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mizx

my 16th birthday

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Well its today... yippy, sucked pretty bad.. because i miss my mom

 

but on the bright side.. i got a new sketch pad.. and some Colon from these bitchs, and just got back from painting freights so its not that bad

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Guest seno.oner

.....your mom....i thought she was ok.....someone else answer this for me....not nak

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Guest seno.oner
Originally posted by Dirty_habiT

Ummm.... first, happy birthday.

 

beat ya

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so some nice young ladies go out and spend some money on you for your birthday and you call em bitches do ya tough guy!?...charmed i'm sure...

it's cologne too by the way unless they got you part of a digestive system...in which case you would be justified in calling them bitches....

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Guest platapie

happy bday. 2 more years and you can legally buy porno.

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Guest seno.oner
Originally posted by Dirty_habiT

rats!

 

ya i know..........kill yourself you werent first

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Guest uncle-boy
Originally posted by platapie

happy bday. 2 more years and you can legally buy porno.

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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 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 diagional 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 crotched 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 precidence 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 consistancy 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 initally hit the toilet

seat.

 

Then I sat down.

 

Recall that when that event occured, 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.

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Guest ctrl+alt+del

riiiiiight.

 

um. happy birthday nak.

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Guest THEdude

umm am I like late?

lol

 

oh well

 

happy sweet 16 girl

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Guest socrates
Originally posted by nak

and some Colon from these bitchs

 

 

Man when I was your age I didn't know any girls who were down with that freaky stuff...it looks like you found some keepers

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Re: Re: my 16th birthday

 

Originally posted by socrates

 

 

Man when I was your age I didn't know any girls who were down with that freaky stuff...it looks like you found some keepers

 

:lol:

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