That was the same story I was talking about in my post .. funny stuff. I noticed you found the link to it on another thread:


[quote]
The Ryan's Steakhouse Incident
(If you haven't read this -- you're really missing out!!!)
(and just in case you were wondering - no, this isn't about 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. Uncle Johnny would love it.


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 was consumed that evening, I tell you - in all, four heaping plates of the pseudo-Italian ambrosia was 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 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 ****, but in this case, the door lock was broken and the only thing I hate worse than my date 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 *** was reaching Biblical proportions.


I began "The Move."


I know you (and definitely Uncle Johnny) understand this (though women would not), but I'll take a moment to explain "The Move" anyway. 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 *** 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 pro