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My adventure shopping for a digital camera

 
 
Jim Anable
Guest
Posts: n/a
 
      04-13-2004
"Lucas Tam" <(E-Mail Removed)> wrote in message news:(E-Mail Removed) om...
> 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 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 **** 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!



Just when I thought about giving up this newsgroup, and even usenet in
general, there comes along a priceless, quality post like the one
above.

It's happened more than once now. Someday, I will learn to have
faith.


Jim Anable
 
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Thomas
Guest
Posts: n/a
 
      04-13-2004
Jim,

If you like it so much, how come you didn't x-post it to
Guitar_Amplifiers at Yahoo? I'm a bit dissapointed to have had to
search it out here

Jim Anable wrote:

> "Lucas Tam" <(E-Mail Removed)> wrote in message news:(E-Mail Removed) om...
>
>>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 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 **** 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!

>
>
>
> Just when I thought about giving up this newsgroup, and even usenet in
> general, there comes along a priceless, quality post like the one
> above.
>
> It's happened more than once now. Someday, I will learn to have
> faith.
>
>
> Jim Anable


 
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jdavyd williams
Guest
Posts: n/a
 
      04-13-2004
Jim Anable wrote:
<snip>
> Just when I thought about giving up this newsgroup, and even usenet in
> general, there comes along a priceless, quality post like the one
> above.
>
> It's happened more than once now. Someday, I will learn to have
> faith.
>
>
> Jim Anable


amen brother.

 
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Odin
Guest
Posts: n/a
 
      04-13-2004

"Jim Anable" <(E-Mail Removed)> wrote in message

> "Lucas Tam" <(E-Mail Removed)> plagiarized in message


> > 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.


Snip plagiarized story

> > 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!

>
>
> Just when I thought about giving up this newsgroup, and

even usenet in
> general, there comes along a priceless, quality post like

the one
> above.
>
> It's happened more than once now. Someday, I will learn

to have
> faith.
>
>
> Jim Anable


Except he stole the story and didn't bother to credit the
author. That's the infamous "Steakhouse Incident" story,
originating here http://www.ihos.com/steakhouse.html .


 
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Jim Anable
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Posts: n/a
 
      04-13-2004
>

FYI: http://www.velocityreviews.com/forums/(E-Mail Removed) is NOT Jim Anable in Seattle. It is a troll.

 
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claudel
Guest
Posts: n/a
 
      04-13-2004
In article <(E-Mail Removed)>,
Jim Anable <(E-Mail Removed)> wrote:
>>

>
>FYI: (E-Mail Removed) is NOT Jim Anable in Seattle. It is a troll.
>


Responding to trollage with a spoofed sender only perpetuates the bullshit.


--
| ^ JOIN THE
| /"\ ASCII RIBBON CAMPAIGN
| \ / TO RID USENET OF
| X NATTERING ****WITS
| / \

 
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§cİİt§
Guest
Posts: n/a
 
      04-13-2004
"Jim Anable" <(E-Mail Removed)> wrote in message news:(E-Mail Removed) om...
> "Lucas Tam" <(E-Mail Removed)> wrote in message news:(E-Mail Removed) om...
> > 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 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 **** 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!

>
>
> Just when I thought about giving up this newsgroup, and even usenet in
> general, there comes along a priceless, quality post like the one
> above.
>
> It's happened more than once now. Someday, I will learn to have
> faith.
>
>
> Jim Anable


golly! Some enchanted evening!


 
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Jim Anable
Guest
Posts: n/a
 
      04-13-2004
> golly! Some enchanted evening!

You did see the message that the original poster is NOT me, but a troll with a lame attempt to spoof my name,
right?

 
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claudel
Guest
Posts: n/a
 
      04-13-2004
In article <UmZec.8851$(E-Mail Removed) et>,
§cİİt§ <(E-Mail Removed)> wrote:
>"Jim Anable" <(E-Mail Removed)> wrote in message news:(E-Mail Removed) om...
>> "Lucas Tam" <(E-Mail Removed)> wrote in message news:(E-Mail Removed) om...
>> > 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 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 **** 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!

>>
>>
>> Just when I thought about giving up this newsgroup, and even usenet in
>> general, there comes along a priceless, quality post like the one
>> above.
>>
>> It's happened more than once now. Someday, I will learn to have
>> faith.
>>
>>
>> Jim Anable

>
>golly! Some enchanted evening!
>
>



--
| ^ JOIN THE
| /"\ ASCII RIBBON CAMPAIGN
| \ / TO RID USENET OF
| X NATTERING ****WITS
| / \
 
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claudel
Guest
Posts: n/a
 
      04-13-2004
In article <UmZec.8851$(E-Mail Removed) et>,
§cİİt§ <(E-Mail Removed)> wrote:
>"Jim Anable" <(E-Mail Removed)> wrote in message news:(E-Mail Removed) om...
>> "Lucas Tam" <(E-Mail Removed)> wrote in message news:(E-Mail Removed) om...
>> > 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 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 **** 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!

>>
>>
>> Just when I thought about giving up this newsgroup, and even usenet in
>> general, there comes along a priceless, quality post like the one
>> above.
>>
>> It's happened more than once now. Someday, I will learn to have
>> faith.
>>
>>
>> Jim Anable

>
>golly! Some enchanted evening!
>
>



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