the Ryan's steakhouse story, I searched but can't find it

Now, 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 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 diagonal wire cutters 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 *** 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 cannot be
stopped under any circumstances. There is a move men
make that involves simultaneously approaching the
toilet, beginning the body turn to position ones ***
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
*** 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 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 crotched
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
*** .
It is apparently an evolutionary thing since ****ting
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 *** 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 with
embedded pockets of greasy liquid came flying out of
my *** . But remember, I was only halfway 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 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 **** 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 ****ting 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 **** 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 ****. All while thick **** was
spread all over my *** in a ring curiously in the
shape of a toilet seat.
And there was no ****ing 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 being 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.

Thanks

THAT WAS ONE OF THE FUNNIEST THINGS I HAVE EVER READ!!!!  Also my worst nightmare...

Princeton,

Do you know what the source of this is?  I would like to speak to the author about including part of it in a reprint.