The infamous Ryan’s episode.
A couple of years 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 kids. 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 too much concern. Unfortunately, that was not to be. After a minute or so it was clear that I was dealing with explosive Yetman. 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 Yetman, but in this case, the door lock was broken and the only thing I hate worse than SWMBO 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 freaking Yetman. 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 a-hole was reaching Biblical proportions. I began "The Move."
For those women who may be reading this, let me take a moment to explain "The Move." Men know exactly what their bowels are up to at any given second. And when the time comes to empty the cache, a sequence of physiological events occur that cannot be stopped under any circumstances. There is a move men make that involves simultaneously approaching the toilet, beginning the body turn to position ones butt 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 freaking Yetman at the exact same second that ones a-hole is properly placed on the freaking 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 pee stream lets loose at the same time; it is truly a picture of coordination rivaling that of a skilled ballet dancer.
I was about halfway into "The Move" when I looked down at the floor and saw a pile of Tony that had been previously expelled by one of those little kids 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, such a thing would not have bothered me, 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 is a bit fuzzy, but I will try to reconstruct them as best I can. In that moment of impending projectile Tonying, 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 Tony coming up my esophagus. Now, most of you know that Tonying takes precedence over a freaking Yetman no matter what is about to come slamming out of your backdoor. It is apparently an evolutionary thing since Yetmanning will not kill you, but Tonying 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 a-hole 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 Yetman the consistency of thick mud with embedded pockets of greasy liquid came flying out of my rear. But remember, I was only half-way down on the toilet at that moment. The Yetman wave was of such force and of just such an angle in relation to the back curve of the toilet seat that it ricocheted off the back of the seat and slammed into the wall at an angle of incidence equal to the angle at which it initially hit the toilet seat.
Then I sat down. Recall that when that event occurred, I was already halfway to sitting anyway and had actually reached the point of no return. I have always considered myself as relatively stable gravitationally, but when you get beyond a certain point, you're going down no matter how limber you may be.
Needless to say, the Yetman wave completely glanced 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 Yetman remaining on about one-third of the seat rim which I had now just collapsed upon.
Now, back to the Tony...
While all the Yetmanning was going on, the Tony 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 Tonying? 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 WHITE sweat pants with elastic on the ankles.
