It was mounded up in the corner so I did not notice it when I had first walked into the stall. 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 *******s attending kids night. 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. It is a very fluid motion that, when performed properly, results in the flawless expulsion of **** at the exact same second that one’s ass is properly placed on the toilet seat. 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. And when the time comes to empty the cache, a sequence of physiological events occur that can not be stopped under any circumstances. I began "The Move."įor 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. By the time I had walked into the regular stall, the pressure on my ass was reaching Biblical portions. 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. 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 ****. Now, normally I would have gone to the handicapped stall since I like to stretch out a bit when I take a good ****. 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. I got up from the table and made my way to the bathroom. 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.
After a minute or so it was clear that I was dealing with explosive diarrhea. At first I thought it was only gas, which could have been passed in batches right at the table without too much concern.
At the same time, the downward pressure was building. There was so much pressure on my diaphragm that I was having trouble breathing. By the time I had eaten four overwhelmed plates of food, I was in real trouble. I had not really been feeling well all day, what with a bit of gas and such. 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. 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. 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. Wednesday night is also kid's night at Ryan's, complete with Dizzy the Clown wandering from table to table entertaining the little *******s. 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. A couple of weeks ago we decided to cruise out to Ryan's Steakhouse for dinner. Now, I know that there is a lot of fabrication on HROT and am aware that a small number of things are total BS, but I have a story to tell that is the absolute truth.įunniest damn thing that has ever happened to me.
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