The Ryan's Steakhouse Story
by Bob
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 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 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 shit 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 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. 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 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 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 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.
