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Thread: Since you guys like Poop so much.

  1. #1
    I'm sorry, and you are....? frodobaggins's Avatar
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    Since you guys like Poop so much.

    The Ryan's Steakhouse story (not mine!)

    Now, I know that there is a lot of embellishment that occurs on this group and I am aware that a small number of things are perhaps sheer fabrication, but I have a story to tell that is the absolute truth.

    Funniest damn thing that has ever happened to me. A couple of weeks ago we decided to cruise out to Ryan's Steakhouse for dinner. It was a Wednesday night which means that macaroni and beef was on the hot bar, indeed the only night of the week that it is served. Wednesday night is also kid's night at Ryan's, complete with Dizzy the Clown wandering from table to table entertaining the little bastards. It may seem that the events about to be told have little connection to those two circumstances, but all will be clear in a moment.

    We went through the line and placed our orders for the all-you-can-eat hot bar then sat down as far away from the front of the restaurant as possible in order to keep the density of kids down a bit. Then I started my move to the hot bar. Plate after plate of macaroni and beef were consumed that evening, I tell you - in all, four heaping plates of the pseudo-Italian ambrosia were shoved into my belly. I was sated. Perhaps a bit too much, however.

    I had not really been feeling well all day, what with a bit of gas and such. By the time I had eaten four overwhelmed plates of food, I was in real trouble. There was so much pressure on my diaphragm that I was having trouble breathing. At the same time, the downward pressure was building. At first I thought it was only gas, which could have been passed in batches right at the table without too much concern.

    Unfortunately, that was not to be. After a minute or so it was clear that I was dealing with explosive diarrhea. It's amazing how grease can make its way through your intestines far faster than the food which spawned the grease to begin with, but I digress... I got up from the table and made my way to the bathroom. Upon entering, I saw two sinks immediately inside the door, two urinals just to the right of the sinks, and two toilet stalls against the back wall. One of them was a handicapped bathroom. Now, normally I would have gone to the handicapped stall since I like to stretch out a bit when I take a good ****. 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 portions. I began "The Move."

    For those women who may be reading this, let me take a moment to explain "The Move." Men know exactly what their bowels are up to at any given second. And when the time comes to empty the cache, a sequence of physiological events occur that can not be stopped under any circumstances. There is a move men make that involves simultaneously approaching the toilet, beginning the body turn to position ones *** 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 one’s *** 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 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.
    [H]4 Life
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  2. #2
    I'm sorry, and you are....? frodobaggins's Avatar
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    Part 2

    What happened next was so quick that the exact sequence of events is a bit fuzzy, but I will try to reconstruct them as best I can. In that moment of impending projectile vomiting, my attention was diverted from the goings-on at the other end. To put a freeze frame on the situation, I was half crouched down to the toilet, pants pulled down to my knees, with a load of vomit coming up my esophagus.

    Now, most of you know that vomiting takes precedence over **** 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 sweatpants with elastic on the ankles. In one mighty push, some three pounds of macaroni and beef, two or three Cokes, and a couple of Big, Fat Yeast Rolls were deposited in my pants...on the inside...with no ready exit at the bottom down by my feet. In the next several seconds, there were a handful of farts, a couple of turds, and the event ended. Yet I was now sitting there with my pants full of vomit, my back covered in **** 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 ******* 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 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.
    [H]4 Life
    My next generation Front End is right on schedule.
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  3. #3
    Top Ramen lgbr's Avatar
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    That was the most well done literature I've ever seen.
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  4. #4
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    Care to name the poop loving members frodo?

  5. #5
    I'm sorry, and you are....? frodobaggins's Avatar
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    Quote Originally Posted by Chris31
    Care to name the poop loving members frodo?
    Hehe
    [H]4 Life
    My next generation Front End is right on schedule.
    It will be done sometime in the next generation.
    I'm a lesbian too.
    I am for hire!

  6. #6
    I'm sorry, and you are....? frodobaggins's Avatar
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    Here is another one.

    Tis a teal deer, But it will have you rolling.

    hadn’t realized how supremely ****-housed I was until we stumbled into our room at the Embassy Suites. You ever been so drunk you forgot that you have to **** until the last minute? Well I was at that stage. I nearly had my pants completely off when SlingBlade snaked past me and got into the toilet first. Fine, I go get out of my bar clothes and change into a t-shirt and pink Gap boxers to sleep in. I wait patiently for about three minutes, then I start pounding on the door, screaming at him that I am going to **** on his bed if he doesn’t get out of there.

    A short time later he opens the door laughing his *** off, and says, “That was perhaps the most prodigious **** ever. I just put that toilet into therapy.”


    I take a gander into the bathroom. It looks like Revelations. The toilet is overflowing, brown **** water is spilling out all over the bathroom floor, and the tank is making demonic gurgling noises.


    THE ************ CLOGGED UP A HOTEL TOILET!


    Hotel toilets are industrial size; they are designed to be able to accommodate repeated elephant-sized ****s, and their ram-jet engine flushes generate enough force to suck down a human infant, yet skinny *** 170-pound SlingBlade completely killed ours.


    I nearly panic. I let loose a flurry of unintelligible curse words at SlingBlade, punctuated by a “WHAT THE HELL IS WRONG WITH YOU?!,” and knock over the lamp in my dash out of the room. The turtle is sticking his head out, and he is coming whether I am on a toilet or not.


    I figure that there must be a bathroom somewhere in the lobby, so I shoot down the hall and hop in the elevator. Once in the lobby I can’t seem to spot a bathroom anywhere. So, I head around the corner to the front desk, which doesn’t face the lobby. It’s about 4am, and no one is at the desk. I furiously hit the bell for at least a minute--CLANG CLANG CLANG CLANG CLANG CLANG CLANG CLANG CLANG CLANG --until some poor lady comes out with sleep lines all over her face and tells me that the bathroom in the corner of the lobby.

    turn the corner from the front desk into the lobby and realize I don't know which side of the triangular lobby she is talking about. I don't have time to go back and ask her, and I see a white door at the end of the left-hand side, so I quickly waddle towards it. Why am I waddling? Because I have to physically hold my butt cheeks together to prevent myself from crapping all over my pink Gap boxers. I am literally pressing my *** cheeks together with my hands. One of the prouder moments of my life.

    I nearly bust the door off it’s hinges as I plow through it. I hear a loud, “AYYYY!!,” that almost literally scares the **** out of me. I jump back to see that this is a janitor’s closet, complete with a small Mexican lady janitor. I momentarily contemplate taking a dump in the janitors bucket, but decide against that, mainly because of the presence of said female janitor.


    I try to be as diplomatic as possible, considering that I am about to crap my pants:


    Tucker “WHERE IS THE BATHROOM?”
    Janitor “No, no se habla Ingles.”
    Tucker “WHAT?!? Huh, uh…DONDE ESTA ******* BANO?”
    Janitor “AYA, AYA!”


    She points across the lobby. About 60 yards from where I am standing, at the complete other end of the lobby, there is a set of doors that have a large “Restroom” sign over them. Right where the front desk lady said it would be, except on the opposite side of the lobby.


    I have about half a second to make a crucial decision: I can either sprint and hope I make it there before I **** in my boxers, or I can stick my thumb up into my *** and shuffle the 60 yards to lavatory freedom. The decision is simple: I break into a full-on dead-*** sprint.


    I am a decent athlete, I played football, baseball and basketball in high school, and I stay in good shape. I have run from cops before, I have run from guard dogs, from a legitimate drive-by shooting once while in Kentucky, but I don’t think I have ever run that fast in my life. Nothing motivates like the prospect of being covered in human excrement.

    Unfortunately, I was not fast enough. It went something like this:


    -20 yards into the run I feel my boxers start to sag.
    -30 yards into the run, about halfway, I feel my *** crack and legs get noticeably wet.
    -40 yards into the run, my boxers have slid down to mid thigh. I am struggling to keep it together.
    -50 yards into the run, I can feel wetness all over me and little specs of something hitting the back of my head and ears.


    By the time I get to the bathroom door, the end of the 60 yards, I have completely lost it.


    I am ****ting myself. Full on crapping in my pink Gap boxers.


    I step out of my boxers as I crash through the door. **** is puddled in the seat. I blindly hurl them away from me, and nearly break the door to the first stall. I plop down on the seat and immediately slide off, because my *** is covered in slimy, runny feces. All the while, my butt hole is spouting forth waste. I finally get situated on the toilet and lose perhaps 20 pounds in the next 2 minutes.

    During a short respite in my nearly superhuman flow of crap, I notice that the toilet is almost completely full of ****, so I flush. Predictably, the toilet overflows. Great. I move to the next stall, and continue my little adventure, except this time I courtesy flush every few seconds.


    By the time I finish, I am physically exhausted, completely dehydrated, and my eyes are tearing up from ****ting so hard. I laugh at the inadequacy of toilet paper to clean my body. I take my shirt off and see that the back of it is completely covered in little specks of **** that my heels kicked up from the diarrhea that ran down my legs as I ran. I throw the shirt in the trash, and then see the mirror. My pink Gap boxers are crumpled in a ball on the sink, with a thick black streak leading from the top of the mirror down to them. This is their final resting place.


    Completely naked and covered in my own poop, I chuckle, because at this point if I don’t laugh I have to cry. As I open the bathroom door to the lobby, I think to myself, “Who else on earth could be having a worse night than me?”


    My question is immediately answered.


    I see a trail of ****, starting very wide at my feet, getting progressively smaller until it apexes at the chunky white shoes of none other than the small Mexican lady janitor.


    Her eyes met mine. We may have been separated by numerous religious, language and socioeconomic barriers, but the "What the **** just happened?" expression on her face crossed all boundaries.


    Now really--picture this scene: I am butt-*** naked, crap plastered all over my ***, legs, back and head, standing about 20 yards away from a Mexican maid, with a trail of black liquid **** leading from her directly to me. What would you do? I wasn't sure. I don't think there is any defined etiquette for this situation.


    I shrug my shoulders, say, "Uhh, sorry. I mean, uh--lo siento. Good night. Buenos noche--or whatever," and calmly walk to the elevator.


    From the glass window in the elevator, I can see her sobbing. The rest of the lobby tells me why: Not only had my legs kicked **** up on the back of my ears and head, they had sprayed little specs of poop all over EVERYTHING. The couches, the walls, everywhere.


    Come to think of it, she wasn’t sobbing. I believe “hysterical crying” would be a better descriptive term. Oh well, someone has to clean up my messes, and it sure as **** isn’t going to be me.


    When I get back to the room, SlingBlade is already in bed. He rolls over, takes one look at me and, never one for sympathy, begins laughing uncontrollably. He literally has to stop laughing because he strains his abdominal muscle. It takes him five whole minutes before he can get the words out,


    SlingBlade "Where--where the **** are your pants?”
    Tucker "**** YOU *******. This is all your fault, Mr. Rhino Dump. If you hadn't had that miscarriage in our toilet I wouldn't be COVERED IN ****!"


    He couldn"t stop laughing long enough to respond. I took what remained of my dignity and got in the shower. As I was cleaning the poop off my back, I could hear him yell out:


    "This is clear proof that there is a God, and he is just!"
    [H]4 Life
    My next generation Front End is right on schedule.
    It will be done sometime in the next generation.
    I'm a lesbian too.
    I am for hire!

  7. #7
    Top Ramen lgbr's Avatar
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    Oh... My.... God. That second story, as soon as I hit “WHAT?!? Huh, uh…DONDE ESTA ******* BANO?” I was literally on the floor. Maaaaaaad props to you frodo.
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  8. #8
    I'm sorry, and you are....? frodobaggins's Avatar
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    Here is another one. Btw, I am blatently stealing these from GenMay

    Mine is a story told from a slightly different perspective. I must warn you all, it is a tl:dr. But I promise it's worth it

    When I was in high school, I had a job at the local grocery store. I was a bagger/cleaner, depending on the day. Well, I live in a small town, so the latest I ever worked was ten, and at that point, the store was devoid of all forms of sentient life, aside from the employees.

    Anyways, I was in the back of the store, taking out some garbage, when I hear this over the intercom, through what can only be described as the worst attempt I have ever heard of not laughing, "Will the cleaner please come to the front of the store, there has been an...accident"

    I assume it is a fellow coworker trying to play a prank on me, as it was nearly closing time, and there were not many people left in the store. I get up there to see a strage brown, muddy trail, that started about twenty yards from the bathroom. My manager looks at me, with tears in her eyes from laughing, and tells me that I had better start cleaning.

    As she says this to me, I turn and look to the bathroom, and what do I see, but an incredibly gross, super-obese woman come out of the bathroom with a triumphant look on her face. Her legs, somehow forced into spandex shorts, are completely covered in ****. Her white shoes were brown. She walks past us with a slight nod as she passed and said "Someone made a mess in the bathroom, i think it should be cleaned"

    I then wanted to kill this woman more than anything in the world, she was a horrible beast, that even Orc ****** wouldn't touch with a ten foot pole. After spending the better part of an hour cleaning outside the bathroom, I dared a peek inside.

    Now, I can handle a lot of things, but one look in this bathroom made me vomit all of my organs, and even possible some bones. There was **** and blood, literally everywhere. The floor, the walls, the ceiling. The ceiling for christ sakes!!! I don't know what unholy beast decided to torment my life that night, but it looked like the **** demon from Dogma exploded, but with blood. I am honestly convinced the lady went in the bathroom, bent over and just let loose as she ran about the room.

    I promptly walked to my manager (who had been counting registers) and said "Well, I'm all finished cleaning. I am going to take off now" She said that was fine, and apologized for what I had to do. As I walked out the door, i turned to her and said "Oh yeah, I forgot to tell you, The soap needs to be replaced in the bathroom, and I don't have the storeroom key, can you do that for me?"

    I then left the store with a very revolted, yet satisfied grin upon my face.

    Needless to say, I got a VERY angry phone call when I got home. The only reason I didn't lose my job is that where I worked, if there was any trace of blood, a manager had to be the one to clean it up for sanitation reasons.

    Thank god for stupid rules.
    [H]4 Life
    My next generation Front End is right on schedule.
    It will be done sometime in the next generation.
    I'm a lesbian too.
    I am for hire!

  9. #9
    MySQL Error jcdillin's Avatar
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    肚子笑痛了
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  10. #10
    MySQL Error Scouse Monkey's Avatar
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    Quote Originally Posted by frodobaggins
    The Ryan's Steakhouse story (not mine!)
    yeah right!!! Stop denying it!

    These had me laughing my *** off in work

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