Cafeoutdoors.com: Flatulence And Other Bottom Of The Pyle Stuff

Uncle Duckins storys...

Tequila and Beaner Food Screamin? Squirts

Back in the mid 80's, when I was but a young buck, I was heading north to the Fresno area with a couple pals to pursue the fowl.....There was an Arctic Blast heading down the west side of the continent, and when the conditions are just right, multitudes of birds are on the leading edge of those ?blasts?, on their way to more hospitable surroundings...so, we wuz gonna catch some as they hauled assed south.

We stopped at a Mexican Restaurant somewhere?s around Bakersfield to get out of the weather, tip a few, and have us some vittles....I forget just what I ate, but I do remember having had a few Margarita?s, and several shots of Tequila...we drank, we ate, and then hit the road again.

Got up to our spot, dressed out, picked up all our gear and headed for the water in a freezing rain.
Well, I took maybe 10 steps and then got hit with THE URGE.....and it was an IMMEDIATE urge. My pals kept going, but I threw off my deke bag, dropped the rest of my gear, pulled down my canvas waders, my Levi?s, and the Long Johns I was a?wearin?, and squatted down ta pinch one off.....Didn?t end up ?pinching? off anything, as it turned out I had the ol? Tequila and Beaner Food Screamin? Squirts....
Did my business there in the dark and rain, cleaned up the ol? burnin? bung hole with the last of my T.P., pulled up my layers of clothes, and headed towards my gear whut was all strewn about...Maybe took a step, maybe two, and then realized that there was BIG WET inside my waders....figgered at first it was just rain, but then decided that just possibly, it was MORE than ?just rain?.
Got out the flashlight, dropped the waders and found that I had chit smack dab in my thermals...not just any ?chit? mind you, nope, kinda looked like one of them big ol? 10 pound Cow Pies ya see in the pasture...was all kinda green, slimy, runny, and stunk like something long dead....
And it was spread EVERYWHERE---- on the Levi?s, on the waders, and of course my thermals had taken the brunt of the assault........

Damn.....got no T.P left, and to be honest, it woulda took 4 or 5 rolls o? Brawny Paper Towels ta make a dent in the mess anyways....What ta do, what ta do????

Pulled off all my clothes, stood there shivering in my wool socks and pondered my predicament....yelled for my Bro?s, but they was LONG gone.....nobody else around neither....
Remembered that under my ?woolies? I had me a pair of cotton socks....I had on a forkin? T-Shirt, and I had me on a flannel long sleeve shirt whut had pockets AND sleeves....
As ya might could guess, I spent the rest of the day without no thermals, without no cotton socks, without no T-Shirt, and without no sleeves and pockets on my forkin? flannel shirt....
Worst part is, no matter how good I had tried to clean up my drawers and waders, I still stunk like a MoFo....none of my pals wanted ta sit next to me as we hunted, and all the way home they bitched until we found a forkin? store and bought me some new threads!!!

Funny thing is, no matter how bad the situation seemed ta be, it was never so bad that I even considered for a minute NOT HUNTING that forkin? storm.....

Laundry On The Rocks....

'Nother one happened when I was hunting a steep inclined bank along a slough....my huntin' partner and I decided to get up maybe 20 yards above the water on the aforementioned steep incline to pass shoot the birds level with where we were hiding, as they flew along about "yay high" ('bout 20 yards or so) over the water...
As usual, not unlike my forkin' Chessie, I got me all excited an' sech and got THE URGE again...
Well, in my infinite wisdom I decided that it was too much trouble to climb outta the "hole" and chit on flat ground, so's I dropped my drawers (no waders this time), and noted that if I faced DOWN HILL, gravity was wreaking havoc on my ability to chit without falling face forward....so I faced UP HILL, drawers down, and seemingly outta the way.
Well kids, as ya'll know, gravity and mathematics can play tricks on ya...I had figgered the turds ta drop vertically, which they did in a manner of speaking, BUT, me being at a 45 degree angle when I dropped the bombs, "vertical" just happened ta be downhill from me, and 'zactly where my drawers was all piled up where I thunked they would be outta the line o' fire...
Again, weren't no solid turds in the explosion, and again I done chit all over my forkin skivvies and camo pants....
The next thing my pal saw was me, running bare assed DOWN HILL to the waters edge, and scrubbing the chit off'n my clothes, not unlike a pioneer woman doing laundry on the rocks....
I still hear about that 'un from Bob (The Witness), as does EVERYBODY else he can think of ta tell....

Magic Of V.A. Hospital Food

Back in around 1980 or so I was in the V.A. Hospital out here in Long Beach gettin' some chit fixed that the Military owed me for....so there I was, all stoved up an' sech, bedridden more or less....A Doc stopped by to look me over and informed me that they needed a "stool sample"....Then a bit later an Orderly dropped off a forkin' little blue pan thing, kinda looked like a Banana Split dish, and told me to "sample it up" and when I was done to ring the Nurses Station and they would come get it and run it to the lab....

Well boys, tell ya, there weren't no way I could chit in that little dish a'layin' there in my bed, so I dragged my ass off to the bathroom, and yup, I had me a forkin' private room/bathroom at the V.A....go figger huh?
Anyway, I chit a GIGANTIC forkin' turd in that pan, honest ta God, it was a real Trophy!!! Was hanging off both ends, and for some dang reason it didn't break on the edge of the dish there....It was the first chit I had taken in DAYS, and maybe some of you fellers have experienced the Magic of V.A. Hospital Food--it is even nastier comin' out, than it was goin' in...talk about stink!!
So, I closed the bathroom door, and almost wanted to put a towel under it so's the stink wouldn't permeate my bedding an' all..., I hobbled my ass back to my bed, rung up the Nurses Station---bout two hours later a big ol' Silver Back Groid comes in my room, asks where the sample is, and I pointed to the bathroom....When he opened the door to retrieve the TURD there was an audible forkin' GASP, and the room was immediately filled with a horrible stench....The fowlmouther came flying outta there, Turd Pan balanced delicately, a shocked, ashen look (ever seen an ASHEN Groid??? I have!!!!)on his face, and he literally flew out the door and down the hallway-- almost sounded like he was running away by the tempo of his fast disappearing footsteps...with the TURD held firmly out front (two hands on the pan, as far away from his body as he could hold it-- kinda leading the way to the Lab seemed ta me!!!!
Whatever the outcome was, I never heard no more 'bout the Turd Sample, and as a matter of fact, nobobdy ever asked me for another neither...

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"Being deeply learned and skilled, being well trained and using well spoken words; this is good luck."

Edited by SwampFox (12/24/06 05:10 PM)

Some days defy description....

After finding out that the local FFL doing a transfer on a S&W M&P pistol for me STILL has not gotten the package (making me wonder if the package is lost or stolen at this point...) I get a call from the family saying they want to go grab something to eat.

So I says to myself, "Self", I says...."A nice dinner out will be relaxing and will take your mind off of your MIA handgun for a while. Let's do it!"

So I meet everyone at the restaurant and look forward to a nice relaxing hour or so....but as soon as I walk in I see Jimmy Carter's mug on a TV where they are running CNN. At that moment some part of my brain said "You should probably just turn around and go home. Nothing good can come of this." ...but being the rational person I am I dismissed this instinct because it was, after all, just a former President on TV...not an omen.

So we are seated and place our order. Across the roughly four foot aisle there is another group of people seated, mostly middle-aged. It's still early so the college kids haven't infected every restaurant yet. They are sharing a large pizza and a couple of them have salads along with the pizza. The man sitting on the outside corner of the table is positioned so that he is facing me...he also has a couple of beer bottles on the table.

Time passes with the usual small talk that happens among family as our drinks and salads begin to arrive. The folks across the aisle, apart from being a tad louder than I would have preferred, seem to be relatively nice folks. As I look around (I am always on the lookout when in public....it pays to be safe) I notice a slight irregularity in the clothing of the guy sitting across from me and so I begin paying very careful attention to him in as discrete a manner as possible, thinking that he might have a weapon. I wasn't panicked because there are a large number of CCW holders around these parts and this guy didn't seem to be any sort of threat, but I always like to know who around me is packing heat.

As I am doing my clandestine recon, I glance at his salad and see movement. "That's not right..." I thought...so I looked harder. And there, climbing up one of his cro?tons, is the biggest damn cockroach I have ever seen.

So much for my appetite.

Before the revulsion can begin in earnest, however, I notice that his fork is coming down into the salad plate...heading right for the cro?ton. I realize what is about to happen and begin to get up and approach his table as quickly as I can....everything goes into slow motion.

I see his fork stab the cro?ton and he pulls the fork toward his mouth...with it's disgusting passenger on board. I am now standing up and moving toward him saying "NO!! WAIT.." but because of the noise he doesn't hear me. I see half the cro?ton disappear into his mouth and then....

CRUNCH

He has just bitten the cro?ton and it's hideous little passenger in half.

His demeanor changes. He realizes something is wrong. He looks at his fork and sees the front half of a very large and very nasty looking cockroach on half of his cro?ton. He makes a gasping noise as he drops his fork and shoots upright all in one quick motion. Even in the miserable lighting in the restaurant I can see him go pale instantly and grab at his throat.

"Oh crap...He's choking!" I thought to myself, so I continued my approach in preparation of doing the Heimlich if it was necessary.

His dining companions are puzzled..."George, what's wrong?" "Honey are you alright?" "Oh my god, he's choking!"....George is hunched over with his hands in the classic "I'm Choking!" position.

I am right next to him now and grab him by the shoulder, spin him around to look him in the face and say in a loud voice "ARE YOU CHOKING??" apparently remembering my first aid training.

George looks up at me, and I think the guy is in real trouble. I begin to move around him to perform the Heimlich, when George turns his head towards me.....

....And vomits.

Now when I say that George vomited, I don't mean that he burped up a little. I mean he let loose a stream of vomit so powerful it felt like it was coming from a fire hose....

...You'll notice I say "felt" in that previous sentence and you might start to wonder about the meaning of that word in that context. I assure you, dear reader, it means exactly what you think it means. Yes, ladies and gentlemen, George's powerful stream of projectile vomit impacted yours truly right on the side of the face at point blank range.

This impressive stream of vomit splashed a mixture of used pizza, salad, beer and roach guts right into the side of my face, and from there it went into my hair, down my shirt, and some of it even went into my ear. I tried to throw up my hands to block the stream and managed to deflect some of it....

I am backing away from George as he continues to retch and as I am trying to come to grips with the fact that my entire upper body is now covered in some foul smelling vomit. To be honest, my brain is not really functioning at this moment in any conscious way because of the horror of what has transpired. But, sadly, I don't have much time to come to grips with what just happened.

Remember when I said that I threw up my hands to deflect some of George's vomit? Well I did a hum-dinger of a job, because some of it landed right in the plate of a diner behind me. I was unaware of this, of course, because I was simultaneously trying to get the vomit out of my eyes and out of my right ear as I tried to create distance between myself and the human volcano.

I only became aware of what happened to the other diner when I felt myself bump into something as I backed up, and I whirled around, still blinded by the vomit. That's when I felt it.

Apparently all of this had been too much for diner number 2. For when the vomit I deflected landed in his plate, he fell out of his chair onto his knees. Immediately after he hit his knees, I backed into him. The "something" I bumped into was his head. Ordinarily I would have been very concerned about someone bumping into my right side because that's where my 1911 is being carried in a Blade-Tech IWB holster. My Smith 442 is also riding in the right front pocket of my pants.

Diner number 2, however, didn't notice any of this. Immediately after his head made relatively minor contact with my handgun, he let loose.

I, still blind from vomit, feel a bump on my right side and then I feel a hot stream of chunky liquid proceed down my right hip and leg.

Yes, ARFCOM, diner number 2 yakked all over my right side. Apparently for lunch he had egg salad and tuna salad sandwiches, and his dinner salad was full of feta cheese and big black olives, along with the requisite tall glass of beer. He heaved a mighty heave and belched forth an even fouler and chunkier substance down my right side.

Some of it went into my holster.

Some of it went into my right front pocket.

Some of it went into my cell-phone pocket.

Some of it went into the INSIDE of my pants and began running down my leg.

Then as suddenly as it began, it was over. There I stood in the middle of a relatively nice restaurant among a horrified group of diners covered in so much vomit it is literally dripping off of me and making large splatting noises on the floor.

The smell......is indescribable. I won't go so far as to say it is the worst smell on earth, but as a man who has gutted all sorts of animals including gut-shot deer, I can tell you that it is among the worst smells I have ever encountered. As the old saying goes, it could gag a maggot.

My mind is blank as I stand there dripping with vomit. Time seems to stand still as I can see the foul mixture dripping off of me....

And then it happens.

Diner number 2 is apparently ready for round 2. He lets go again, but this time I can see it coming. Unfortunately I don't react quick enough to be missed entirely. Round 2 hits me square in the boots, soaking my socks and filling my boots with what seems to be the foulest smelling vomit I have yet seen on this horrible night.

I am now standing in the middle of a relatively nice restaurant....

With vomit dripping off of my nose....off of my chin.....

With vomit in my right front pocket.

With vomit in the cargo pocket of my pants.

With vomit in my right rear pocket.

With vomit in my wallet.

With vomit inside my pants.

With vomit running down my leg.

With vomit soaked socks.

With vomit pooled in my boots.

I take a step to try and escape this horrible hell, and I notice that there is hot vomit squishing between my toes.

The restaurant is at an absolute standstill. Half of the diners within eyesight are staring in absolute horror with their mouths agape....the other half look like they are about to go Krakatoa any second. The wait staff is in the same boat, half staring in horror, half barely keeping their lunch down.

As I take another step the realization that The Smell is coming seems to strike the diners and the wait staff alike, and they begin to scramble to get the hell out of there before THEY loose it. Drinks are spilled. Plates are turned over. Dishes shatter.

The manager comes to see what in the heck is going on and walks up to a scene that is probably the closest thing to the Mr. Creosote sketch in Monty Python's "The Meaning Of Life" that any human being has ever experienced.

"It's only waaaafer thin!"

He is startled for a moment, but the man is a real pro.

"Sir" he tells me calmly "We can help you clean up around back. Everyone remain calm, and we will get all of this cleaned up. Sir, this way." The manager leads me toward a side door that is close by as I am still drippingly covered in vomit. As he walks quickly he begins barking orders to the wait staff on the other side of the restaurant who had not been witness to the horror.

"Sandy! Get a mop now! Jake, get all those people out of there NOW! Get them all gift certificates! Jodi, don't let anyone with puke on them go out the front door! This way sir." as he leads me out the side of the restaurant. After we get through the door he makes a hard left and leads me to the back of the building and begins getting out a hose pipe.

"I'm afraid this is the best I can do, sir..." he says as he starts to connect the hose. "If you want to try and use this, I can go get you something to dry off with."

I don't even answer him. I just start taking off my boots so I can pour the vomit out of them. Then I spray them out. I take off my socks and it is just about then that I notice something. It is January. It is 29 degrees outside, and I am spraying down my bare feet with a hose filled with cold water.

Goodie!

About this time the family shows up looking more than a little green around the gills. I remove my weaponry as clandestinely as I can and instruct them to hurry and wrap the guns up in my coat so nobody can see them...Then I have a decision to make...Do I start stripping or do I try and clean off with my clothes on?

I decide that stripping to my boxers just isn't an option, so I put the nozzle of the hose inside my waistband and begin to hose off the inside of my pants. The water is unbelievably cold right now and I can feel my entire lower body going numb. Then I spray out each of my pockets, and then I move on to my upper body. spraying inside and outside my shirt, and finally spraying down my head and hair, then working my way back down to my feet to make sure all the putrescent fluid is gone.

So there I stand in bare feet soaked from head to toe so cold my teeth are chattering...but at least I can't smell the vomit anymore. Perhaps the vomit is all gone...or perhaps I am on the border of hypothermia and no longer care about smells. Either way, despite being a human popsicle I feel better. The manager returns with some towels that I use to dry off as best as I can.

As I dry off the manager asks me what happened. Through chattering teeth I manage to explain the roach situation as the root of the evil that had transpired in our midst.

"Sir, I am so sorry! Is there anything I can do to make it up to you? A free desert? A free meal?"

God bless the guy, he is trying...but honestly...is anyone actually going to take him up on that offer under THESE circumstances?

I tell him to just forget about the entire thing (as we hadn't gotten our main course yet). I just wanted to go home and take a long hot shower. Still wet and very cold, I got the old blanket I keep in the trunk of my car and put it in the seat of the family car so I could sit down without getting vomit on the seats.

The only sound as we drove home was the loud chattering of my teeth.

It's over now, and I am sitting near the wood stove. I am beginning to get feeling back in my toes. I am looking at my 1911...an expertly crafted weapon....that is covered in dried vomit. There are dried bits of what I think is tuna all over it. I am looking at the leather pocket holster for my Smith 442....I don't know if it is ever going to be usable again. My Smith...poor little thing...there is vomit in a couple of the chambers. I have quite possibly the single most disgusting cleaning job ever attempted on a firearm ahead of me tonight.

Joy!

So the next time you are at a restaurant and you think that you are having a bad experience, remember my tale of woe and be thankful.

Now if you will excuse me, I think there is still some used pizza sausage in my ear...

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"Being deeply learned and skilled, being well trained and using well spoken words; this is good luck."