A rather unconventional restaurant review: Ryan’s Steakhouse
A story by a guy named Rob
WARNING!! The following restaurant “review” is gross and disgusting.
If you are a person of delicate sensibilities skip this page.
A couple of weeks ago we decided to cruise out to Ryan’s Steakhouse
for dinner. It as 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
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. It was salted.
Perhaps a bit too much, however.
I had not really been feeling well all day, what with a bit of gas
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 whichspawned 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
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 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 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 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
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 and recalled 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 reform a puddle. There was a significant amount of shit
remaining on about one-third of the seat rim which I had now just
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
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 or just
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. And 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
somelittle 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.
This page was last updated December 1, 1998.