This is an old story I originally posted in the "Farting at shows" thread, but it works here too so...
I was playing a gig at a VERY small venue called Eleanor's Tavern in a tiny town in Washington state, just over the Idaho border. My old band (I was just a teenager playing with a bunch of older guys) used to play there about once a month or so as my drummer was friends with the owners.
We would set up just outside the bathrooms after they moved a few tables out of the way. There was no stage or anything, just us tucked into a corner. It was getting pretty late in the evening and the place was packed. We had people dancing literally right in front of us. We were right in the middle of Cat Scratch Fever when our singer just stopped singing. I looked over to see what was up and saw the craziest look of surprise and revulsion I have ever seen on anyone. I watched the corners of his mouth turn down and his nose crinkle just as his head snapped back in an effort to get away. About then, I realized what must have happened and tried to start moving away but there was no where to go. This thing fell on me like an avalanche and I started to gag. To this day, that is the single most foul smelling fart I have ever been witness to and I've been known to knock tile off a wall myself. It smelled like someone had been eating rancid tuna sandwiches smothered in bad coleslaw and deer guts while washing it all down with week old dirty dishwater.
The worst part is, we were completely trapped with NO possible escape and an entire dance floor filled with people between us and the exit. I'm standing there with my eyes watering trying not to puke, and blearily watching my bandmates enduring the same through the tears. Considering the looks on all our faces, it must have looked like we just witnessed a ritual murder or something. Then...it starts making it's way through the crowd. I start to see some light at the end of the tunnel thinking to myself "Hey, everyone will clear out and we can get the hell out of here!". Well, I was right about that but as it turns out I was overly optimistic about how quickly the mass exodus would occur. Whoever greased their shorts with this lovely little cookie was right up front with us and it took like what seemed about 3 days to make it to the back of the crowd. I put down my bass, stepped up to the people in front of me, put out my hands, leaned forward to put my back into it, and just started pushing. I think I might have been the first one out! Stiff-arm FTW!
After we got outside and I made sure my band mates were all right (this part looked like the aftermath of a fire after everyone gets safely out of the building and people are standing around coughing, just glad to be alive) and I noticed my guitarist was missing. Well, I was just going to wait to find out what happened to him because there was NO WAY I was going back in there until the wait staff had a chance to open windows, air it out, and possible check with the EPA to make sure it was safe to go back inside. About 30 minutes later we went back in after repeated assurances that it was safe to do so to find out what became of the guitar player. Personally, I feared him dead. I just knew he was going to be laying face down in front of his amp, blue, cold, and very still with blood on his neck from clawing at it as he suffocated.
Fortunately he wasn't dead, but he might have wished that he was. He had been all hung over from tying one on the night before and had been struggling to keep it together before any of this even started. When that wall-o-putrid hit him, he threw down his guitar and bolted into the bathroom to hurl his guts out. The best part? The toilet was stopped up after someone left the mother-of-all-floaters in the can, and as you know, that kind of thing doesn't stop bar patrons from continuing to use said toilet. Yep, ol' Keith got down on his knees to puke and hadn't really noticed the problem because his eyes were still watering from the previous tear in the time-space continuum. Just as he opened his eyes to make sure he was on target, an entire toilet bowl loaded with shite and wizz stared back at him. I understand that the force with which his lunch left him was catastrophic in proportion, and something akin to the yield of a 100 mega-ton nuclear weapon. He managed to stagger to his feet, still vomiting at power-washer velocity and made it over to the garbage can. He upended it (it was full) and finished the deed. After splashing some cold water on his face while dry-heaving, he made it to the bar to let the owner know what was up. He had been cleaning and mopping for a good 15 minutes by the time we got back inside.
Ten minutes later, after the rest of us got our laughter under control we finished out the night. There was a brief PA announcement before we started up again to let eveyone know that if they needed to "express" themselves they had better leave the bar first or we would be done playing for the evening.
Poor Keith, I don't know that I've ever seen anyone look so forlorn as he did just a-swinging that mop around that jacked-up little bathroom. That's my story folks. Thanks for reading.
