[Beestie]

A long time ago, on a message board far, far away - in a different century actually, the following events were transcribed in brutal detail.

Part I

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 shit, 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 shit. 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 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 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
shit 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
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 shit 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 shit the
consistency of thick mud with embedded pockets of greasy liquid
came flying out of my ass. But remember, I was only halfway down
on the toilet at that moment. The shit 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.