Post your jokes hear!
06-17-2003, 08:11 PM
#2
Nontypical Buck
Join Date: Feb 2003
Location: warwick ND USA
Posts: 1,082
RE: Post your jokes hear!
This one is kind of stupid.
you know what the kid said to his grandma when he seen her on top of the oven? he said get off the stove grandma your too old to ride the range!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
um i know more but cant think of em i will post some more later
you know what the kid said to his grandma when he seen her on top of the oven? he said get off the stove grandma your too old to ride the range!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
um i know more but cant think of em i will post some more later
06-23-2003, 04:33 PM
#5
Join Date: Feb 2003
Location: Sooner Born, Sooner Bred!!!!!
Posts: 2,297
RE: Post your jokes hear!
Two guys are huntin one morning. There both walkin in the woods when one of the guys falls over grabbing his chest. His friend, who had his cell phone, called 911.
His friend said" Help Help, i think my friends had a heart attack and died, what should i do"
The operator said," Sir, calm down. Now, first off, you need to make sure he' s dead"
About a second goes by and the operator hears, BOOOOOOOMMMMMMMMM
Then the friend comes back on the phone and says," Ok, now what?"
His friend said" Help Help, i think my friends had a heart attack and died, what should i do"
The operator said," Sir, calm down. Now, first off, you need to make sure he' s dead"
About a second goes by and the operator hears, BOOOOOOOMMMMMMMMM
Then the friend comes back on the phone and says," Ok, now what?"
06-23-2003, 06:51 PM
#6
Join Date: Jun 2003
Location:
Posts: 32
RE: Post your jokes hear!
two guys are out hunting,jim who has been hunting all of his life says to bob who is areal rookie to the sport " you stay here don' t move or make a sond im just going to checkthis place out there might a deer or two round.sure enough jim lines up a small spiker, when he hears a deafing scream he runs back to bob and says what on earth is the matter,he replies,when the bear walked past i didd' nt move,and when the snake crawled across my leg i didd' nt make asound, but when the sqruells crawled up my pants and said shal we eat them know or save them for winter..........
06-23-2003, 06:51 PM
#7
Join Date: Jun 2003
Location:
Posts: 32
RE: Post your jokes hear!
two guys are out hunting,jim who has been hunting all of his life says to bob who is areal rookie to the sport " you stay here don' t move or make a sond im just going to checkthis place out there might a deer or two round.sure enough jim lines up a small spiker, when he hears a deafing scream he runs back to bob and says what on earth is the matter,he replies,when the bear walked past i didd' nt move,and when the snake crawled across my leg i didd' nt make asound, but when the sqruells crawled up my pants and said shal we eat them know or save them for winter..........
06-28-2003, 07:10 PM
#8
Thread Starter
Join Date: Jun 2003
Location: Minnesota (Heaven)
Posts: 98
RE: Post your jokes hear!
Jim and John went out to the woods one day and They came accross a big hole. John said, " Hey Jim, how deep ya ' spose that hole is?" Jim said, " Lets just throw this here log in and see." so they did and all the sudden a goat ran over and jumped into the hole! later when they where leaving the woods, farmer Joe came and asked if they had seen his goat. They told him they' d seen a goat jump into that big hole. Farmer Joe said, " Thet wasn' t my goat, mine was tied to a log!"
06-28-2003, 07:33 PM
#9
Thread Starter
Join Date: Jun 2003
Location: Minnesota (Heaven)
Posts: 98
RE: Post your jokes hear!
Hear' s another one.
Bill Clinton, Einstein, and a Poor man with a duffle bag where on a plane. The plane was running out of gas and there wasn' t enough to make it to the next air port! They found out there was only 2 parichutes. Einstein said. " I am the smartest man in the world I should get a parichute!" so he took a bag and jumped out! Then Bill Clinton said, " I am the most important man in the world so I should get a bag!" The poor man said, " Take it easy, there' s still 2 bags left. The smartest man in the in the world took my duffle bag! [:-]
Bill Clinton, Einstein, and a Poor man with a duffle bag where on a plane. The plane was running out of gas and there wasn' t enough to make it to the next air port! They found out there was only 2 parichutes. Einstein said. " I am the smartest man in the world I should get a parichute!" so he took a bag and jumped out! Then Bill Clinton said, " I am the most important man in the world so I should get a bag!" The poor man said, " Take it easy, there' s still 2 bags left. The smartest man in the in the world took my duffle bag! [:-]
06-29-2003, 02:00 AM
#10
Nontypical Buck
Join Date: Feb 2003
Location: Baumholder, DEU/By Way of Arkansas
Posts: 2,849
RE: Post your jokes hear!
For all of you guys...the infamous...CHILI JOKE
INEXPERIENCED CHILI TASTER
Notes from An Inexperienced Chili Tester Named FRANK, who was visiting Texas from the East Coast: " Recently, I was honored to be selected as a judge at a chili cook-off.
The original person called in sick at the last moment and I happened to be standing there at the judge' s table asking directions to the beer wagon, when the call came. I was assured by the other two judges (Native Texans) that the chili wouldn' t be all that spicy, and besides, they told me I could have free beer during the tasting, So I accepted."
Here are the scorecards from the event:
__________________________________________________ ________
CHILI # 1 MIKE' S MANIAC MOBSTER MONSTER CHILI
JUDGE ONE: A little too heavy on tomato. Amusing kick.
JUDGE TWO: Nice, smooth tomato flavor. Very mild.
FRANK: Holy ****, what the hell is this stuff? You could remove dried paint from your driveway. Took me two beers to put the flames out. I hope that' s the worst one. These Texans are crazy.
__________________________________________________ ________
CHILI # 2 ARTHUR' S AFTERBURNER CHILI
JUDGE ONE: Smokey, with a hint of pork. Slight Jalapeno tang.
JUDGE TWO: Exciting BBQ flavor, needs more peppers to be taken seriously.
FRANK: Keep this out of the reach of children I' m not sure what I am supposed to taste besides pain. I had to wave off two people who wanted to give me the Heimlich maneuver. They had to rush in more beer when they saw the look on my face.
__________________________________________________ ________
CHILI # 3 FRED' S FAMOUS BURN DOWN THE BARN CHILI
JUDGE ONE: Excellent firehouse chili! Great kick. Needs more beans.
JUDGE TWO: A beanless chili, a bit salty, good use of peppers.
FRANK: Call the EPA; I' ve located a uranium spill. My nose feels like I have been snorting Drano. Everyone knows the routine by now get me more beer before I ignite. Barmaid pounded me on the back; now my backbone is in the front part of my chest. I' m getting ****-faced from all the beer.
__________________________________________________ ______
CHILI # 4 BUBBA' S BLACK MAGIC
JUDGE ONE: Black bean chili with almost no spice. Disappointing.
JUDGE TWO: Hint of lime in the black beans. Good side dish for fish or other mild foods, not much of a chili.
FRANK: I felt something scraping across my tongue, but was unable to taste it, is it possible to burnout taste buds? Sally, the barmaid, was standing behind me with fresh refills; that 300 lb. momma is starting to look HOT just like this nuclear waste I' m eating. Is chili an aphrodisiac?
__________________________________________________ _____
CHILI # 5 LINDA' S LEGAL LIP REMOVER
JUDGE ONE: Meaty, strong chili. Cayenne peppers freshly ground, adding considerable kick. Very Impressive.
JUDGE TWO: Chili using shredded beef could use more tomato. Must admit the cayenne peppers make a strong statement.
FRANK: My ears are ringing, sweat is pouring off my forehead and I can no longer focus my eyes. I farted and four people behind me needed paramedics. The contestant seemed offended when I told her that her chili had given me brain damage; Sally saved my tongue from bleeding by pouring beer directly on it from a pitcher. I wonder if I' m burning my lips off? It really pisses me off that the other judges asked me to stop screaming. Screw those rednecks!
__________________________________________________ ______
CHILI # 6 VERA' S VERY VEGETARIAN VARIETY
JUDGE ONE: Thin yet bold vegetarian variety chili. Good balance of spice and peppers.
JUDGE TWO: The best yet. Aggressive use of peppers, onions, and garlic. Superb.
FRANK: My intestines are now a straight pipe filled with gaseous, sulfuric flames. I **** myself when I farted and I' m worried it will eat through the chair. No one seems inclined to stand behind me except Sally. Can' t feel my lips anymore. I need to wipe my ass with a snow cone!
__________________________________________________ _
CHILI # 7 SUSAN' S SCREAMING SENSATION CHILI
JUDGE ONE: A mediocre chili with too much reliance on canned peppers.
JUDGE TWO: Ho Hum, tastes as if the chef literally threw in a can of Chili peppers at the last moment. I should take note that I am worried about Judge Number 3, He appears to be in a bit of distress as he is cursing uncontrollably.
FRANK: You could put a grenade in my mouth, pull the pin, and I wouldn' t feel a damn hing. I' ve lost sight in one eye, and the world sounds like it is made of rushing water. My shirt is covered with chili which slid unnoticed out of my mouth. My pants are full of lava-like **** to match my damn shirt. At least during the autopsy they' ll know what killed me. I' ve decided to stop breathing, it' s too painful. Screw it, I' m not getting any oxygen anyway. If I need air, I' ll just suck it in through the 4-inch hole in my stomach.
If that' s not bad enough...I got another...
Warning PG-13 content, contains adult language, references bodlily functions, and alludes to nudity. However, it' s funny!
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...
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 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 **** 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 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 **** 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 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 **** 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 ass in a ring curiously in the shape of a toilet seat. And there was no ****ing 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.
Involves scatalogical humour, so if your offending by poo and bodily functions, stop right now!!!
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.
There is a fine line between a hobby and insanity.
And last but not least...the greatest chicken joke ever!
On the farm lived a chicken and a horse, both of whom loved to play together.
One day, the two were playing when the horse fell into a bog and began to sink.
Scared for his life, the horse whinnied for the chicken to go get the farmer for help! Off the chicken ran, back to the farm. Arriving at the farm, he searched and searched for the farmer, but to no avail, for he had gone to town with
the only tractor. Running around, the chicken spied the farmer' s new Z-3
series BMW. Finding the keys inside, the chicken sped off with a length of rope, hoping he still had time to save his friend' s life. Back at the bog, the horse was surprised, but happy, to see the chicken arrive in the shiny BMW, and he managed to get ahold of the loop of rope the chicken
tossed to him. After tying the other end to the rear bumper of the
farmer' s car, the chicken then drove slowly forward and, with the aid of the powerful car, rescued the horse! Happy and proud, the chicken drove the BMW back to the farmhouse, and the farmer was none the wiser when he returned. The friendship between the two animals was cemented: best buddies, best pals. A few weeks later, the chicken fell into a mud pit, and soon, he too, began to sink and cried out to the horse to save his life! The horse thought a moment, walked over, and straddled the large puddle. Looking underneath, he told the chicken to grab his " thing" and he would then lift him out of the pit. The chicken got a good grip, and the horse pulled him up and out, saving his life. The moral of the story? When you' re hung like a horse, you don' t need a BMW to pick up chicks.
INEXPERIENCED CHILI TASTER
Notes from An Inexperienced Chili Tester Named FRANK, who was visiting Texas from the East Coast: " Recently, I was honored to be selected as a judge at a chili cook-off.
The original person called in sick at the last moment and I happened to be standing there at the judge' s table asking directions to the beer wagon, when the call came. I was assured by the other two judges (Native Texans) that the chili wouldn' t be all that spicy, and besides, they told me I could have free beer during the tasting, So I accepted."
Here are the scorecards from the event:
__________________________________________________ ________
CHILI # 1 MIKE' S MANIAC MOBSTER MONSTER CHILI
JUDGE ONE: A little too heavy on tomato. Amusing kick.
JUDGE TWO: Nice, smooth tomato flavor. Very mild.
FRANK: Holy ****, what the hell is this stuff? You could remove dried paint from your driveway. Took me two beers to put the flames out. I hope that' s the worst one. These Texans are crazy.
__________________________________________________ ________
CHILI # 2 ARTHUR' S AFTERBURNER CHILI
JUDGE ONE: Smokey, with a hint of pork. Slight Jalapeno tang.
JUDGE TWO: Exciting BBQ flavor, needs more peppers to be taken seriously.
FRANK: Keep this out of the reach of children I' m not sure what I am supposed to taste besides pain. I had to wave off two people who wanted to give me the Heimlich maneuver. They had to rush in more beer when they saw the look on my face.
__________________________________________________ ________
CHILI # 3 FRED' S FAMOUS BURN DOWN THE BARN CHILI
JUDGE ONE: Excellent firehouse chili! Great kick. Needs more beans.
JUDGE TWO: A beanless chili, a bit salty, good use of peppers.
FRANK: Call the EPA; I' ve located a uranium spill. My nose feels like I have been snorting Drano. Everyone knows the routine by now get me more beer before I ignite. Barmaid pounded me on the back; now my backbone is in the front part of my chest. I' m getting ****-faced from all the beer.
__________________________________________________ ______
CHILI # 4 BUBBA' S BLACK MAGIC
JUDGE ONE: Black bean chili with almost no spice. Disappointing.
JUDGE TWO: Hint of lime in the black beans. Good side dish for fish or other mild foods, not much of a chili.
FRANK: I felt something scraping across my tongue, but was unable to taste it, is it possible to burnout taste buds? Sally, the barmaid, was standing behind me with fresh refills; that 300 lb. momma is starting to look HOT just like this nuclear waste I' m eating. Is chili an aphrodisiac?
__________________________________________________ _____
CHILI # 5 LINDA' S LEGAL LIP REMOVER
JUDGE ONE: Meaty, strong chili. Cayenne peppers freshly ground, adding considerable kick. Very Impressive.
JUDGE TWO: Chili using shredded beef could use more tomato. Must admit the cayenne peppers make a strong statement.
FRANK: My ears are ringing, sweat is pouring off my forehead and I can no longer focus my eyes. I farted and four people behind me needed paramedics. The contestant seemed offended when I told her that her chili had given me brain damage; Sally saved my tongue from bleeding by pouring beer directly on it from a pitcher. I wonder if I' m burning my lips off? It really pisses me off that the other judges asked me to stop screaming. Screw those rednecks!
__________________________________________________ ______
CHILI # 6 VERA' S VERY VEGETARIAN VARIETY
JUDGE ONE: Thin yet bold vegetarian variety chili. Good balance of spice and peppers.
JUDGE TWO: The best yet. Aggressive use of peppers, onions, and garlic. Superb.
FRANK: My intestines are now a straight pipe filled with gaseous, sulfuric flames. I **** myself when I farted and I' m worried it will eat through the chair. No one seems inclined to stand behind me except Sally. Can' t feel my lips anymore. I need to wipe my ass with a snow cone!
__________________________________________________ _
CHILI # 7 SUSAN' S SCREAMING SENSATION CHILI
JUDGE ONE: A mediocre chili with too much reliance on canned peppers.
JUDGE TWO: Ho Hum, tastes as if the chef literally threw in a can of Chili peppers at the last moment. I should take note that I am worried about Judge Number 3, He appears to be in a bit of distress as he is cursing uncontrollably.
FRANK: You could put a grenade in my mouth, pull the pin, and I wouldn' t feel a damn hing. I' ve lost sight in one eye, and the world sounds like it is made of rushing water. My shirt is covered with chili which slid unnoticed out of my mouth. My pants are full of lava-like **** to match my damn shirt. At least during the autopsy they' ll know what killed me. I' ve decided to stop breathing, it' s too painful. Screw it, I' m not getting any oxygen anyway. If I need air, I' ll just suck it in through the 4-inch hole in my stomach.
If that' s not bad enough...I got another...
Warning PG-13 content, contains adult language, references bodlily functions, and alludes to nudity. However, it' s funny!
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...
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 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 **** 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 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 **** 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 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 **** 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 ass in a ring curiously in the shape of a toilet seat. And there was no ****ing 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.
Involves scatalogical humour, so if your offending by poo and bodily functions, stop right now!!!
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.
There is a fine line between a hobby and insanity.
And last but not least...the greatest chicken joke ever!
On the farm lived a chicken and a horse, both of whom loved to play together.
One day, the two were playing when the horse fell into a bog and began to sink.
Scared for his life, the horse whinnied for the chicken to go get the farmer for help! Off the chicken ran, back to the farm. Arriving at the farm, he searched and searched for the farmer, but to no avail, for he had gone to town with
the only tractor. Running around, the chicken spied the farmer' s new Z-3
series BMW. Finding the keys inside, the chicken sped off with a length of rope, hoping he still had time to save his friend' s life. Back at the bog, the horse was surprised, but happy, to see the chicken arrive in the shiny BMW, and he managed to get ahold of the loop of rope the chicken
tossed to him. After tying the other end to the rear bumper of the
farmer' s car, the chicken then drove slowly forward and, with the aid of the powerful car, rescued the horse! Happy and proud, the chicken drove the BMW back to the farmhouse, and the farmer was none the wiser when he returned. The friendship between the two animals was cemented: best buddies, best pals. A few weeks later, the chicken fell into a mud pit, and soon, he too, began to sink and cried out to the horse to save his life! The horse thought a moment, walked over, and straddled the large puddle. Looking underneath, he told the chicken to grab his " thing" and he would then lift him out of the pit. The chicken got a good grip, and the horse pulled him up and out, saving his life. The moral of the story? When you' re hung like a horse, you don' t need a BMW to pick up chicks.