small iron skillet. He wore black pants and a black suit jacket, a white shirt open at the neck, and old-fashioned high-topped shoes that were well-shined. He had a deeply lined and homely face, like that of a man who has lost a great deal of weight and the skin hasn't shrunk, as yet, to fit the smaller form within. He was in late middle-age, and his black hair was gray at the temples.

"Did you eat yet?" he said.

I shook my head, squatted on my heels, and inhaled the wonderful aroma of the frying bacon.

He cut two more slices from the slab of bacon he had in his knapsack, and after his slices were crisp he fried mine. While the bacon sizzled, he mixed corn meal and water in a tin cup, and when my bacon was done he removed it, added the corn meal mixture to the hot grease and made a hoecake. We ate the hoecake and the bacon without talking. He then cleaned the frying pan with sand before putting it back into the knapsack. He was neat, almost fussy, in his movements, and he didn't waste any motions. His long fingers trembled, however.

I offered him a cigarette, which he refused. He remained silent while I smoked, and when I finished my cigarette and tossed the butt into the fire, he removed his suit coat, folded it neatly, and put it inside the tent. He then took a two-pronged metal whip out of his knapsack. The whip had been made from a wire coat hanger, with the wire unwound, looped over in the center, and the loop made into a handle, with adhesive tape wrapped around it. The two exposed ends were about three inches apart. It was a short but an effective whip.

"How'd you like to make a dollar?" His voice was as trembly as his fingers.

"I don't know," I said uneasily, getting to my feet and preparing to run.

"All you've got to do," he said, "is hit me across the back with this thing a few times." He held out the whip, and got into a kneeling position.

"Give me the dollar," I said.

"In advance?"

"Yeah. In advance."

Still kneeling, he fished a dollar bill out of his pants pocket, and handed me the money and the whip. I put the money away, and as he leaned forward, hugging his chest, I tapped his back gingerly.

"Harder!" he said.

I hit him a little harder, and as he kept saying, "Harder, harder," I increased the punishment, although I never hit him hard enough to really hurt him, or even to tear the fabric of his shirt. The two-pronged wire whip wasn't heavy enough to do much physical damage.

After awhile, and before my arm got tired, he said, "Thanks. That's enough."

I tossed the whip down beside him, and left for home. My stomach was churning from the experience, or perhaps from the greasy hoecake. Although I was delighted by the unexpected windfall of the dollar, I knew there was something wrong about what I had done. I hadn't liked doing it, and I had been frightened at first, thinking that I might hurt the man, but he hadn't flinched or whimpered. If he had yelled, or indicated in any way that he was in pain, I wouldn't have been able to continue.

The next four days followed the same pattern. After I swam in the lake, the man would cook and give me lunch, pay me a dollar, and I would whip him with the improvised whip. On the fifth morning, after lunch, he asked me to whip him for nothing. I considered it for a moment, then I said, "No. This is the sort of work I do for a living, and if it ever got around that I was passing out free whippings, I'd be out of business." I laughed, thinking that my remark was funny, but he did not join me.

"I thought," he said seriously, "that you might do it out of friendship."

That didn't go down well with me. "You aren't my friend," I said." "I don't know your name, and you've never asked me for mine. We've had a businesslike relationship from the first."

"But I don't have any more money," he said.

"I know what it is to be broke," I said. "If you need some money, I'll lend you a dollar."

"Then," he said, "if I give it back to you, will you stroke me a few times with --"

"No." I shook my head. "But if you need the money for food I'll let you have it."

"Never mind." His face flushed with anger. He turned his back on me, and started to take down his tent, kicking the wooden stakes out with his feet. I watched him as he rolled his tent and his blanket, and folded the roll in a U over his knapsack. Without once looking in my direction, he started down the sandy road toward the railroad station. I felt sympathy for the man, and I couldn't understand my reluctance to give the man a free whipping. But just as I knew that whipping him for money in the first place was wrong, I knew that to whip him for nothing would be much worse. There would be no end to it; he would be like Sinbad the Sailor and The Old Man of the Sea, in the story in The Book of Knowledge I had read at Aldrin.

At any rate, I thought, when he was gone from sight, I now had a tidy little stake.

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