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I don't laugh very easily, but this had me in tears

Discussion in 'The Lounge' started by desertrat67, Aug 27, 2006.

  1. desertrat67

    desertrat67 Hawk Driver

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    Pulled this off another forum...worth a read





    I never dreamed slowly cruising through a residential neighborhood could be so incredibly dangerous!

    Studies have shown that motorcycling requires more decisions per second and more sheer data processing than nearly any other common activity or sport. The reactions and accurate decision making abilities needed have been likened to the reactions of fighter pilots! The consequences of bad decisions or poor situational awareness are pretty much the same for both groups too.

    Occasionally, as a rider I have caught myself starting to make bad or late decisions while riding. In flight training, my instructors called this being "behind the power curve". It is a mark of experience that when this begins to happen, the rider recognizes the situation, and more importantly, does something about it. A short break, a meal, or even a gas stop can set things right again as it gives the brain a chance to catch up.

    Good, accurate, and timely decisions are essential when riding a motorcycle, at least if you want to remain among the living. In short, the brain needs to keep up with the machine.

    I had been banging around the roads of western Pennsylvania and as I headed back into Pittsburgh, found myself in very heavy, high-speed traffic on the Turnpike. Normally, this is not a problem, I commute in these conditions daily, but suddenly I was nearly run down by a cage that decided it needed my lane more than I did. This is not normally a big deal either, as it happens around here often, but usually I can accurately predict which drivers are not paying attention and avoid them before we are even close. This one I missed seeing until it was nearly too late, and as I took evasive action I nearly broadsided another car that I was not even aware was there!

    Two bad decisions and insufficient situational awareness, all within seconds. I was behind the power curve. Time to get off the freeway.

    I hit the next exit, and as I was in an area I knew pretty well, headed through a few big residential neighborhoods as a new route home. As I turned onto the nearly empty streets I opened the visor on my full-face helmet to help get some air. I figured some slow riding through the quiet surface streets would give me time to relax, think, and regain that "edge" so frequently required when riding.

    Little did I suspect?

    As I p***ed an oncoming car, a brown furry missile shot out from under it and tumbled to a stop immediately in front of me. It was a squirrel, and must have been trying to run across the road when it encountered the car. I really was not going very fast, but there was no time to brake or avoid it-it was that close.

    I hate to run over animals and I really hate it on a motorcycle, but a squirrel should pose no danger to me. I barely had time to brace for the impact.

    Animal lovers never fear. Squirrels can take care of themselves!

    Inches before impact, the squirrel flipped to his feet. He was standing on his hind legs and facing the oncoming 600R with steadfast resolve in his little beady eyes. His mouth opened, and at the last possible second, he screamed and leapt! I am pretty sure the scream was squirrel for, "Banzai!" or maybe, "Die you gravy-sucking, heathen scum!" as the leap was spectacular and he flew over the windshield and impacted me squarely in the chest.

    Instantly he set upon me. If I did not know better I would have sworn he brought twenty of his little buddies along for the attack. Snarling, hissing, and tearing at my clothes, he was a frenzy of activity. As I was dressed only in a light coat, riding gloves, and jeans this was a bit of a cause for concern. This furry little tornado was doing some damage!


    Picture a man on a blue sport bike, dressed in jeans, a light coat, and leather gloves puttering maybe 25mph down a quiet residential street and in the fight of his life with a squirrel. And losing.

    I grabbed for him with my left hand and managed to snag his tail. With all my strength I flung the evil rodent off the left of the bike, almost running into the right curb as I recoiled from the throw.

    That should have done it. The matter should have ended right there. It really should have. The squirrel could have sailed into one of the pristinely kept yards and gone on about his business, and I could have headed home. No one would have been the wiser.

    But this was no ordinary squirrel. This was not even an ordinary ****ed-off squirrel.

    This was an evil attack squirrel of death!

    Somehow he caught my gloved finger with one of his little hands, and with the force of the throw swung around and with a resounding thump and an amazing impact he landed square on my back and resumed his rather anti-social and extremely distracting activities. He also managed to take my left glove with him!

    The situation was not improved. Not improved at all. His attacks were continuing, and now I could not reach him.

    I was startled to say the least. The combination of the force of the throw, only having one hand (the throttle hand) on the handlebars, and my jerking back unfortunately put a healthy twist through my right hand and into the throttle. A healthy twist on the throttle of a 600R can only have one result. Torque. This is what the bike is made for, and she is very, very good at it.

    The engine roared as the front wheel left the pavement. The squirrel screamed in anger. The 600R screamed in ecstasy. I screamed in well, I just plain screamed.

    Now picture a man on a blue sport bike, dressed in jeans, a slightly squirrel torn coat, and only one leather glove roaring at maybe 70mph and rapidly accelerating down a quiet residential street on one wheel and with a demonic squirrel on his back. The man and the squirrel are both screaming bloody murder.

    With the sudden acceleration I was forced to put my other hand back on the handlebars and try to get control of the bike. This was leaving the mutant squirrel to his own devices, but I really did not want to crash into somebody's tree, house, or parked car. Also, I had not yet figured out how to release the throttle my brain was just simply overloaded. I did manage to mash the back brake, but it had little effect against the m***ive power of the sport bike.

    About this time the squirrel decided that I was not paying sufficient attention to this very serious battle (maybe he is a Scottish attack squirrel of death), and he came around my neck and got IN my full-face helmet with me. As the faceplate closed partway and he began hissing in my face I am quite sure my screaming changed tone and intensity. It seemed to have little effect on the squirrel however.

    The rpm's on the Cat maxed out (I was not concerned about shifting at the moment) and her front end started to drop.

    Now picture the man on the blue sport bike, dressed in jeans, a very ragged torn coat, and wearing one leather glove, roaring at probably 80mph, still on one wheel, with a large puffy squirrel's tail sticking out his mostly closed full-face helmet. By now the screams are probably getting a little hoarse.

    Finally I got the upper hand. I managed to grab his tail again, pulled him out of my helmet, and slung him to the left as hard as I could. This time it worked, sort-of. Spectacularly sort-of, so to speak.

    Suddenly a man on a blue sport bike, dressed in jeans, a torn coat flapping in the breeze, and wearing one leather glove, moving at probably 80mph on one wheel, and screaming bloody murder roars by and with all his strength throws a live squirrel grenade directly into your police car.

    I heard screams. They weren't mine...

    I managed to get the motorcycle under directional control and dropped the front wheel to the ground. I then used maximum braking and skidded to a stop in a cloud of tire smoke at the stop sign at a busy cross street.

    I would have returned to fess up (and to get my glove back). I really would have. Really. But for two things. First, the cops did not seem interested or the slightest bit concerned about me at the moment. One of them was on his back in the front yard of the house they had been parked in front of and was rapidly crabbing backwards away from the patrol car. The other was standing in the street and was training a riot shotgun on the police cruiser.

    So the cops were not interested in me. They often insist to "let the professionals handle it" anyway. That was one thing. The other? Well, I swear I could see the squirrel, standing in the back window of the patrol car among shredded and flying pieces of foam and upholstery, and shaking his little fist at me. I think he was shooting me the finger.

    That is one dangerous squirrel. And now he has a patrol car.

    I took a deep breath, turned on my turn-signal, made an easy right turn, and sedately left the neighborhood.

    As for my easy and slow drive home? Screw it. Faced with a choice of 80mph cars and inattentive drivers, or the evil, demonic, attack squirrel of death...I'll take my chances with the freeway. Every time.

    And I'll buy myself a new pair of gloves.
     
  2. UseYourBlinker

    UseYourBlinker 1 ton status

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    Cliff notes?
     
  3. desertrat67

    desertrat67 Hawk Driver

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    sorry, it is kinda long, but once you have control of yourself then start reading somemore you lose it again.
     
  4. surpip

    surpip 1 ton status

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    thats awsome
     
  5. cbbr

    cbbr 1 ton status GMOTM Winner

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  6. ARAMP1

    ARAMP1 Aviator Extraordinaire

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    Dude, riding a motorcycle doesn't even compare to flying a Cessna 172. Either this guy is very new to riding on two wheels when he makes this comment, or he's making it up. Either way, too long for my ADHD reading habits.
     
  7. darkshadow

    darkshadow 1 ton status

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    worth a good chuckel:HAHA:
     
  8. chevyin

    chevyin 1/2 ton status

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    This guy was doing a one-handed wheelie at 80mph while an acrobatic demon-squirrel does a Chuck Norris impression on him, before flinging the animal into a parked cop car only to have it go Chuck on it while giving the bird. Im pretty sure its made up. ;) I doubt it was even intended to be meant as anything but a funny fiction story.

    :D

    Being a pilot is easy!

    ..... no, but I did stay at a Holiday Inn Express last night.
     
  9. 68MUDSTUD

    68MUDSTUD OCD with shiny things

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    kind of a long read, but definitely worth it!!! haha
     
  10. k20

    k20 3/4 ton status

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    It takes alot to make me literally lol, this did it
     
  11. JDNobodi

    JDNobodi 1/2 ton status Premium Member

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    Is your avatar a picture of the rodent in the story.:rotfl::rotfl:
     
  12. ARAMP1

    ARAMP1 Aviator Extraordinaire

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    Thanks for the cliff notes. :waytogo: Sounds hilarious. :rolleyes:

    I think this is where I'm supposed to say "No, I just make it look that way":whistle:
     
  13. jekquistk5

    jekquistk5 Weld nekid Premium Member GMOTM Winner

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  14. Desert Rat

    Desert Rat Fetch the comfy chair

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    There is another classic out there about some guy having a major case of the runs after going to the local BBQ. I'll see if I can find it.
     
  15. Desert Rat

    Desert Rat Fetch the comfy chair

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    Ok, found it. Here it goes:

    "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 shiite. 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 shiite.

    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 shiite 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 shiite no matter what is about to come slamming out of your ass. It is apparently an evolutionary thing since s**tting 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 shiite 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 shiite 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 shiite 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 shiite remaining on about one-third of the seat rim which I had now just collapsed upon.

    Now, back to the vomit...

    While all the ****ting 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 shiite 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 ****e. All while thick shiite was spread all over my ass in a ring curiously in the shape of a toilet seat.

    And there was no ****ing 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."
     
  16. Corey 78K5

    Corey 78K5 1 ton status

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    That I gotta read:D
     
  17. Avery4jc

    Avery4jc 1 ton status Premium Member GMOTM Winner

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    lol, those squirrels can be mean. We had two as pets in 7th grade Science class and they had a "fort" built out of 2X4's hanging from the ceiling which was vaulted about 12' or so. After they grew up through the year and got brave they had no problem flying across the room to land on your head right in the middle of a test, mean little suckers.

    -Avery
     
  18. Corey 78K5

    Corey 78K5 1 ton status

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    :rolleyes: Sure:rolleyes:
     
  19. Avery4jc

    Avery4jc 1 ton status Premium Member GMOTM Winner

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    sorry for the hijack desertrat67 but Corey WTF is wrong with you? Can we help you with something? Even other members have posted around mentioning that sure I can be a little short sometimes but you have a chip on your shoulder when it comes to me and let me tell you right now that that sh*t is getting old really fast and it needs to stop.
    If you have a problem man up and let me know, otherwise step off.

    *hijack off*

    :D

    -Avery
     
  20. 68MUDSTUD

    68MUDSTUD OCD with shiny things

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    uhhhhhhhh HAHAHAHHAHAHAHAA :confused: :confused: :confused: :doah: :doah: :doah:
     

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