The Menternet

In quite possibly the most hilarious craigslist posting this year, this poor guy bares his soul. And by soul, I mean ass.

In short, the dude ate a hot dog before a date and suffered horribly for it while at the girls place. Why don’t I let him set it up…

Now some of you might have been into a public bathroom, and seen shit caked all over the bowl - all the way up under the rim and wondered how it got there. It’s almost as if the person took a dump upside down.

Got your attention?

As I dropped trou, a volcanic like eruption occured. It was synchronized with my sitting motion. And it was projectile.

The rest of the gorey hilarious stark details are over at craigslist and copied below for posterity.

“toilet” by froodmat

Why you shoulnt eat at Grays Papaya before a date.
Reply to: pers-276787952@craigslist.org
Date: 2007-02-10, 9:48PM EST

So I’ve recently started dating this attractive woman who shares similar interests and we’ve hit it off. As a thirty-something who has experienced the quagmire that represents dating in New York, you’ll know that this was a rare find.

We were planning to meet up for a movie last Saturday. I figured that we would go to an early show, grab a bite to eat, then head back to my place. Plans made, all systems go!

Earlier on Saturday morning, a friend of mine called me and asked me to help him move some furniture out of his apartment. I agreed, and afterwards, we wandered down to Grays for a couple of dogs. I got mine with the ‘works’. Nothing beats a good hot dog sometimes. It really hit the spot.

Got home to find a message from my date asking me if I would mind meeting a little earlier than originally planned - she recently purchased a new television and wanted the old one moved out of her place. Saturday moving other people’s shit around wasnt my idea of fun, but what the hell - any normal person would have done it. So I agreed - quick shower, change and I was off to her place. We would go to the movie after we removed the tv. Or so I thought.

On my way to her place, my stomach began to feel a little queasy. Thinking that I’d be able to hold out til we got to the movie, where I would discreetly take care of business, I supressed the feelings and tried to ignore the rumblings.

The television wasnt too big, and I figured that it was going to be a piece of cake getting it downstairs to the curb. Halfway down the stairs, tv in tow, I felt a sharp pain in my lower stomach. I knew the hot dogs were screaming to leave my body. It was now or never. Embarassed, I quickly explained that I wasnt feeling too well and needed to use her bathroom. A couple of quick jokes, and I was running back up to the safety of her commode.

I opened the door to her bathroom, turned on the water to drown out any embarassing gastric noises, which I was certain would accompany the expulsion of my lunch. Standing there, looking at the bowl, I figured I’d execute ‘the move’.

For those of you unfamiliar with ‘the move’, it is essentially a pause between removing your pants and sitting down just as everything comes out. It minimizes the amount of time you’re actually seated, and if done right, you’re in and out in a flash. It is particularly useful if you’re in a public restroom, and dont want to make it a leisurely experience.

Unfortunately, ‘the move’ only works with solids. Now some of you might have been into a public bathroom, and seen shit caked all over the bowl - all the way up under the rim and wondered how it got there. It’s almost as if the person took a dump upside down.

The hot dog which I had consumed earlier in the day had been pulverized by the digestive juices in my system into a liquid form. As I dropped trou, a volcanic like eruption occured. It was synchronized with my sitting motion. And it was projectile. Sweating, from a combination of fear and my body experiencing a violent discharge of digested food, I wondered exactly where everything landed. I sat there in a haze, afraid to look at my immediate surroundings.

The stench was unbearable. It was as if my body expelled everything contained in my intestines. Including the nickel I swallowed when I was five. The convulsions continued, my body shaking with each intestional eruption into the bowl. It was all liquid, and I could hear it as it hit the water.

Sitting there, dripping in sweat, I slowly moved my head downward to see what damage was done. The horror was just too much to bear. There was liquefied Grays Papaya on my legs, boxers and pants. If that wasnt bad enough, the first explosion not only missed the bowl and made it on to my clothing, but it also covered parts of the rug next to the toilet.

The last time I cried, I was about 7 years old. I could feel a lump in my throat. There was no way out of this without explaning the extent of the damage. I would have to fess up.

But it wasnt over. A third wave of rumbling, more intestinal discharge accompanied by what was surely Mozart’s Requiem on a wind instrument. I sat there shaking.

I cleaned myself, flushed and surveyed the damage to the bathroom. It was previously, a pleasant room. An escape from the cold, cruel world. There were prints of flora, a basket of potpurri, bath gels and a big tub, where I am certain that my ladyfriend spent hours in a warm bath erasing the memory of a tough week. In less than five minutes, I took that tranquil place and transformed it into a state which was worse than the men’s room at the Port Authority Bus Terminal.

I called out to her while inside. She was outside the door and asked me if I was ok. My voice shaking, I told her that I had a bad reaction to something I ate, and needed a change of clothes. After what seemed an eternity, she agreed to take my keys, go to my place and get a change of clothes for me. She also provided me a garbage bag so I could dispose of my soiled clothing.

She returned with my fresh clothes, I took a shower, and we decided to call it a night. Needless to say, she has not returned my calls this week.

Grays Papaya, Fuck you!

* Location: New York City