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This is one of the funniest stories I’ve ever read on the internet.

By Anonymous
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 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 crap. 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 crap.
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 portions. 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 crap at the exact same second that one’s 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 halfway 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 is 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 crap no matter what is about to come slamming out of your ass. It is apparently an evolutionary thing since crapting 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 crap the consistency of thick mud with embedded pockets of greasy liquid came flying out of my ass.
But remember, I was only halfway down on the toilet at that moment. The crap 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 crap 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 crap remaining on about one-third of the seat rim which I had now just collapsed upon.
Now, back to the vomit…
While all the crapting 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 sweatpants 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 crap 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 crap. All while thick crap was spread all over my ass in a ring curiously in the shape of a toilet seat.
And there was no freaking 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

I rear-ended a car this morning.

So there we are alongside the road. The driver slowly gets
out of the car . . . and you know how you
just-get-sooo-stressed and life-stuff seems to get funny?

Yeah, well, I could NOT believe it . . . he was a DWARF!

Heкомпютри storms over to my car, looks up at me and says, “I AM NOT HAPPY!”

So, I look down at him and said, “Well, which one are you
then?”

. . and that’s when the fight started

Leaving the poker party, late as usual, two friends compared notes. “I can never fool my wife,” the first complained. “I turn off the car’s engine and coast into the garage, take off my shoes, sneak upstairs, and undress in the bathroom. But she always wakes up and yells at me for being out so late and leaving her alone.”

“You’ve got the wrong technique, my friend,” his buddy replied. “I roar into the garage, slam the door, stomp up the steps, rub my hand on my wife’s ass, and ask, ’How ’bout a little?’ and she pretends to be asleep.”

What kind of chees does not belong to you?

Nacho Cheese

A mother is walking with her five year-old son through the zoo when they reach the elephant cage. The boy looks with amazement at the large beast and asks his mom, “What’s that long thing hanging down from the elephant?”His mother replies “That’s his trunk”.The little boy goes, “I know that, the thing to the other side of the trunk.”

The mom replies “Oh, that’s his tail”.

The boy goes, “I know that! No, what’s that big thing hanging down in between the trunk and tail.”

The mother, wanting to avoid this subject all together, just says “Oh, that’s nothing” and whisks him off to the next exhibit.

Two weeks later he goes to the same zoo with his dad. They are at the elephant exhibit and he asks his dad “What’s that long thing hanging down from the elephant?”

The dad replies, “That’s his trunk.”

“No, behind that!” says the kid.

“Oh, well that’s his tail” replies the father.

“NO, in-between the trunk and the tail!” yells the kid.

His dad replies, “Son, that’s the elephant’s penis.”

The kid, a bit puzzled, tells his dad, “But Mom said it was nothing.”

His father replied, “Son, that’s because your mom’s been spoiled.”

A man is walking down the street and sees a little boy riding a toy fire engine that’s being pulled by a Dalmatian. Unfortunately, the rope is tied around the dog’s balls, and as a consequence, the toy truck is going very slowly.

The man says to the boy, “You know, son, that truck would go a lot faster if the rope was tied around your dog’s neck.”

“I guess so,” says the kid, “but then I wouldn’t have a siren.”

A seaman meets a pirate in a bar, and the talk turns to their adventures. The seaman notes that the pirate has a peg leg, a hook, and an eye patch. “How did you end up with the peg leg?” he asks.The pirate replies, “I was swept overboard into a school of sharks. As my men were pulling me out, a shark bit my leg off.”

“Wow!” says the seaman. “What about your hook?”

“Well,” answers the pirate, “we were boarding a ship when one of the enemy hacked off my hand.”

“Incredible!” says the seaman. “How’d you get the eye patch?”

“A sea gull sh** in my eye,” the pirate replies.

“You lost your eye to a sea gull dropping?” the seaman asks.

“Well,” says the pirate, “it was my first day with the hook.”

A city slicker shoots a duck out in the country. As he’s retrieving it, a farmer walks up and stops him, claiming that since the duck is on his farm, it technically belongs to him. After minutes of arguing, the farmer proposes they settle the matter “country style.”

“What’s country style?” asks the city boy.

“Out here in the country,” the farmer says, “when two fellers have a dispute, one feller kicks the other one in the balls as hard as he can. Then that feller, why, he kicks the first one as hard as he can. And so forth. Last man standin’ wins the dispute.”

Warily the city boy agrees and prepares himself. The farmer hauls off and kicks him in the groin with all his might. The city boy falls to the ground in the most intense pain he’s ever felt, crying like a baby and coughing up blood. Finally he staggers to his feet and says, “All right, n-now it’s–it’s m-my turn.”

The farmer grins. “Aw, hell, you win. Keep the duck.”

The madam of a brothel has a problem, so she goes to a local priest. “I have two talking female parrots,” she tells him. “All they can say is ‘Hi, we’re prostitutes. Do you want to have some fun?’”“That’s awful,” the priest agrees, “but I have a solution to your problem. I have two male parrots whom I’ve taught to pray and read the Bible. If we put your parrots with mine, I believe yours will stop saying that awful phrase and will instead learn to recite the word of God The next day, the madame brings her parrots to the priest’s house and puts them in with the male parrots, who are holding rosary beads and praying in their cage.