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Worst 911 Potty Emergency

Old 11-30-2016, 10:37 AM
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Default Worst 911 Potty Emergency

So this is one of the most enjoyed topics at my family gatherings. We've all been there before so share your stories.

Crapped your pants or Sharted?
Exploding diarrhea at a dates house?
Stuck in traffic, miles from an exit, with a busting gut?
Muddy water off the side of the boat?
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Old 11-30-2016, 10:48 AM
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This is a strange topic...should probably be in Dockside FYI.

We were stuck in traffic heading up to Ocala one weekend. After about two hours, my wife starts complaining that she has to pee. Well, all we had was empty water bottles. After filling two of them up, the complaining stopped.... of course, this isn't the end.

About an hour later, we get into it with some jackass trying to run us off the road. Without thinking, I reached back and grabbed both bottles, throwing one at a time. Each one exploded on his windshield, the other exploded when it hit his half open window, allowing the contents to go everywhere INSIDE the guy's car.

Thinking back, that was frickin awesome.
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Old 11-30-2016, 10:54 AM
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Not quite what OP is looking for but I accidentally farted loudly during a sneeze while on a first date with a very hot chick.

Her response was "Gesundheit, I think."
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Old 11-30-2016, 10:55 AM
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Minnow, just curious, where is your port? is it cold there yet? Boat on the hard already?
Yep, probably move to dockside.

Bert
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Old 11-30-2016, 10:56 AM
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Originally Posted by BlueRudy View Post
Not quite what OP is looking for but I accidentally farted loudly during a sneeze while on a first date with a very hot chick.

Her response was "Gesundheit, I think."
My wife did that and my reaction was the same.
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Old 11-30-2016, 11:01 AM
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Had a bad bout of Traveller's IBS coming back from South America once. You can't imagine how awful it was to spend several hours in an airplane toilet (11hr flight).
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Old 11-30-2016, 12:00 PM
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I don't recall Thanksgiving gatherings ever being quite like this at our house.
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Old 11-30-2016, 12:17 PM
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another shitty thread.
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Old 11-30-2016, 12:42 PM
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Was delivering large Pursuit to my bosses house in Keys, got there, place locked up, went right on edge of seawall. Uggghhh!!! I think the fish liked it. Used sale catalogue for paper, .
Thats all I got!
BWP
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Old 11-30-2016, 01:02 PM
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I was a sales rep for a couple of years and spent nearly my entire day every day in the truck. I can tell you all of the best places to stop and poop throughout my entire former sales territory. Generally speaking, avoid gas stations if you can. Grocery stores are usually a safe bet, especially Publix and Ingles. Walmart is usually OK as well, but only after 7 AM, until about 12 noon. After 12 noon, it's pretty much like everything else at Walmart; shitty. Lowes and Home Depot are also good stops, but not early in the morning. That's typically when the taco crowd comes through on their way to the construction sites to pick up supplies, and damn if they can't do a number in the bathroom. Things at Lowe's and Home Depot generally clean up about the time Walmart goes to crap, so it's a good balance. Clothing stores such as Kohls or in the mall are nearly always a safe bet as long as it's not a special shopping holiday of some sort. In those stores go to the bathroom that is closest to the entrance, as the shy poopers usually hang out at the more hidden locations in the store.
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Old 11-30-2016, 01:05 PM
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Light aircraft pilots will have the best stories. Quick runway approaches and code brown dashes to the terminal after a big greasy breakfast.

Boaters always have better options.
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Old 11-30-2016, 01:14 PM
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Here's mine. Waiting for the only stall in a Publix men's room. Ready to bust. Balloon knot quivering...clown in the stall is doing his hair or something. I asked if he was about done. "I'll be out when I'm done. Wait your turn" sort of response. I was on the precipice of launch. Hammer had fallen. The bullet was in the barrel.

I backed up to the urinal and ....BULLSEYE!! Thankfully, no one entered during my strafing. I grabbed a handful of towels, a quick wipe, and ran like hell. The poor bastard in the stall exited JUST as I cleared the door. No witnesses. I'm sure he gagged. I owe an apology to whoever went in after the toxic waste spill. I will NEVER enter that store again either....just in case.

Ya can't make this stuff up!!
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Old 11-30-2016, 01:31 PM
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Just finished a big presentation to a customer and was in the Q&A phase but was having a big rumble in my gut. I hung in there until sweat was forming on my upper lip and the pain was reaching the point of no return. I excused myself and asked for directions to the bathroom. Made it in the nick of time to release the bomb. Only has enough tp for one small wipe so I had to got to the next stall to clean up more thoroughly. While doing so, stall number #1 was overflowing with my recent deposit and just starting to reach my shoes. Made it out of there but passed one of the clients on my way out. I told him that it was a hazmat scene in there and to call a plumber.

Interesting, I got there business anyway..
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Old 11-30-2016, 01:33 PM
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Many times on the interstate I have had to lift my ass up off the seat clench my sphincter and pray for the best... this is usually because I ate something hot and spicy the night before.
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Old 11-30-2016, 01:43 PM
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Long Story but worth the read............................not my story but funny as hell


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 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 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 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 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 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 half-way 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 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 shit wave, though of considerable force, was not so sufficient so as to completely glance off the toilet seat and deposit itself on the walls, like 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 shit 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 shit 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 shit. All while thick shit was spread all over my ass in a ring curiously in the shape of a toilet seat.
And there was no fucking 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 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.
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Old 11-30-2016, 02:34 PM
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Ding, ding, ding...we have WINNER!
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Old 11-30-2016, 02:37 PM
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I had to drive the delivery truck one day, because driver called in sick.......on my way back, I am saying, I can hold it another 10 miles, well I was fixing to ruin my pants and a truck seat, whipped into a burger king and someone has mens door locked and is taking forever, I became a woman that day and used the ladies room.......when i exited. the managers look was priceless and said you cant do that, I said good to know now, It wont happen again
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Old 11-30-2016, 03:09 PM
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Originally Posted by Weekend-Hooker View Post
Long Story but worth the read............................not my story but funny as hell


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 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 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 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 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 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 half-way 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 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 shit wave, though of considerable force, was not so sufficient so as to completely glance off the toilet seat and deposit itself on the walls, like 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 shit 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 shit 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 shit. All while thick shit was spread all over my ass in a ring curiously in the shape of a toilet seat.
And there was no fucking 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 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.
That guy should be a writer.

I have heard and experienced first hand some pretty funny $hit stories, but that takes the cake.
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Old 11-30-2016, 03:55 PM
  #19  
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Never trust a fart

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Old 11-30-2016, 04:19 PM
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Another second hand story... had me in tears like the previous post.

I went to the Home Depot recently, while not being altogether sure that course of action was a wise one. You see, the previous evening I had prepared and consumed a massive quantity of my patented You're Definitely Going To Shit Yourself road kill chili. Tasty stuff, albeit hot to the point of being painful, which comes with a written guarantee from me that if you eat it the next day both of your butt cheeks will fall off.

Here's the thing: I had awakened that morning, and even after two cups of coffee nothing happened. No Watson's Movement Two. Despite habanera peppers swimming their way through my intestinal tract, I was unable to create the usual morning symphony referred to by my dear wife as thunder and lightning. Knowing that a time of reckoning had to come – yet not sure of just when – I bravely set off for the Depot, my quest being to purchase paint and supplies to refinish the den.

Upon entering the store at first all seemed normal. I selected a cart and began pushing it about, dropping items in for purchase. It wasn't until I was at the opposite end of the store from the restrooms that the pain hit me.

Oh, don't look at me like you don't know what I'm talking about. I'm referring to that Uh, Oh, Shit, Gotta Go! pain that always seems to hit us at the wrong time. The thing is this pain was different; the habaneras in the chili from the night before were staging a revolt.

In a mad rush for freedom they bullied their way through the small intestines, forced their way into the large intestines, and before I could take one step in the direction of the restrooms which would bring sweet relief, it happened: The peppers fired a warning shot. There I stood, alone in the paint and stain section, suddenly enveloped in a noxious cloud the likes of which has never before been recorded. I was afraid to move for fear that more of this vile odor might escape me.

Slowly, oh so slowly, the pressure seemed to leave the lower part of my body, and I began to move up the aisle and out of it, just as a orange apron-wearing clerk turned the corner and asked if I needed any help.

I don't know what made me do it, but I stopped to see what his reaction would be to the malodorous effluvium that refused to dissipate.

Have you ever been torn in two different directions emotionally? Here's what I mean, and I'm sure some of you at least will be able to relate: I could've warned that poor clerk, but didn't. I simply watched as he walked into an invisible – and apparently indestructible – wall of odor so terrible that all he could do before gathering his senses and running was to stand there blinking and waving his arms about his head as though trying to ward off angry bees. This, of course, made me feel terrible, but then made me laugh. Big mistake!

The problem with this is that when you laugh it's hard to keep things clamped down, if you know what I mean. With each new guffaw an explosive issue burst forth from my nether region. Some were so loud and echoing that I was later told a few folks in other aisles had ducked, fearing that someone was robbing the store and firing off a shotgun.

Suddenly things were no longer funny. It was coming, and I raced off through the store toward the restrooms, laying down a cloud the whole way in crop duster-like fashion, praying that I'd make it before the grand mal assplosion took place.

Luck was on my side. Just in the nick of time I got to the john and began the inevitable Oh my God, floating above the toilet seat because my ass is burning so bad, purging. One poor fellow walked in while I was in the middle of what is the true meaning of Shock and Awe. He made a gagging sound, and disgustedly said, “Sonofabitch. Did it smell that bad when you ate it?” Then he quickly left.

It was after I’d finished, left the restroom and reacquired my partially filled cart (with which I intended to carry on my shopping) when a store employee approached me and said, “Sir, you might want to step outside for a few minutes. It appears some prankster set off a stink bomb in the store. The manager is going to run the vent fans on high for a minute or two, which ought to take care of the problem.” My smirking set me off again, causing residual gases to escape. The employee took one sniff, jumped back, and pulling his shirt up to cover his nose pointed at me in an accusing manner. “IT'S YOU!” he shouted and then ran off, returning moments later with the manager.

I was unceremoniously escorted from the premises and asked none-too-kindly not to return. Home again without my supplies, I realized that there was nothing to eat but leftover chili, so I consumed two more bowls. The next day I went to shop at Lowe's. I can't say anymore about that because we are in court over the whole matter. Bastards claim they're going to have to repaint the store.
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