from 5/6/2008 - One Man’s Good Fight

One Man’s Good Fight

One Man's Good Fight

I went grocery shopping recently while not being altogether sure that said 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 mess yourself" chili. Tasty stuff, albeit hot to the point of being painful, which comes with a written guarantee from me that if you eat 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 (and all of you know what I mean) nothing happened. No "Watson's Movement 2". Despite habanera peppers swimming their way through my intestinal tract, I appeared to be unable to create the usual morning symphony referred to by my next door neighbors as thunder and lightning.

Knowing that a time of reckoning had to come, yet not sure of when, I bravely set off for the market; a local Wal-Mart grocery store that I often haunt in search of tasty tidbits.

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, 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, forcing 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 spice and baking aisle, 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 an elderly woman turned into it.

I don't know what made me do it, but I stopped to see what her reaction would be to the malodorous effluvium that refused to dissipate, as she walked into it unsuspecting. 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 woman but didn't. I simply watched as she walked into an invisible, and apparently indestructible, wall of odor so terrible that all she could do before gathering her senses and running, was to stand there blinking and waving her arms about her head as though trying to ward off angry bees. This, of course, made me feel terrible, but then made me laugh. Mistake.

Here's the thing. 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 towards the restrooms, laying down a cloud the whole way, 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, began the inevitable "Oh my God", floating above the toilet seat because my butt 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, "Oh my God!", then quickly left.

Once finished I left the restroom, reacquired my partially filled cart intending to carry on with 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."

That of course set me off again, causing residual gases to escape me. The employee took one sniff, jumped back pulling his shirt up to cover his nose and, pointing at me in an accusing manner shouted, "IT'S YOU!", 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 having shopped, 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 Albertson's. I can't say anymore about that because we are in court over the whole matter. They claim they're going to have to repaint the store...

from 5/14/2008 - Craigslist is a beautiful place...

Craigslist is a beautiful place...

Current mood:sick

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 sequenceof 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 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.

from 1/23/2009 - O.M.G - That's all I can say about that...

To all the fine people who frequent adult arcades...

---

(from CraigsList best of section)

Date: 2009-01-02, 8:45PM PST

I have logged 10 ,count em, 10 years working for an adult bookstore and I think I am more than qualified to offer some helpful tips to make your visit to these shops just a little more enjoyable. Please excuse any grammatical or spelling errors.

1) It is a complete wast of time to become upset when I refuse to shake your hand after you exit the arcade. You just had anonymous sex with a man, woman, tranny, or you just got finished masturbating. Had you grabbed the key to the restroom and washed your hands I might just have considered it, otherwise I have no interest in touching you. You really have no reason to be offended at this one, just think about it for a moment.

2) I'm sorry if you have only limited time to have gay sex with a stranger during your lunch break. If the only customers I have in the arcade are so old you are wondering how they remain upright, much less get it up, I simply can't waive a magic wand and fill the arcade with an all gay swim team. It really doesn't matter how horny you are, complaining incessantly about it changes nothing. Along that same line, I am not a resident fall back option and I'm sorry, but offering me cash for sex will not change my mind on this one (ever).

3) We offer the options of entering a booth with a window, a glory hole, or a private booth. If you enter a booth with a window, please don't be surprised if you look up and find someone watching you, coming to the counter and demanding that I throw whomever out because they were peeking at your willy will honestly accomplish little. If you enter a booth with a gloryhole, please don't be surprised if at some point a penis comes through it. Also don't be surprised if a voice comes through it asking for you to stick your penis through the hole, it's what it's there for. These traumatic events can all be avoided by entering a private booth where you can masturbate to your hearts content in relative privacy.

4) You enter a booth, insert a 1, 5, 10, or 20 dollar bill into the bill acceptor, and have a seat. The movie will play until the time limit for the amount of money you put into the machine runs out. If at that time you have not managed to relieve yourself you have still received what you paid for. Screaming at me will not get you more time in the arcade, it will just get you thrown the fuck out. Sitting in a booth with no money in the machine while you desperately try to grunt out a quick one is just not acceptable. If I knock on the door offering to get you change and you come out all grumpy saying something like "I just spent 7000 dollars here" or "do you know how much I spend here in a month" we now have a problem. You see, the concept really is simple yet I feel the need to break it down for you. If I go to McDonalds, order a cheese burger and eat it, I would not be allowed to sit there and eat unlimited cheese burgers all fucking day because I paid for the first one. Duh!! same thing here, once that TV screen goes black YOU GOT WHAT YOU PAID FOR! If you want to continue, fish out another bill or if you are broke GO THE FUCK HOME AND FINISH THERE.

4) This one is important, so pay it some fucking attention. If you happen to be a horny gay man (nothing wrong with that) and inappropriately proposition another man in the parking lot and he punches you in the mouth, YOU HAD IT COMING. I want to reiterate for the slow among us, YOU ASKED FOR IT!!! Please wait until you are in the arcade to cruise for dick. We offer a wide range of products that straight people need, so don't assume because someone is going to the adult bookstore they are gay. That is just fucking stupid you moron.

5) My job is to police the arcade and sell shit. That is all I get paid to do and it's all I care about. I could care less if you have a wedding ring on as you suck off 12 dudes, I don't care if you are cheating on your wife with a woman of "questionable standards", I don't care if you enjoy dressing in your little sisters cloths and putting on a show for strangers in a window booth, I DO NOT GIVE A FUCK WHAT YOU ARE DOING IN THERE. I do not need a play by play description of what you were just doing. Keep it to yourself or write it in your journal or whatever. Just leave me out of it, I will not be impressed, seriously.

6) If you pee in the trashcans and I catch you you will be cleaning that booth and I will be berating you the entire time it takes you. You sick fucker what the fuck did your mother teach you when you were little. I will then take your fucking picture and show it to every one who works here. You will never be allowed back in, EVER!!!!!!

7) I understand that sex creates wet spots on clothing, etc...but if you come walking out of the arcade with cum in your beard, on your shirt, pants, whatever, I reserve the right to point and laugh. We thoughtfully provide paper towels just for that situation. If you choose not to use them then I choose to laugh and call you a douche bag.

8) We have janitors clean the arcade 3 times a day, every day. I can do little for you if the booth you so desperately need to whack off in has a load of cum dripping down the monitor. I will not be rushing back there to clean that up real quick for you. If the little present left by the previous occupant offends you so much you have 2 options,
1) Walk your ass to another, cleaner, booth.
2) reach up and grab a paper towel from the dispenser and clean it up your fucking self.
That's it, throw the biggest tantrum you can and you will still be left with the same 2 options.

I do hope you find this little piece of information helpful. Have a wonderful day!