> This is pretty graphic, but incredibly funny...
>  Some strong language
> 
>  This came from the triangle.dining newsgroup, and is about Ryan's:
> 
>  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 wirecutters 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 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 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, 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 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 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.