A “Blast” from the Past – Yer Friday Afternoon Funny

| May 10, 2013

Figuratively, anyway.

I was looking through some old e-mail the other day and found this.  It’s something that was forwarded to me while I was in theater a few years ago.

When I first read it, I have to admit that I laughed so hard that I nearly fell out of my chair.  It’s one of the funniest bits of bathroom humor I’ve ever read.  (Yeah, ladies – we guys are kinda strange that way.)  And we could really use a good laugh sometimes in-theater, so it was much appreciated.

The full text (less e-mail headers) is presented below the break.  I’ve done some re-formatting for display, but other than that haven’t changed the text.  I’d guess the original author was likely British and had an engineering or other technical background.

Read or not as you see fit.  Fair warning:  it’s bathroom humor and contains a crude word or two.

Yesterday was hell

All in all, it hadn’t been a good day. Bad traffic, a malfunctioning computer, incompetent coworkers and a sore back all made me a seething cauldron of rage. But more importantly for this story, it had been over forty-eight hours since I’d last taken a dump.

I’d tried to jumpstart the process, beginning my day with a bowl of bowel-cleansing fiber cereal, following it with six cups of coffee at work, and adding a bean-laden lunch at Taco Bell. As I was returning home from work, my insides let me know with subtle rumbles and the emission of the occasional tiny fart that Big Things would be happening soon. Alas, I had to stop at the mall to pick up an order.

I completed this task, and as I was walking past the stores on my way back to the car, I noticed a large sale sign proclaiming, “Everything Must Go!” This was prophetic, for my colon informed me with a sudden violent cramp and a wet, squeaky fart that everything was indeed about to go. I hurried to the mall bathroom.

I surveyed the five stalls, which I have numbered 0 through 4 (I write a lot of software) for your convenience:

0. Occupied

1. Clean, but Bathroom Protocol forbids its use, as it’s next to the occupied one.

2. Poo on seat.

3. Poo and toilet paper in bowl, unidentifiable liquid splattered on seat.

4. No toilet paper, no stall door, unidentifiable sticky object near base of toilet.

Clearly, it had to be Stall #1. I trudged back, entered, dropped trou and sat down. I’m normally a fairly Shameful Shitter. I wasn’t happy about being next to the occupied stall, but Big Things were afoot.

I was just getting ready to bear down when all of a sudden the sweet sounds of Beethoven came from next door, followed by a fumbling, and then the sound of a voice answering the ringing phone. As usual for a cell phone conversation, the voice was exactly 8 dB louder than it needed to be.

Out of Shameful habit, my sphincter slammed shut. The inane conversation went on and on. Mr. Shitter was blathering to Mrs. Shitter about the shitty day he had.

I sat there, cramping and miserable, waiting for him to finish. As the loud conversation dragged on, I became angrier and angrier, thinking that I, too, had a crappy day, but I was too polite to yak about in public. My bowels let me know in no uncertain terms that if I didn’t get crapping soon, my day would be getting even crappier.

Finally my anger reached a point that overcame Shamefulness. I no longer cared. I gripped the toilet paper holder in one hand, braced my other hand against the side of the stall, and pushed with all my might.

I was rewarded with a fart of colossal magnitude – a cross between the sound of someone ripping a very wet bed sheet in half and of plywood being torn off a wall. The sound gradually transitioned into a heavily modulated low-RPM tone, not unlike someone firing up a Harley. I managed to hit resonance frequency of the stall, and it shook gently.

Once my ass cheeks stopped flapping in the breeze, three things became apparent: (1) The next-door conversation had ceased; (2) my colon’s continued seizing indicated that there was more to come; and (3) the bathroom was now beset by a horrible, eldritch stench.

It was as if a gateway to Hell had been opened. The foul miasma quickly made its way under the stall and began choking my poop-mate. This initial “herald” fart had ended his conversation in mid-sentence.

“Oh my God,” I heard him utter, following it with the suppressed sounds of choking, and then, “No, baby, that wasn’t me (cough, gag), you could hear that (gag)??”

Next door I could hear fumbling with the paper dispenser as he desperately tried to finish his task. Little snatches of conversation made themselves heard over my anal symphony: “Gotta go . . . horrible . . . throw up . . . in my mouth . . . not . . . make it . . . tell the kids . . . love them . . . oh God . . .” followed by more sounds of suppressed gagging and retching.

Alas, it is evidently difficult to hold one’s phone and wipe one’s bum at the same time. Just as my high-pressure abuse of the toilet was winding down, I heard a plop and splash from next door, followed by a string of swear words and gags. My poop-mate had dropped his phone into the toilet.

After a considerable amount of paperwork, I got up and surveyed the damage. I felt bad for the janitor who’d be forced to deal with this, but I knew that flushing was not an option. No toilet in the world could handle that unholy mess. Flushing would only lead to a floor flooded with filth.

As I left, I glanced to the next-door stall. Nothing remained in the bowl. Had he flushed his phone, or had he plucked it out and left the bathroom with nasty unwashed hands? The world will never know.

I exited the bathroom, momentarily proud and Shameless, looking around for a face glaring at me. But I saw no one. I suspect that somehow my supernatural elimination has manged to transfer my Shamefulness to my anonymous poop-mate. I think it’ll be a long time before he can bring himself to poop in public – and I doubt he’ll ever again answer his cell phone in the loo.

And this, my friends, is why you should never talk on your phone in the bathroom.

Category: Pointless blather, Who knows

Comments (39)

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  1. ChipNASA says:

    Tears……Never saw this the first time…….tears from stifling uproarious laughter so as not to confound my co-workers.

  2. A Proud Infidel says:

    Good shit, I’m still laughing!

  3. SJ says:

    I cannot remember the last time I laughed so much. Awesome.

    I caught a buddy on the phone with his female office manager whilst on the throne. I flushed every toilet and urinal as close to the same moment as possible. The woman got pissed that he was talking in the throne room.

  4. Nik says:

    As I work in an office, I sat there, laughing as quietly as I could.

    I did a pretty good job of it, but I think I hurt something.

  5. PintoNag says:

    I’ve come to the conclusion that men are a little strange. Wonderful — but strange.

  6. EGS says:

    made my friday better.

  7. Veritas Omnia Vincit says:

    @5 Darlin, we are more than a little strange….but thanks for the wonderful part! Perhaps wonderfully strange is appropriate in some cases.

    The moral of the story of course is that more fiber in your daily diet prevents a 48 hour buildup of sludge that will require one hundred pounds of air pressure to evacuate…..steady consumption of broccoli and cabbage keeps the air pressure requirements down to about 2-5 pounds of air pressure and doesn’t allow more than a 5-6 hour buildup of unnecessary sludge….

  8. O-4E says:

    Oh boy…reminds me of this one time..at band camp

    I was a high speed young Corporal stationed at Schofield Barracks. I had been severly constipated about 3 or 4 days. The McDs right off post had been running a 2-for-1 Big Mac special all week that we had been partaking in like fiends.

    Well we had the Aloha Run coming up the next day which is a 9 mile run (if I rmember correctly) that the entire 25th ID used to take part in. So I knew I had to do something.

    So I traipsed down to the shoppete and bought some ExLax. “Guaranteed to work in 12 hours” the directioins said. Well I had to be on the bus, with the rest of the unit, at 0400 to head to Honolulu for the run. And that was 8 hours away at this point. So…doing some Infantry math I figured if I ate 6 pices of the little chocolate laxative that would speed the process along.

    Well along comes 0400 and nothing. In fact nothing happended until the run started. The low grumbling and “sharts” (for those that don’t know a shart is a combination of shit and fart)

    I made the whole run and headed for the porta johns at Aloha Stadium…and of course they were all occupied with long lines. And of course the 1SG was hounding us to get on the bus.

    I was sweating and in pain by this point. I wasn’t going to make it through a 40 minute bus ride back to Schofield. I felt like I was in labor.

    I moved to the front of the bus and demanded the driver pull over. My CO and 1SG were like wtf is this kid doing?

    I ran out of the bus and into the cane field off the road and let loose. And used my socks to clean up. Then walked sheepishly and relieved back to the bus…sans socks.

    Took me a while to live that down.

  9. Hondo says:

    PintoNag: yeah, guys do seem to get more laughs out of bathroom humor than do you ladies.

    Why? Dunno. Maybe the late George Carlin explained it. As he put it in one of his routines: “Farts are fun. Farts are sh*t without the mess!”

  10. Veritas Omnia Vincit says:

    @8 happened to a kid at Ft Dix in 1978 they called him private turd pants or private turdison (his name rhymed with that) the rest of basic….(about 4 weeks left)

  11. pete says:

    LMAO!! i just read this to my wife and she won’t stop glaring at me

  12. jerry920 says:

    I am so glad that carried a spew warning!

  13. Virtual Insanity says:

    Oh my God. the entire building heard me laughing.

    I hurt from waist up.

    Can hardly see to type.

  14. pigmypuncher says:

    OMG my sides hurt, and I’m laughing so hard I’m crying! You made my weekend!!

  15. George V says:

    Best descriptive writing I have ever read!

  16. The Poet Laureate says:

    1. I had to close my office door I was laughing so hard.
    2. As a chick, while I’ve never done something of this magnitude, I do try to flush incessantly (overflush?) when someone’s on the phone. It’s the bathroom, not the phone room. I don’t poop in your living room, don’t chatter away in the bathroom.

  17. JDSIII says:

    Hilarious, funniest thing that I’ve read in a long time!!!

  18. Pineywoods NCO says:

    Good needed laugh…sent the story via email to my better half since she loves to take her phone with her to the bathroom.

  19. B Woodman says:

    Yes, NOT to be read to the wifey (explanation not necessary).
    And, I’m glad my chair has arms on it. Otherwise I’d be on the floor.
    Thank you for the Friday funny.

  20. Mr Wolf says:

    ‘technical background’

    Are you saying he was a proctologist???

  21. MrBill says:

    Thanks, I needed the laugh!

  22. Retired Master says:

    What a great way to start a weekend, thanks for the post!!!!!!!

  23. Ex-PH2 says:

    @8 – I would like to know if you ended up with a large frog in your pants.

    I only ask because the funniest thing I’ve ever seen was on “Tour of Duty” when one of the guys had dysentery, couldn’t hold it, ran into the elephant grass and when he emerged saw VC in the bush dropped his trousers to shoot. Meanwhile, a very large frog leapt into his pants and then he pulled them up.

    It’s about 3:15 minutes into this video.


    I have a warped sense of humor, so I appreciate this story, as I have been victimized myself this way.

  24. malclave says:

    Am I the only one who thought “great, now there’s only one usable stall left”?

  25. OldSoldier54 says:

    Holy … ahh … crap, that was hysterical!

  26. DaveO says:

    My screen is not improved by the sudden addition of ramen.

    Nope. Not one bit.

    Funniest thing I’ve read in a long, long time 😀

  27. Enigma4you says:

    That was great, nothing better than a good shit story.
    I have a good one that a heard a year or so ago.
    Spew Warning.

    I went to Home Depot recently while not being altogether sure that course of action was a wise one. You see, the previous evening I had prepared and consumed a massive quantity of my patented ‘you’re definitely going to shit yourself’ road-kill chili. Tasty stuff, although hot to the point of being painful, which comes with a written guarantee from me that if you eat it, the next day both of your butt cheeks WILL fall off..

    Here’s the thing. I had awakened that morning, and even after two cups of coffee (and all of you know what I mean) nothing happened. No ‘Watson’s Movement. Despite the chillies swimming their way through my intestinal tract, I was unable to create the usual morning symphony referred to by my dear wife as ‘thunder and lightning’.

    Knowing that a time of reckoning HAD to come, yet not sure of just when, I bravely set off for Home Depot, my quest being paint and supplies to refinish the deck. Upon entering the store at first all seemed normal. I selected a cart and began pushing it about dropping items in for purchase.. It wasn’t until I was at the opposite end of the store from the toilets that the pain hit me.

    Oh, don’t look at me like you don’t know what I’m talking about. I’m referring to that ‘Uh, Oh, Shit, gotta go’ pain that always seems to hit us at the wrong time. The thing is, this pain was different. The chillies from the night before were staging a revolt. In a mad rush for freedom they bullied their way through the small intestines, forcing their way into the large intestines, and before I could take one step in the direction of the toilets which would bring sweet relief, it happened. The chillies fired a warning shot.

    There I stood, alone in the paint and stain section, suddenly enveloped in a toxic cloud the likes of which has never before been recorded. I was afraid to move for fear that more of this vile odor might escape me. Slowly, oh so slowly, the pressure seemed to leave the lower part of my body, and I began to move up the aisle and out of it, just as a red aproned clerk turned the corner and asked if I needed any help.

    I don’t know what made me do it, but I stopped to see what his reaction would be to the toxic non-visible fog that refused to dissipate.. Have you ever been torn in two different directions emotionally? Here’s what I mean, and I’m sure some of you at least will be able to relate. I could’ve warned that poor clerk, but didn’t. I simply watched as he walked into an invisible, and apparently indestructible, wall of odor so terrible that all he could do before gathering his senses and running, was to stand there blinking and waving his arms about his head as though trying to ward off angry bees. This, of course, made me feel terrible, but then made me laugh. …….BIG mistake!!!!!

    Here’s the thing. When you laugh, it’s hard to keep things ‘clamped down’, if you know what I mean. With each new guffaw an explosive issue burst forth from my nether region. Some were so loud and echoing that I was later told a few folks in other aisles had ducked, fearing that someone was robbing the store and firing off a shotgun. Suddenly things were no longer funny.. ‘It’ was coming, and I raced off through the store towards the toilet, laying down a cloud the whole way, praying that I’d make it before the grand explosion took place.
    Luck was on my side. Just in the nick of time I got to the john, began the inevitable ‘Oh my God’, floating above the toilet seat because my ass is burning SO BAD, purging. One poor fellow walked in while I was in the middle of what is the true meaning of ‘Shock and Awe’.. He made a gagging sound, and edly said, ‘Son-of-a-bitch!, did it smell that bad when you ate it?’, then quickly left.

    Once finished and I left the restroom, reacquired my partially filled cart intending to carry on with my shopping when a store employee approached me and said, ‘Sir, you might want to step outside for a few minutes. It appears some prankster set off a stink bomb in the store. The manager is going to run the vent fans on high for a minute or two which ought to take care of the problem.’

    My smirking of course set me off again, causing residual gases to escape me. The employee took one sniff, jumped back pulling his shirt up to cover his nose and, pointing at me in an accusing manner shouted, ‘IT’S YOU!’, then ran off returning moments later with the manager. I was unceremoniously escorted from the premises and asked none too kindly not to return.

    Home again without my supplies, I realized that there was nothing to eat but leftover chili, so I consumed two more bowls. The next day I went to shop at Lowes. I can’t say anymore about that because we are in court over the whole matter. Bastards claim they’re going to have to repaint the store.

  28. pete says:

    oh sweet Jesus Enigma! i just read that one to my wife and have been 86’d from the house with my pot-o-chili!

  29. WkAvngr211 says:

    Just read this to my wife. She and I were laughing so hard the cats got scared. “Honey, that sounds like on a regular day!”, was my wife’s response.

  30. WkAvngr211 says:

    “Honey that sounds like you on a regular day!” is what I meant to type.

  31. SJ says:

    #27: I’ve heard that called “Crop Dusting”

  32. “poopmate” classic.

    My tale o’ poop fortunately didn’t involve me but a poor guy who was with 2/6. In 1981 I was on a fire-ex in 29 Palms and my battery was fire support for them.
    We were in Camp Wilson, which is the temporary base set way out from mainside. It has come a long way but back then it was GP Tents,mostly Port O Johns,and very limited showers, and a PX Truck once daily.
    The main character in this sordid tale was PFC Cornilous. He was of Carribean decent and a Brooklyn Native. May I add he was of below average intelligence and deathly afraid of snakes. His buddies took every opportunity to remind him that rattlesnakes “were all over” 29 Palms. When this guy got up in the morning he would poke his clothes with a stick to make sure a rattler wasn’t hiding in them.
    After lunch there was the usual run to the port o potties before after chow formation and Cornilous had dropped trou and began his bowl movement when a gust of wind blew some pebbles against the back of the port o john. The first thing he thought was a rattlesnake was in the crapper, His first action was to try to jump up and out the door. I’m not sure exactly how he managed it, but he managed to tip the port o john over,,, on its front door. He was trapped inside screaming his head off. It finally dawned on him there was no Rattler. But there he was, pants down and a large portion of the crapper contents on his ass legs and feet.
    Some of his buddies ( laughing like hell) picked up the port o potty and freed him. He emerged, crap splattered from the middle of his back to his feet, and of course a huge amount in his pants which had been half mast at the time.
    Poor Cornelius had to do a 400 yard “walk of shame” through the BLT area, with half of the Battalion watching as he dripped shit all the way to the nearest shower building.
    From that day until his EAS was known as “Shitty Man”

  33. O-4E says:

    @32..love it…similar story

    Was also Artillery. At Fort Drum with the 10th Mountain. The worst Soldier in the battalion was the Chaplain’s Assistant. The kid was a mess. And I don’t just mean as a Soldier but as a human being. And to top it off he was from a certain family of big defense contractors that VP Cheney often gets paired with. We will just call him PFC H.

    So there we were…at JRTC..out in the box. We had a fire base established and by this point in the exercise were getting resupplied by air because the OPFOR had all of the roads covered.

    Every time the CH-47s came in the blew over the porta johns. As the Battery XO I was sitting up by the gate on our 50 cal position. And along comes the Chaplains vehicle. The Chaplain gets out ans starts mingling and there goes PFC H over to the porta john and goes in. Along comes the next resupply and over goes all of the porta johns, on cue, door side down on ol’ PFC H.

    Next thing you know the poor Chaplain, God bless him, is helping the kid wash off with 5 gallon water cans.

  34. O-4E says:

    And I will neither confirm or deny I spent a dry if not so comfortable night in a porta john during a freezing rain storm at Fort McClellan during BNCOC.

    And these weren’t the new modern, contractor maintained porta johns. These were the plywood shacks over a hole in the ground.

    Nor will I confirm or deny that upon entering said porta john a few days later, I dropped my little baggie of TP down the hole and of course there was no other TP. So being the quick thinker I was I used my trusty M258 decon training kit…with its handy alcohol pad to clean myself.

    And clean it did. Like a whistle.

    A few hours later and the rest of the FTX I couldn’t hardly walk from the horrendous rash it gave me.

  35. B Woodman says:

    #34 O-4E
    Are you SURE it was the TRAINING wipe and not the real decon wipe?

  36. William Blake's Penis says:


    Having used the real wipes numerous times…I can only imagine the damage that would have done

  37. Ex-PH2 says:

    I found this story this morning. It is a news item that may be of interest to some of you, should you ever need a transplant of this kind, for health reasons, of cours.


  38. Enigma4you says:


    No Shit?

  39. ChipNASA says:

    Can’t let this one go by since it was referenced in a newer thread so I contribute this lovely Internet Poop story…..(oh and vomit too)
    /not me..just a poor soul that posted that is now internets famous….

    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.