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My adventure shopping for a digital camera

Lucas Tam
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My wife and I could not wait to get our hands on a brand new Fuji 5000s
digital camera. On the way to Best Buy we decided to cruise out to
Quincy'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 Quincy'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.
All I could think about was the new digital camera I was going to get.
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 ****, 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 diagional wirecutters is having someone walk
in on me while I am taking a ****. 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 **** 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 **** 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 talked 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 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 **** 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 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 **** the consistency
of thick mud withembedded 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 **** 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 **** 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 **** 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 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 **** was spread all over my ass in a ring
curiously in the shape of a toilet seat. And there was no darned
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 ****ed
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 Quincy's making minimum wage or 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 Quincy's Steak House. They have, by far, the
nicest management staff of any restaurant in which I have eaten.
Gosh it was a wild night. My wife told everyone at Best Buy about
what happened to me. Damn wife!
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