1.  The World's Worst First Date
2.  Stupid Crank Call
3.  Steakhouse Incident (gross and graphic)

Friday night, this guy goes out with all of his buddies, and drinks like
Prohibition is coming back.  Saturday, he is in such bad shape that he can't
make it through twenty minutes without either throwing up or using the
bathroom.  After several hours of this, he is able to stop throwing up, but
he is still running to the toilet every 20 minutes.  He doesn't want to
cancel the date, because he's afraid he won't ever talk to her again.  So
they meet in Westchester, and take the train to New York City (about a 30
minute ride).  They get to the restaurant, and he excuses himself during the
appetizers to use the bathroom.  They enjoy the rest of the appetizers
without interruption, but he has to go back again during the entrees. They
decide to get dessert.  During dessert, our hero feels another rumbling, but
doesn't want to look like a complete bathroom freak, so he holds it.

After a few minutes, the rumbling subsides, but he still has a bit of gas
stored up.  He decides to let this little bit of gas fly right there at the
table (discreetly, of course).  Unfortunately, this little bit   of gas came
with another little surprise.  "Oh crap," he thinks (and feels).  Instead of
running to the bathroom right away, our hero immediately leans on the arms of
his chair to keep from sitting on his surprise.  He maintains this yoga
position for the rest of dessert, trying to figure out what to do
before his tan pants (a) start to smell, or (b) start to show stains on the
outside. He quickly pays for dinner and they leave the restaurant.  Oh, by
the way, he is walking like a cowboy.  On the way to the train station, they
pass the Gap.

"Do you mind if I run in and buy a sweater that I was looking at last week?"
he asks.  "No problem, I'd like to look around too," she replies.  They go
into the Gap.  Fortunately, at the Gap, men's fashions are on the right,
women's fashions are on the left.  They split up.  Our hero grabs the first
sweater within reach, and hurries back to the khakis.  After selecting a pair
that most closely resemble his current outfit, he brings both items to the
register.  His eyes are on his date (still on the other side of the store) to
make sure that she doesn't see him buying the pants.  He doesn't even want
the sweater, so he says through clenched teeth (just in case his date can
read lips from 40 feet away) "Just the pants."  "What?" asks the Gap girl.
"Just the pants!"  (Eyes still trained on his date.)  Gap girl:  "Oh, OK."
He pays for the pants and walks over to his date, then they leave the store.

They board the train just before it leaves the station and find two seats in
the middle of the car. Without sitting down, our hero excuses himself and
walks to the bathroom in the back of the car.  He gets to the bathroom as the
train departs, and quickly rips off his pants and boxer shorts. He rolls them
into a ball and throws them out the window.

After cleaning himself off, he opens the Gap bag and pulls out...just the
sweater.
 Back to the top

 Now get this. I was sitting at my desk, when I remembered a phone call I
 had to make. I found the number and dialed it. A man answered nicely
 saying, "Hello???"

 I politely said, "This is Patrick Hanifin and could I please speak to
 Robin Carter?" Suddenly the phone was slammed down on me! I couldn't
 believe that anyone could be that rude.

 I tracked down Robin's correct number and called her. She had transposed
 the last two digits.

 After I hung up with Robin, I spotted the wrong number still lying there
 on my desk. I decided to call it again. When the same person once more
 answered, I yelled "You're a jerk!" and hung up. Next to his phone
 number I wrote the word "Jerk," and put it in my desk drawer. Every
 couple of weeks, when I was paying bills, or had a really bad day, I'd
 call him up. He'd answer, and then I'd yell, "You're a jerk!" It would
 always cheer me up.

 Later in the year the phone company introduced caller ID. This was a
 real disappointment for me, I would have to stop calling the jerk.  Then
 one day I had an idea. I dialled his number, then heard his voice,

 "Hello???"

 I made up a name. "Hi. This is Herman with the telephone company and I'm
 just calling to see if you're familiar with our caller ID program?"  He
 went, "No!" and slammed the phone down. I quickly called him back
 and said, "That's because you're a jerk!"

 And the reason I took the time to tell you this story, is to show you
 how if there's ever anything really bothering you, you can do something
 about it. Just dial 722-4822.

 The old lady at the mall really took her time pulling out of the parking
 space. I didn't think she was ever going to leave. Finally her car began
 to move and she started to very slowly back out of the stall. I
 backed up a little more to give her plenty of room to pull out. Great, I
 thought, she's finally leaving.

 All of a sudden this black camaro come flying up the parking isle in the
 wrong direction and pulls into her space. I started honking my horn and
 yelling, "You can't just do that, Buddy. I was here first!"  The guy
 climbed out of his camaro completely ignoring me. He walked toward the
 mall as if he didn't even hear me.

 I thought to myself, this guy's a jerk, there's sure a lot of jerks in
 this world. I noticed he had a For Sale sign in the back window of his
 car. I wrote down the number. Then I hunted for another place to park.

 A couple of days later, I'm at home sitting at my desk. I had just
 gotten off the phone after calling 722-4822 and yelling, "You're a
 jerk!" (It's really easy to call him now since I have his number on
 speed dial). I noticed the phone number of the guy with the black camaro
 lying on my desk and thought "I'd better call this guy, too."

 After a couple rings someone answered the phone and said, "Hello."

 I said, "Is this the man with the black camaro for sale?"

 "Yes it is."

 "Can you tell me where I can see it?"

 "Yes, I live at 1802 West 34th street. It's a yellow house and the car's
 parked right out front.

 I said, "What's your name?"

 "My name is Don Hansen."

 "When's a good time to catch you, Don?"

 "I'm home in the evenings."

 "Listen Don, can I tell you something?"

 "Yes."

 "Don, you're a jerk!" And I slammed the phone down. After I hung up, I
 added Don Hansen's number to my speed dialer.

 For a while things seemed to be going better for me. Now when I had a
 problem I had two jerks to call. Then after several months of calling
 the jerks and hanging up on them, the whole thing started to seem like
 an obligation. It just wasn't as enjoyable as it used to be.

 I gave the problem some serious thought and came up with a solution.

 First, I had my phone dial Jerk #1.

 A man answered nicely saying, "Hello."

 I yelled, "You're a jerk!" But I didn't hang up.

 The jerk said, "Are you still there?"

 I said, "Yeah.."

 He said, "Stop calling me."

 I said, "No."

 He said, "What"s your name, Pal?"

 I said, "Don Hansen."

 "Where do you live?"

 "1802 West 34th Street. It's a yellow house and my black camaro's parked
 out front."

 "I'm coming over right now, Don. You'd better start saying your
 prayers."

 "Yeah, like I'm really scared, Jerk!" and I hung up.

 Then I called Jerk #2.

 He answered, "Hello."

 I said, "Hello, Jerk!"

 He said, "If I ever find out who you are..."

 "You'll what?"

 "I'll kick your butt."

 "Well, here's your chance. I'm coming over right now Jerk!" And I hung up.

 Then I picked up the phone and called the police. I told them a big gang
 fight was going down at 1802 West 34th Street. After that I climbed into
 my car and headed over to 34th Street to watch the whole thing.

 I turned onto 34th Street and parked my car under the shade of a tree
 half a block from Jerk #2's house. There were two guys fighting out
 front. Suddenly there were about 12 police cars and a helicopter.  The
 police wrestled the two men to the ground and took them away.

 It was a nice way to break the boring cycle I had gotten myself into.
Back to the top

 Now, I know that there is a lot of embellisment 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 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 explination 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.
 Back to the top