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"The Rest of The Story"!

Discussion in 'The Watercooler' started by Hamlet, Sep 13, 2007.

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  1. Hamlet

    Hamlet Elite Member

    Aug 14, 2006
    Professional Status:
    Certified Residential Appraiser
    When you have to visit a public bathroom, you
    > usually find a line of women,
    > so you smile politely and take your place. Once it's
    > your turn, you check
    > for feet under the stall doors. Every stall is
    > occupied.
    > Finally, a door opens and you dash in, nearly
    > knocking down the woman
    > leaving the stall.
    > You get in to find the door won't latch. It doesn't
    > matter, the wait has
    > been so long you are about to wet your pants! The
    > dispenser for the modern
    > "seat covers" (invented by someone's Mom, no doubt)
    > is handy, but empty. You
    > would hang your purse on the door hook, if there was
    > one, but there isn't -
    > so you carefully, but quickly drape it around your
    > neck, (Mom would turn
    > over in her grave if you put it on the FLOOR!), yank
    > down your pants, and
    > assume " The Stance."
    > In this position your aging, toneless thigh muscles
    > begin to shake. You'd
    > love to sit down, but you certainly hadn't taken
    > time to wipe the seat or
    > lay toilet paper on it, so you hold "The Stance."
    > To take your mind off your trembling thighs, you
    > reach for what you discover
    > to be the empty toilet paper dispenser. In your
    > mind, you can hear your
    > mother's voice saying, "Honey, if you had tried to
    > clean the seat, you would
    > have KNOWN there was no toilet paper!" Your thighs
    > shake more.
    > You remember the tiny tissue that you blew your nose
    > on yesterday - the one
    > that's still in your purse. (Oh yeah, the purse
    > around your neck, that now,
    > you have to hold up trying not to strangle yourself
    > at the same time). That
    > would have to do. You crumple it in the puffiest way
    > possible. It's still
    > smalle r than your thumbnail
    > Someone pushes your door open because the latch
    > doesn't work. The door hits
    > your purse, which is hanging around your neck in
    > front of your chest, and
    > you and your purse topple backward against the tank
    > of the toilet.
    > "Occupied!" you scream, as you reach for the door,
    > dropping your precious,
    > tiny, crumpled tissue in a puddle on the floor, lose
    > your footing
    > altogether, and slide down directly onto t he TOILET
    > SEAT. It is wet of
    > course. You bolt up, knowing all too well that it's
    > too late. Your bare
    > bottom has made contact with every imaginable germ
    > and life form on the
    > uncovered seat because YOU never laid down toilet
    > paper - not that there was
    > any, even if you had taken time to try. You know
    > that your mother would be
    > utterly appalled if she knew, because, you're
    > certain her bare bottom never
    > touched a public toilet seat because, frankly, dear,
    > "You just don'tKNOW
    > what kind of diseases you could get."
    > By this time, the automatic sensor on the back of
    > the toilet is so confused
    > that it flushes, propelling a stream of water like a
    > fire hose against the
    > inside of the bowl that sprays a fine mist of water
    > that covers your butt
    > and runs down your legs and into your shoes. The
    > flush somehow sucks
    > everything down with such force that you grab onto
    > the empty toilet paper
    > dispenser for fear of being dragged in too.
    > At this point, you give up. You're soaked by the
    > spewing water and the wet
    > toilet seat. You're exhausted. You try to wipe with
    > a gum wrapper you found
    > in your pocket and then slink out inconspicuously to
    > the sinks.
    > You can't figure out how to operate the faucets with
    > the automatic sensors,
    > so you wipe your hands with spit and a dry paper
    > towel and walk past the
    > line of women still waiting.
    > You are no longer able to smile politely to them. A
    > kind soul at the very
    > end of the line points out a piece of toilet paper
    > trailing from your shoe.
    > (Where was that when you NEEDED it??) You yank the
    > paper from your shoe,
    > plunk it in the woman's hand and tell her warmly,
    > "Here, you just might need
    > this."
    > As you exit, you spot your hubby, who has long since
    > entered, used, and left
    > the men's restroom. Annoyed, he asks, "What took you
    > so long, and why is
    > your purse hanging around your neck?"
    > This is dedicated to women everywhere who deal with
    > a public restrooms
    > (rest??? you've GOT to be kidding!!). It finally
    > explains to the men what
    > really does take us so long. It also answers their
    > other commonly asked
    > questions about why women go to the restroom in
    > pairs. It's so the other gal
    > can hold the door, hang onto your purse and hand you
    > Kleenex under the door!
  2. Head Surfer

    Head Surfer Administrator Staff Member Founder Moderator

    Jan 4, 2002
    Professional Status:
    Retired Appraiser
    Whoa, I had no idea.:shrug:

    That is an ordeal! Glad I'm a man.:laugh:
  3. StephHigdem

    StephHigdem Member

    Jan 5, 2004
    Professional Status:
    Certified Residential Appraiser
    Let's add a small infant to that equation....
    There was a time I could hold the baby, get my business done, and rebutton my levi's with one hand.
    (One more reason why men don't have babies.)
  4. Kristina Ledesma

    Kristina Ledesma Member

    Oct 12, 2006
    Professional Status:
    Certified Residential Appraiser
    Anyone ever read the mans version titled "the beef maccaroni incident" at Ryans steakhouse?
  5. Mike Kennedy

    Mike Kennedy Elite Member

    Sep 28, 2003
    Professional Status:
    Certified Residential Appraiser
    New York

    yeah sure ....that's what they ALLLLLLLL say. :new_llying:
  6. appraisalondemand

    appraisalondemand Junior Member

    May 27, 2007
    Professional Status:
    Licensed Appraiser
    Do you have a copy??? I think I know what you are talking about. About 10 years ago, I remember reading something from "dog Byte/Cat Scratch" who went on a first date with sweatpants on??? is that it? Please share.

    Laughing uncontolably already.
  7. Susan Klimaszewski

    Susan Klimaszewski Junior Member

    Jan 9, 2003
    Professional Status:
    Licensed Appraiser
    [SIZE=+2]The Ryan's Steakhouse Incident[/SIZE]
    (If you haven't read this -- you're really missing out!!!)
    (and just in case you were wondering - no, this isn't about 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. Uncle Johnny would love it.

    Wednesday night is also kid's night at Ryan's, complete with Dizzy the Clown wandering from table to table entertaining the little *******s. 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 was consumed that evening, I tell you - in all, four heaping plates of the pseudo-Italian ambrosia was 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 date 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 ass was reaching Biblical proportions.
    I began "The Move."

    I know you (and definitely Uncle Johnny) understand this (though women would not), but I'll take a moment to explain "The Move" anyway. 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 dick 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 *******s 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 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 ****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 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 with embedded 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 ****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 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 liquid ****. All while thick **** was spread all over my ass 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 date 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 date 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 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 date 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 date. 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 ******* 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 date 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.
    Last edited: Sep 13, 2007
  8. icisic7

    icisic7 Senior Member

    Jul 10, 2005
    Professional Status:
    Licensed Appraiser
    Oh my God, I could see what was coming!!! :rof::rof::rof::rof: Unless you've experienced explosiveness from that end, one can never really understand the seriousness of the situation.

    I'm sending that to a few people who will understand.
    Last edited: Sep 14, 2007
  9. appraisalondemand

    appraisalondemand Junior Member

    May 27, 2007
    Professional Status:
    Licensed Appraiser
    you have made my week. Thank you so much for sending that. I read that 10 years ago and still laugh at it ever once in awhile. Unfortunately untill tonight, I had lost it about 4 computers ago...Thanks a ton.
  10. Susan Klimaszewski

    Susan Klimaszewski Junior Member

    Jan 9, 2003
    Professional Status:
    Licensed Appraiser
    You are most welcome!
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