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This is a question Vomit Pt2

It's been nearly six years since we last asked about your worst vomit, so:

Tell us tales of what went in, what came out and where it all went after that.

(, Thu 7 Jan 2010, 17:02)
Pages: Latest, 15, 14, 13, 12, 11, ... 1

This question is now closed.

Shit and stuff
So my son shat himself. Not that strange, considering he is only two years old, although pushing three. We were playing outside, and I failed to notice in time. As we get in and start removing the outer layers of clothes it becomes much less unnoticeable.

So we start changing the diaper. Him on his back, fairly content and oblivious to the smell and foulness of his doings. The amount of shit would have made a silver back gorilla uneasy. Or on a human scale - enough to desire immediate undo of fathership. He is covered in shit. Shit running on the inside of his trousers even messing the socks. Shit on the back all the way to his neck and both his willy and his navel are covered in brown filth that unfortunately reminds me of the lasagne we had for lunch.

I refrain from running away by utilising all my strength and by using as little oxygen as possible. My son is chatting away, but all I can see is a babbling turd. I face my fears of throwing up. However, had I thrown up at this time, it would probably have ended well and no permanent wounds would have damaged the family structure.

As it happens he has a stiffy - small kids have that for no particular reason and its not really a big deal. Unless off course you have to clean it, because it is brown and it should be pink. I take a deep breath. I carefully clean it - leaning over a little bit to see if I got the bits under it. I don't want to bend it - hell I don't even want to touch it. He starts pissing. A full manly piss that would make me strangely proud if he did it in the garden. Away from me. Particularly so, if he did not do it in my mouth.

A cascade of lasagne escapes my stomach and thunders through my mouth. My gut reaction is to straighten up and back away. Unfortunately that results in me throwing up bulks of digested mince straight on my sons face. So he throws up and starts screaming - a dampened and frightened scream with sounds of bubbles. A sound that will haunt me until the day I die.

I take a further step back and look at the horrors caused by inside human stuff. I step on my wife's feet - she had tiptoed into the room to see how I managed and apparently stood there for a little while. I don't do many diapers and she wanted to see how we managed. Her two favourite boys. But as I am standing on her toes she does what one does when one wants to walk back but ones toes are stood upon.

She falls.

And grabs me from behind.

So I fall. On top of her. Still spewing.

The back of my head hits her nose violently and her nose explodes in a fountain of blood. The nose is broken and we both have a concussion. Not that anyone cares at this point in time. We are busy.

Busy throwing up.

Busy bleeding.

Busy crying.
(, Sat 9 Jan 2010, 20:33, 13 replies)
Awesome
I'll keep this short - blah drinking, blah mate pukes up.

And I saw a whole pasta shell emerge from his nose and unravel as it popped out like a butterfly stretching its wings for the first time.

'Twas a thing of beauty.
(, Fri 8 Jan 2010, 12:24, 7 replies)
It almost killed me.
Last summer, vommiting almost killed me. Looking back after the event, I reckon it was the rat poison that did it.
I often have rodents living in the roof-space of my house, so this particular day I was doing the usual routine of throwing poison about the loft. It comes in wee sachets containing a paste that smells like marzipan. Once finished, I put everything away, and must have been distracted by something else, as I cant recall washing my hands. A serious error.
I made a sandwich for lunch and went about the rest of the day. Later in the evening, I felt a bit of a headache coming on, but didnt think much of it - A shower and a good nights sleep would sort that out. I had the shower and went to bed.
I woke up very suddenly at about 3am with that "I need to shit RIGHT FUCKING NOW" feeling - I had been seconds away from fouling the bed, but managed to get up and run to the toilet in time. I sat and fired liquid into the bowl for a couple of splattery minutes.
Having the shits isnt the end of the world is it? I certainly wasnt worried, although I didnt remember eating anything dodgy. It was as I was wiping up that I got the stirring guts sensation that suggested puke was imminent too.
I was wondering what might have brought this on as I turned round and assumed the position - on hands and knees infront of the pan.
My stomach was churning and my guts started heaving - the vom was on its way, so I opened wide and prepared for it...........nothing came out. Dry heaves, perhaps? my guts were going through the motions alright, but nowt was rising.....then I felt movement, slow, almost slithering movement in my guts. I could feel the puke rising so hideously slowly through my tubes....my stomach was pumping like mad, but the puke was taking its sweet time coming up - it was a horrible sensation.
After a couple of minutes of this, the puke finally reached the home straight and I felt it rise slowly up my throat and into my mouth. I opened wide and expected the usual splatter with perhaps some coming out my nose too, but no....no. It was horrible. This THING came slowly out of my throat. It was a long, solid mass slowly being extruded out of my mouth. It drooped down towards the pan.
Aside from the horror at this fucking thing coming out of my mouth, I started having really serious difficulty breathing - I could only catch the odd tiny gasp of air as this stuff, the consistency of warm plastecine, flowed out from my throat.
I was gripping the rim of the bog and my feet were thrashing around as I wondered what the hell was going on...what was this stuff? why the hell wasnt it coming out like normal puke? why couldnt I breath properly?
And still it kept coming, until I had a solid mass dangling from my throat down to the surface of the water in the pan. What to do now? My stomach was still pumping madly and more and more stuff was oozing out. Ths went on for pehaps a couple of minutes although it felt like eternity. I decided to bite off the length that was dangling - the feeling of it on my teeth was horrible. It was quite firm, warm and sticky and it was still coming.
By then, my breath was coming in the odd wheezing, whistling gasp and I was fairly certain I was about to die - in perhaps a week or so, my sister would come round to the house and find me naked on the toilet floor with this monstrous stuff sticking out my throat - what a way to die.
I was shivering, shaking, crying and still gasping for breath, and onwards the puke extruded....I bit off another length, which dropped into the pan with a soft splash and still more came out...How long could this go on for? To my relief, a few more inches wormed their way out and dropped into the pan. It was over. I drew in massive, gasping lungfulls of air - overjoyed at still being alive, and found myself feeling....absolutely right as rain. No after-effects, no more heaving, I felt perfecly normal.
I brushed my teeth to get rid of the film that had stuck to them and went back to bed in a rather confused state. I slept fine and woke the next morning as normal, feeling great.

I dont really know what to make of it all. I assume I had traces of poison on my hands when I made lunch which caused this, but have no way of knowing for sure. Im bloody carefull with the stuff now as I really, REALLY dont want to go through that again.
(, Thu 7 Jan 2010, 20:07, 11 replies)


once i had a bath with mrs.fiend and got bubblebath in my mouth and done a sicks all in the water :( but it was very funny because it was meant to be a sexybath *true fact*
(, Sat 9 Jan 2010, 6:17, 4 replies)
Kebab shop vom-combo
Go easy, I'm new. Months of lurking has led to me finlly signing up to share this with you.

Aged 14, about 1996, in a town just west of the M25, me and a group of friends had a party. Standard fayre for a bunch of 14 year olds - older brothers or randoms walking past the offie supplied the booze. By 11pm several girls were crying after too much Barcardi Breezer/Malibu and coke, all the boys on cheap stubbies and Super Strongbow.

Come 1am, those of us who hadn't passed out or got lucky on the host's parents' bed decided to trot into town, being 'the lads', and get a manly kebab. Nine or ten of us made the ten minute walk to the sublime Kebab Elite, egging each other on to see who would get the most chilli sauce, pissing on people's doorsteps on the way.

We approached the door salivating, suitably pissed up and wobbly to enjoy our tasty meat of dubious origin. My friend G entered first and we all filed in behind. As he raised his hand to attract attention from the staff, he inhaled, chocked on his chewing gum, coughed, and flopped on the counter, strong cider gushing forth, spilling across the counter, brown and stinky. It was dribbling into the little bowls of salad under the counter, coursing its way across the steel.

Now of course our pissed up 14 year old constitutions were pretty delicate at this stage. I guess the smell must have hit D first, as he doubled up in the corner and spewed on his shoes. And so the chain reaction continued. Me and almost all of my friends had a spewy cidery vom-combo in front of the counter, rougly 8 pissed up kids heaving up copious stinky brown liquid, sloshing around the floor.

Some poor guy sitting alone at a table then brought his just-eaten kebab back up into its wrapper. The guy playing the fruit machine started retching. And the three speechless staff stared, mouths agape, at the sea of bile and booze, having found its way behind the counter, lapping away at their feet. As, with watery eyes, we turned to walk out, filing one after the other, a stunned silence persisted in the air. Not a word was said by anyone present.

But the real magic was, just as I being last out allowed the door to close behind me, the knife weilding meat carver fella chose his moment to boak up his guts. Could only have been better if he'd done it on the griddle and it steamed everywhere.

I have been barred from the place ever since (nearly 15 years now). They still recognise me even though I moved town 5 years ago.

Length? Not bad for a first time.
(, Tue 12 Jan 2010, 22:04, 11 replies)
Fear of flying
This is cheating a bit because it's not my vomit but it has scarred my memory permanently.

In days gone by I used to spend a lot of time flying across the Atlantic, one of the perils of a long distance relationship. Leaving aside the cramped seats, shitty food and grumpy passengers one of the regular features was turbulence.

One flight we were having a particularly rough time of it. The Fasten Seat belt light had gone on within an hour of leaving the ground and had stayed on and the plane was jumping around like a first time raver on a good pill.

Now turbulence itself isn't a problem if you know anything about aircraft. Planes can take an incredible amount of punishment before anything serious happens and in the event of a sudden loss of cabin pressure or a reduction in the number of wings you're fucked anyway so it's not worth worrying about. However, lots of people get really freaked out by turbulence, both mentally and physically.

This flight was about the worst buffeting I've received and inevitably people started throwing up. In days of yore sick bags were automatically issued in the seats but now the cabin crew have to hand them out individually it seems and they were tearing up and down dealing with little bags of recycled airline food. The more people were sick th worse the plane smelled and you had a vomit chain reaction forming.

But the worst of all, the worst I've ever seen was when the plane hit a massive air pocket – a downdraft that left it dropping like a stone. One of the cabin crew levitated up to the ceiling, there was a cry of horror from the bathroom but the image that will haunt me to my grave is the sight of a mushroom cloud of vomit rising up from behind one of the forward seats, drifting higher and higher until we were through the downdraft and it splashed down. I can only hope the producer was the receiver.
(, Thu 7 Jan 2010, 20:37, 5 replies)
Combined with the shits
A couple of years ago I was off snowboarding with my bro. Unbeknownst to me I was carrying the norovirus. It struck on the Saturday night when I started to feel rather queasy. So, rather than head out and get drunk I opted to stay in the chalet. Nice and social. Good thing too because when it hits it hits hard and takes no prisoners.

The force at which your body expels the contents of your stomache is really quite breathtaking. I don't think I'd ever seen projectile vomitting before yet here I was doing it straight into the toilet. And don't think that just because there is nothing left in the tank that that's the end of it. The only thing more painful than projectile vomming you stomache out is projectile vomming nothing at all. The force was enough to burst several blood vessels around my eyes making me look like I'd been in a fight. And the muscles around your ribs take an utter pounding.

Unfortunately, the norovirus is a two-for-one deal and with the vomming comes the shits. When you're not doubled over the rim you're shitting endless amounts of rusty water. And don't even think about farting. That's a gamble you won't win. Fortunately, it's over withing 48 hours. You stay contageous for another couple of days. In the end half the chalet had it and a quaranteened toilet for the infected was imposed.

I wish this story had a happy ending but my guts were not the same for the rest of the week. At one point instead of hooning through Les Arcs best off piste I was enthroned for 40 minutes, softly sobbing to myself while my sorry and sore arse cried rivers of brown sadness.

Still, at least the vomiting was over.
(, Thu 7 Jan 2010, 20:01, 7 replies)
A mate of mine loves scooping up vomit
from outside our local Weatherspoons pub and cupping it in his hands while its still nice and steamy hot. Then he finds a nice quiet alleyway where he unzips and slips his dick in the hot wet chunky carrot splodge until he spluffs with the awsome force of a lethiathan God. Then he wipes his hands clean of the puke and spunk mix on the walls or whatever vagrant happens to be dossing in the vicinity and he carries on on his merry way.

Most people say he's demented.

Personally I just think he's a sick fucker.
(, Thu 7 Jan 2010, 17:24, 9 replies)
Living with the parents...
Went to bed like a good little MattIAHat, mind on a cheeky bedtime splif and possibly a quick self luvvin session. I get into bed (starkers - can't get comfortable otherwise) and reach under the bed for my herbal smoking supplies and start to skin up

But something isn't right. There are lumpy bits in bed with me. Sticky lumpy bits. Cold, sticky lumpy buts. That smell a bit fishy...

FUCKING CAT!

The cunt had gotten into my bed (INTO - properly under the covers) and sicked up a quite frankly heroic amount of feline vom before fucking off, leaving me naked and smeared in semi digested fish flavoured go-cat.

Its surprising how far you can spread cat vomit.
(, Thu 7 Jan 2010, 22:50, 1 reply)
The Exorcist
This MUST be a pea-roast but...

When I was 14, I had a dental operation. In hospital, general anaesthetic, the whole nine yards, just to put a crooked tooth straight.

I came to feeling absolutely awful, my mouth full of a boxer's gumshield glued to my teeth. It made it rather difficult to speak, but I tried:

"Mm muh urs" (My mouth hurts)

"Wan nk" (Not what you think - I want a drink)

and

"Anna e uk" (Want to be sick)

In fact, I wanted to be sick quite a lot, but nobody would listen to my random grunts. So I was sick anyway.

And because I'd bee out cold on my back while some surgeon hacked away at my mouth, I had ingested blood.

Quite a lot of blood.

"YAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAARCH!"

Yeah, just like in The Exorcist.

"YAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAARCH!"

"Get him a sick bucket!"

They tried to get me a sick bucket, but to no avail.

"YAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAARCH!"

All over the nurse, the bed, and an impressive distance across the floor.

The nurse screamed, covered in blood like a murder victim.

Porters came running, but they might as well have sent the Chuckle Brothers, as the slipped in the bloody puke, and both went down like sacks of shit.

The nurse (think Barbara Windsor if it helps) went over on top of them, and they eventually managed to escape the scene of the carnage on all fours.

TA-DAAAA!

Not, it must be said, my finest moment.
(, Thu 7 Jan 2010, 22:32, 5 replies)
Used to own a lovely, gentle tomcat called F.A.
One day, when just he and I were at home, I heard someone say 'Hiya!'
It could only have been F.A.

I tracked him down, and half-jokingly greeted him with 'hiya, F.A!'
To which he replied, spookily clearly, 'Hiya!' and walked off.

Astounded, I followed him round the house, saying 'Hiya!' and laughing every time he answered.

Eventually he sat down beside the back door and stared expectantly at me.
I said 'Hiya!' and F.A. took a huge breath, said 'Hiyaaaaaaaaaaaaa!', and vomited up a huge tapeworm.

As it lay, glistening white, on the tiled floor, F.A. stood up and walked away in dignified silence.

My turn to say 'Hiyaaaaaaaa!'
(, Thu 7 Jan 2010, 22:14, 1 reply)
Sheer, sheer class
My hat, to this day, is off the gentleman in question.

After a particularly drunken office do, the prettiest girl in the company was leaving with her boyfriend. Cab arrives; he (swaying more than a little) chivalrously opens the door for her. As she steps in (and has her back turned), he turned his head and let loose with a truly magnificent single firehose of vom. She didn't see a thing; he simply wiped his chin, winked at me and followed her into the cab as though nothing had happened.
(, Sat 9 Jan 2010, 0:21, Reply)
But the worst thing I ever done
I mixed a pot of fake puke at home and then I went to this movie theater, hid the puke in my jacket, climbed up to the balcony and then, t-t-then, I made a noise like this: "hua-hua-hua-huaaaaaaa" and then I dumped it over the side, all over the people in the audience.
And then, this was horrible, all the people started getting sick and throwing up all over each other. I never felt so bad in my entire life.
(, Fri 8 Jan 2010, 10:49, 6 replies)
Emesis Nemesis
S was a geneticist of some sort with whom I shared a flat for a year. The nature of his work meant that at times he had to be in the lab over the weekends to tend an experiment. I vaguely heard him moving about that morning... and then...
"OH MY FUCKING GOD! WHICH ONE OF YOU BASTARDS DID THIS? FUCKING GET OUT HERE AND CLEAN IT UP NOW!"




What?

* * *

There is in Hull a club called Spiders. It is - or was - famed for its silly cocktails. To create their version of the Pan-Galactic Gargle Blaster, you will need a pint glass. Into this, you throw a bit of ice. Then a shot each of vodka, Pernod, and Galliano. A dash of blackcurrant cordial, and a baby bottle of fresh orange juice. You top it up with dry cider, and charge £2.30 for the lot.

P, another flatmate that year, had also spent time living in Hull, and had also experienced and loved Spiders. So it seemed only right that we go to the pub on his birthday and recreate the experience for him. By the end of the evening, he was looking distinctly peaky. But we all managed to crawl home - we walked the two miles in an attempt to sober him up - and he collapsed into his bed.

* * *

I put my head around the door, amazed at the lack of a hangover. S was, by now, in the kitchen, making toast. R, a third flatmate, had also emerged wanting to know the reason for the noise.
"Was that you?" he demanded.
"What?"
"The toilet. I tell you, there's no way I'm using that until whoever did it cleans it up. And I fucking need a shit..."
Nice image. But I had only a minimal idea what he was talking about: nothing beyond an association of the toilet with filth.

S had by now deduced that the culprit of whatever the crime was must have been P, and was hammering on the door of his room. I, though, still lacked insight into the exact nature of this particular atrocity. I went to investigate. I opened the door.

The little room was caked in vomit. It wasn't that P had missed the bowl: he must have been standing up, and he must have done a full 360-degree rotation as the contents of his stomach had made their bid for freedom. It was as if someone had replaced his blood with sick, and then severed an artery. The guy had clearly turned into some sort of chunderfountain; a gushing spring of boke.

But that wasn't the worst of it.

Remember that the PGGB had as in ingredient blackcurrant cordial? Running down the walls, splashed across the floor and - somehow - dripping from the ceiling, this surging tide of sick was bright, bright magenta.
(, Fri 8 Jan 2010, 10:04, 11 replies)
Not my own vomit
but the vomit of a very good friend.

We'll call him Lee. Lee is a big guy, bit of a metaller, about 6'4 with big hair and a big beard, and is built in a brick shithouse kind of shape. He works at a pub, and his after hours drinking dive of choice is a cheap as fuck place called The Purple Turtle, in Oxford city centre, and because he's there, I'm there too, as are the other two blokes who were on shift with him tonight.

Lee had had a couple, I think its fair to say, and, as happens even to the best of us from time to time, he was feeling a little unwell. Hand over his mouth, he gets up and heads for the gents. I continue drinking with the other two, my back to the tunnel that leads to the toilets. I imagine that under the music I hear a bit of a bang from behind me, but I probably just think that I did cos I know the rest of the story. A minute passes, and Lee comes out of the toilets at double time, claps me on the shoulder and says to the table "Comeon guys, we gotta go, NOW".

Despite having half a pint in hand, I sense the situation is too urgent to take the time to finish, and we follow him outside. He's leading us away quite quickly and looking over his shoulder every few steps at the alley that the club's on. As we round the corner, we ask him why we we had to leave almost 75 pence worth of lager EACH on the table. He explains.

Upon entering the gents with the quite desperate need to throw up, he discovered that all the cubicles, as well as the sinks, were taken up by other customers. Now Lee, as I mentioned, is quite a big bloke. Quick as a flash, in his inebriated state, he decided that the best thing to do would be to knock down one of the cubicle doors.

He charged the toilet door with his shoulder. The door slams open, where, obviously, some poor unsuspecting inside is taking a dump. Equally obviously, Lee did not think of this beforehand, as he vomits exactly where the toilet bowl would be, if there wasn't some bloke's lap in the way.

"Shit" Lee thinks, as the last of the vomit leaves his mouth. "Ohhhh shit." In his drunken brain, Lee realises that this guy is likely to be pretty unbelievably pissed off at him, and so he decides to do what he considers to be the only sensible thing to do at this point.

He decides to get the first punch in.

Lee clobbers this guy, straight to the face, and flees the gents toilets ahead of any retaliation. He claps his mate on the shoulder and leads them out of the club.


So he's telling us this story as we're out on the street, and all three of us are eating the fucking floor laughing. Cos all I can do, hearing this story, is imagine it from the poor bloke's point of view. Someone breaks down the toilet cubicle while he's having a shit, throws up on his lap, punches him in the face and then runs away. All in all, he's clearly having a pretty bad night.


Anyway, that's my best vomit story, and my first qotw post. Worth a click?
(, Sat 9 Jan 2010, 3:23, 4 replies)
Worst vomit, strangest sex.
The worst vomit and strangest sex of my life followed a drunken teenage party.

After sixth form ended there were a shitload of celebratory parties. One of the parties was particularly well attended as the parents had chipped in with about a hundred quids worth of booze and gone away for the weekend (luckily facebook etc was well in the future and selective invitations were made with the proviso that any unauthorised guests would be quickly chucked out along with the knacker who’d let on about the party). As I mentioned in a previous post my brother is a cunt. In this case it proved handy as he was invited along for his exceptional talent for effective violence, he was a bouncer.

On the night I was on a promise and so on my best behaviour. Unfortunately my brother wasn’t and nicked my willing partner (he later told me not only willing but very wet – she pissed on him but that’s another story). When I discovered the date had fucked off with him best behaviour closely followed sobriety out of the window and within about an hour I was unable to drink anymore snakebite due to fullness. At that point he proved his cuntiness even further by popping in and giving me a pint of what he later admitted was Underberg and Martini Rosso, along with the advice that it would settle my stomach and help me feel a bit better. Then I scored. She was in as much of a state as me and didn’t take much persuading into the master bedroom where we locked the door and suddenly all our clothes just fell off. We got down to some rather serious sexytime the way that only curious, horny teenagers can. Back then I was pretty unsophisticated when it came to things sexual so when she suggested we have go at the old mutually satisfying oral sex I could well have believed it was Christmas. And that’s where it started to go wrong.

She may not have been well-practised but fucking hell it was like sticking my jollywand in a wet and animated hoover. It was wonderful. Unfortunately in her enthusiasm (and drunkenness) she was paying little attention to how far she was taking Mini-Donkey and promptly tested her gag reflex. It worked to perfection and she did the technicolour yawn all over my cock. Worse still some of the spew managed to be projected right onto my jap’s eye and it stung like fuck. I sat straight up and was going to yell when I caught a whiff of the vomit. Now when it comes to the vomit club I’ve always been a joiner and the result was a projectile stream full of chunks and martini (remember the best behaviour? It had consisted of lurking near the buffet table and picking instead of swilling. There was a LOT of chunk). I immediately started to apologise when she said “Look, we’ve made a right fucking mess of the bed, we’re both covered in it, let’s fuck anyway.” So we did. Rolling around in the slop and chunks like a couple of pervy pornstars. We did strip the bed afterwards and chuck the covers in the bath though. We weren’t complete fucking heathens.
(, Thu 7 Jan 2010, 23:22, 4 replies)
Ben the dog
About 15 years ago my family was asked to look after a neighbour's dog, Ben, while our neighbours were on holiday. My parents never let me have a dog when I was younger, they told me it was because dogs were expensive but I'm certain it's because they couldn't be arsed to look after it. So looking after a lurcher/collie cross for a week seemed like a brilliant thing. Oh how wrong I was.

When Ben arrived the morning they were due to leave for "cultured-and-sophisticated" Costa del Sol, his owners informed us that Ben had 'a bit of a cold' and it was nothing to worry about.

My mum took Ben in the house and wished them a happy trip. No sooner as the door had shut, Ben lurched forward, coughing and hacking, and then from his lungs produced what I could only describe as an enormous lump of white mucus or phlegm, literally two inches across. It reminded me of a lump of that fancy mozzarella you get in packets, it was all thick and gloopy. Luckily, being a wee nipper, I wasn't expected to help my mum clear up that awful mess, but from her face I could tell it was certainly not pleasant. If that sounded pretty disgusting (I could have gone more graphic if you'd like), the worst is yet to come.

Ben was running a fever an shaking quite violently so we put him in his basket and left him to it. About 15 minutes later I was alerted to him by a weak whimper, then I heard a noise that sounded like the wettest, dirtiest fart you could possibly imagine. Walking into the kitchen I was presented with a horrifying sight: Ben was lying on his side, just outside his basket with his rear end pointed towards his basket. In a 45 degree impact zone from the sphincter of this poor creature lay what must have been literally a bowel-load of hot, yellow, extremely smelly diarrhoea-esque shit. Some of this stuff had sprayed a good two metres. His basket was absolutely ruined. If that wasn't bad enough, at this moment Ben hacked and coughed up another load of the white goodness.

So there was this dog, practically surrounded in either phlegm or shit, lightly shaking. I did the only thing a 10-year-old would do at seeing and smelling this - I chundered. Chundered my fucking guts out. At this point my sister walked in, called my mum, and my mum came in. According to my sister, my mum at this point walked out the room, cried for a minute, then went and got some marigold gloves, a mop and bucket.

The absolute worst part of this story? This happened a good 3 or 4 times over the week. My mum is a fucking saint.
(, Thu 7 Jan 2010, 17:59, 1 reply)
The road to hell....
2 years ago I was at work and coming down with a spot of man flu. Early afternoon I realise I'm not gonna make it and am sent home.

Trouble is I live 35 miles away down the M5 motorway. So I set off home and am doing pretty well until I was quickly hit by that horrible vom nausea. It came on quickly, too quickly and from the middle lane of the motorway at 80mph I indicated to pull in and headed for the hard shoulder. I'd barely made it into the first lane or dropped below 70mph when the convulsion hit and I spewed.

Not wanting to crash I had to keep my eyes on the road and hands on the wheel so much to my own upset I puked all over the steering wheel, my hands and lap. You can not imagine the panic of trying to keep your eyes open, concentrate on driving and simultaneously puke.

I screeched to a halt on the hard shoulder and was throwing the door open when the next wave hit and this time I got my sleeve, the door pocket and finally some onto the road itself.

I practically fell to my knees out of the door still puking as I made my way to the back of the car and the grass verge. In between "spurts" I glanced up at the horrified faces of motorists witnessing this standing puke fountain addition to the motorway.

Eventually the torrents gave way to the dry wretch and I had to face my situation. I was still 20 miles from home, alone, on the motorway and the drivers seat, door trim, steering wheel and me are covered in a thick paste of beige tummy custard.

Luckily though in my pocket I had one crumpled tissue I'd been wiping my runny flu nose with earlier. I swear a shed a little vom tear as I doubled the tissue over again and again trying to eek out as much life from it as I could.

Then the fun part, I had to sit down in the puddle of vom on the seat, now nicely chilled by the winter air. I gripped the sticky steering wheel and drove home.

Upon arriving home I felt so weak and yucky all I could manage was a quick shower then into bed for 48 hours. I can assure you that leaving a puddle of vom for 48 hours in a locked car does nothing for the resale value...
(, Thu 7 Jan 2010, 17:54, 2 replies)
AAARRRGGGGGHHHH, Boomerang!!!
When I was a kid my parents took me on a day trip to that snail-quaffing, garlic-munching, horse-eating country across the channel where it’s illegal for a woman to shave their legs or underarm pits.

After twenty minutes or so rocking about in the Channel, I realised I wasn’t feeling too good. The whole ferry experience was leaving me queasy and the fact I’d been pigging out on skittles and M&M’s for the entire journey from home to Dover meant my gut was churning like an industrial washing machine.

My dad took me up onto the busy viewing deck, reasoning some fresh air would sort me out. Within a few seconds of the harsh spring air repeatedly smacking me in the face, I felt an urgent and absolutely fucking terrifying need to spew. Racing over to the railings, I stuck my head over the side and produced a rich, dark, chocolaty Technicolor yawn peppered with brightly coloured, half-digested skittle goodness. I watched the stream of puke sail out over the vast expanse of choppy water.

I instantly felt a lot better. And the people round me suddenly found somewhere else to stand and enjoy the view of shitloads of miserable-looking water.

But I didn't care, I was busy watching, mesmerised, as the strong wind caught the trail of spew and sent it sailing back towards the ferry – it was like watching a stinky, lurid stringless kite caught and tossed by the wind. The spew arched and danced and floated effortlessly, dancing a weird fandango as it went, returning to us, moving with a life all its own. And the speed! It was so fucking fast! It was truly awesome! It moved so quickly I lost sight of it.

Then, after a couple of seconds, twenty meters or so further down the viewing deck my dad and I heard a thick Scouse accent growl: “AWW FOR FUCKS SAKE!!!”

My dad and I both turned our heads and saw a man in his forties wearing a business suit, covered from head to toe in premium quality skittle-speckled thick brown stomach sauce.

“Errr, think we’d better go back down and find your mother,” said my dad.

And we did, never to talk about what happened ever again...
(, Sun 10 Jan 2010, 13:57, 2 replies)
Both ends burning
I remember having a really dodgy stomach at the age of ten, and waking up in bed with an overwhelming desire to vomit and defacate at the same time.

I rushed to the bathroom as fast as my little legs could carry me, hitched my pyjama bottoms down and squatted over the toilet.

Then to my horror, I realised that my urge to throw up was going to arrive sooner than my need to take a crap.

So frantically, I got up off the toilet, dropped to my knees and leaned over the bowl, puking violently - at the precise moment that the first torrent of vomit came gushing out of my mouth into the toilet bowl, a massive turd the size of a generous salami shot out of my anus with unprecedented force.

It was at that moment that my mother came out of her bedroom to see what all the noise was, only to find me kneeling on the bathroom floor groaning with my pyjama bottoms round the ankles and a freshly steaming shit on the hallway carpet.

I've had better days.
(, Fri 8 Jan 2010, 14:45, 5 replies)
Hm
A few years ago in the first term of my first year of undergrad I was dating a rather delectable young lady who very much enjoyed smoking pot, drinking, and late night food.

We'd been out to the Leadmill nightclub in Sheffield, all I really remember is that I'd drank enough to feel like someone was inflating a balloon full of urine inside me (and not in a good way), and that the then girlfriend wasn't making matters better by mauling my crotch with her hands in the taxi ride home. Suffice to say I was busting to micturate. Fortunately, the girlfriend decided that late night greasy food was needed, so when we got out of the taxi she staggered over to the nearest take away whilst I darted into a garden to take a much needed piss.

Staggering back towards the kebab shop I could see that she was having problems - being only 5ft tall she couldn't see over the counter very well and was having trouble deciding what she wanted. I joined her and together we got a large kebab to share, liberally smothered with the finest chili sauce, and with large green chilis sprinkled throughout like glass sheards in a toddlers rusk. We started walking back, deciding (despite the appalling messiness of her room) to go back to hers for the night. The kebab did not sit well with me. I could feel its powerful rat- and pigeon-grease reacting volcanically with the nebuchanezzar of oily vodka I'd drunk earlier. I couldn't decide if I was going to puke, or shit myself.

The girlfriend let me into her room, and started rolling a joint. I was dispatched to fetch something to drink, and returned to my own room, where the only thing I had left was a bottle of white wine which I had injudiciously left open on the window sill for three weeks. I had a swig, it was vinegary but I figured it didn't matter. Returning with the Chateau Neuf de Sarsons, I was soon tucked up nicely in bed with a now naked girlfriend, smoking pot and drinking vinegary wine.

Perhaps unsurprisingly, this new element in the churning bile-hole that was my stomach produced an admixture of bitterly pukegasmic liquid that was straining to escape either by top or bottom orifice. I was in a dilemma, should I attempt to relieve the pressure with a release of gas but then also risk either puking or shitting myself? Or should I excuse myself from her room, go to the bathroom at the end of the corridor and possibly do both. I lay in a cheap meat, vodka, and pot haze, trying to decide which route was the best.

Unfortunately at this moment my hands were tied as the girlfriend decided to start smoking something other than the joint. This put me in rather a bind - need to relieve pressure, with the need to relieve, other, pressure. Things, as they do, progressed, but all the while I felt a boiling fury inside my stomach as various liquids and semi-digested solids fought a vicious, no-geneva-convention, civil war. And then it happened. The effort I was putting in to, erm, things caused a spasm in my gut. I could feel a tide of hot violently painful gas swarming up my oesphagus. I clench my teeth and turned my head away from my girlfriends, lying directly below mine in sweaty appreciation upon the pillow. The gas passed through my teeth, small chunks of matter were caught by them and, in a pseudo-manly fashion I swallowed them back down, all the while attempting to not break my stride. I was elated, I thought I would be able to finish was I was doing, and then deal with the rotteness inside.

I was wrong. Like some form of evil trampoline, the vomity burp I had sent back down below rebounded off my stomach lining like a cheap wrestler bouncing off the ropes, gathered up its friends and spurting in hot volcanic vileness up my throat. I barely had time to react and, unfortunately for her, my girlfriend had chosen that exact moment to open her mouth to emit a low moan. With unerring aim, I threw up in her mouth, and on her face. She stared at me in horrified disbelief, her head tilted forward and then she puked all over her breasts. The combined smell made me puke again, this time into her hair. For a few seconds we were entwined in some sort of horrifying puke smeared love embrace before we managed to disengage.

We broke up shortly afterwards.
(, Thu 7 Jan 2010, 22:14, 9 replies)
Streams of Whiskey
After a whiskey-fueled 18 year old's party fizzled out and everyone fell asleep in piles on the floor, I was woken by by friend dragging what looked like a dead body into the 'off limits parent's bedroom'. I stood up despite the room spinning like a waltzer to find out what had happened.

On entering the room the smell hit me, there was vomit and shit all over the bed, the contents of the drawers were on the floor and the light shade was in tatters.

'What happened?' I asked him.

'I think I was a bit pissed and had an accident.' came the obvious reply.

'So who is the dead boy?'

'Oh he's not dead - he's just hammered. I thought if I dragged him in here, laid him on the bed and wiped puke on his face he would think he did it and clean it up.'

It did work. And worked on many occasions after this party too.
(, Tue 12 Jan 2010, 15:16, 1 reply)
Feedback loops.
I was once in a group of people who were in the habit of stopping off at a moto-X course for a weekend, and driving little cars around off-road and generally having a real hoot. This used to be a "Blokey" thing, with only a few hard-core lasses turning up... and then women started to come, and then people bought frikking landrovers and caravans instead of tents.. and it all started to go tits-up.

Before too long, it had become an event that needed to be "organised" and a porta-toilet was ordered at great expense. No longer was taking the shovel up the field a valid option, and sooner or later, it became frowned upon.

One morning after spending the night on the ale my guts and body were't feeling too good. Long after sunrise and desperately in need of letting a serious cludgie go, I exited my foul-smelling methane-rich tent and swayed off to the porta-toilet which - by this time - had spent 3 days in the sun. I opened the door to a smell and fly-swarm that MUST have been piped in from the cup-girls set, and I wretched. No way was I going to manage to keep my guts from exploding at both ends...

I toddled off into the morning with a small roll of bog-roll clutched tightly in one sweating hand, and vainly attempted to walk smoothly lest I should upset the growling beast that was my bowel. About half way up the hill I realised that what I needed most was a drink of water... momentarily I stopped and considered the re-percussions of returning to camp, but carried on pottering towards the woods when my sphincter was nearly overcome by a wave of hot pressure.

A few minutes after I was deep in the woods, surveying the area and getting pissed at myself for not bringing a spade... The day was still, the woods were warm, and the buzz of insects held the promise of a horribly frustrating crap.

After a deeply agonising moment, weighing up the known blast-radius that my arse was capable of, the lack of hole and blast wall (didn't have a spade) and the predicted consistency of what was to follow.... I decided to squat on a slope, hoping that my loudly barking spider would be brought closer to the ground, thus narrowing the blast-zone.

I squatted.... but after another brief moment of thought, I decided to remove my boxers, trousers and boots.. working on the theory that it was easier to clean crap off my legs.

So.. Squatting on a slope in the woods, wearing only a T-Shirt and a hung-over grimmace, I closed my eyes, concentrated on the buzzing of the insects and tried to relax my sphincter "in a clam and controlled manner"... I jumped as a fly landed on my ring-piece.. calmed my nerves and tried again.

The next 5 minutes are etched into my mind as a "what not to do" tutorial for the future.

The resulting flow of man-slurry exited fast. It flowed downhill at speed, and my "handy" placement of the bog-roll (infront of me) suddenly seemed less than smart. Then the smell hit me. Bouyed up by it's own heat the stench floated upwards in the still and humid air and assaulted me. Suddenly I was wretching again - this time to full effect - and on an empty stomach I produced only bile. The violent convulsions caused my arse to sputter wildly, and Gasping for breath resulted in large nasal inhalations, and more wretching... for the second time of my life I was in a disasterous shit-induced positive-feedback loop. Morbid curiosity forced me to look as green bile surfed a torrent of shit, only to realise with horror what I was looking at - and the cycle would start again.

I moved - Sideways - like a shitty crab. Clutching a trees for much-needed stability I evaded the stench and rode out the rest of my bodily convulsions in relative comfort: even the flies trying to munch my ass were pleasant by comparison.

I returned to camp wearing only my shorts: The clean-up operation had been Wardrobe-intensive.

The next night I drank only water.
(, Fri 8 Jan 2010, 19:52, 3 replies)
Lung butter
On duty over xmas, ER full, inhaling the fumes coming off most of the punters enough to take you over .05...

Bill is wheeled in to the packed waiting room.
Bill has a 'fruity' chest infection.
He also has a permanent tracheostomy, and poor co-ordination.
He's relatively quiet until a particularly brutal bout of coughing ejects a copious stream of lung butter - more than enough to make an elephant slip - from his tracheostomy, all over half the waiting room.

Cue synchronised spontaneous vomiting - a veritable Tsunami of chunder.
The spectacle was only improved by the unaffected punters setting up an impromptu vom-slide...
(, Fri 8 Jan 2010, 3:19, 1 reply)
I went down with a bug at work
I was feeling a bit dicky for a couple of hours, then all of a sudden my stomach did a somersault and it's contents started it's upward journey.

I bolted for the bogs, hand clamped over my mouth, not sure if I'd make it.

Bursting into the first cubicle, vomit burning the back of my throat and the convulsions starting, I felt small relief that I'd made it.

Then all thoughts of chucking up left me. In front of me was something so shocking my body couldn't bring itself to throw up on it. It took a second for my brain to catch up with my subconscious reaction.

In the toilette bowl was the biggest turd in the history of human poop, a Brown Mamba that looped once round the toilette, then up one side with it's 'nose' gently touching the seat itself.

I managed to stagger to the next cubicle and did what I needed to, but even as the lumps lodged in the back of my throat I was thinking of nothing but that turd....what a creation.
(, Thu 7 Jan 2010, 20:56, 2 replies)
Mmmm mushroom
I remember (or rather I was told) that once at a teenage houseparty, I was having to be carried upstairs due to having imbibed a little too much Cinzano Bianco or whatever awful drink I'd liberated from my parents earlier.
"It's okay," said my mate who was doing the carrying to the teen who lived there. "Don't worry about the bed, he never pukes up."
Cue the inevitable vom from me as my mate was still halfway up the stairs.
"Brilliant" said someone behind him.
"Sorry, he never normally..." started my mate.
"No" said the person behind, "this is brilliant, he's thrown up an entire mushroom. Look."
And he apparently picked up the vom-stained but incredibly unchewed, large button mushroom and waved it around for all to see.
Chew your food, kids. That's the lesson here I think.
(, Thu 7 Jan 2010, 17:40, 1 reply)
Well, he gave me this bloody waffer thin mint...

(, Thu 7 Jan 2010, 17:18, 2 replies)
Murder death puke
Many moons ago, I had a summer job (between my first and second years at university) as a contract cleaner/landscape gardener. The London-based company I was working for subcontracted from a lot of councils and whatnot, cleaning up council houses so they were ready for new tenants, taking care of council-owned fields and gardens and that kind of thing.

They also had a number of contracts with the metropolitan police, which mainly involved maintaining the greenery in and around police stations. All in all, it was a smashing job which paid cash in hand, got me outside and even the cleaning jobs that we did weren't too bad (the majority of the work I did was on the gardening side).

Anyhow, one day I got my job sheet and was told that my partner and I were on a police cleaning job, which was very unusual - most cleaning jobs were council ones (where you basically went into some scummy council flat, bleached the fuck out of everything and left). On the promise from the boss of a £50 bonus each for the day, we were only too happy to leap into the van and head to the site, mind. We got there and were shown in by a nervous-looking young copper past some 'Police Cordon' tape - not a great start.

What I saw inside will live with me forever. A guy had suspected his wife of having an affair, so had taken justice into his own hands - courtesy of a shotgun. Over the breakfast table, he had shot her point blank in the head, splattering her brains all up the wall behind her. Now this had happened a few days ago. Forensics had been in and removed the body, and taken photographs and samples and all that jazz. But the bit that happens next, they never show you on CSI, do they? Some poor fucker has to clean the remnants up. And that's where we came in.

As I said, this was a few days after the crime and the immediate investigation of the scene had been completed. In the height of a London summer, the brains and blood of the unfortunate woman had become crusted onto the walls, and we ended up resorting to using wallpaper scrapers to effectively chisel her grey matter from the wall.

I was 19, I was scraping the stinking brains of a dead woman from the walls. It was inevitable. Barely ten seconds in, I hurled. EVERYWHERE. I had no idea what I'd eaten, but it was fucking irrelevant. I projectile vomited over and over and over again, all over the carpet, the wall, the kitchen surface and (of course) myself.

I then spent the next hour cleaning up my own sick, while my (stronger-stomached) partner sorted out the brains. And we both got our £50 bonus that day, even though I provided my own mess to clean, in true Keynsian-economics style. I bought him a pint at the end of the day out of my bonus, mind. Although I didn't feel like one myself, funny enough.

The following summer, I got a job in Asda. Much less distressing.
(, Fri 8 Jan 2010, 15:12, 3 replies)
Broadcast to the world...
The best vomit story comes courtesy of an old friend of mine.

We were both pupils at a choir school that broadcasts a Christmas service on the radio on Christmas Eve.
He was a choirboy - I was not.
He had to spend every day with choir rehearsals and service on top of normal schoolwork - I didn't.
He had the most sensitive stomach in the known universe - I don't.

If you listened to this broadcast on Christmas Eve 1994, you would have heard the beautiful, pure tones of a boy treble soaring to the rafters in a ethereal rendition of the first verse of "Once in Royal David's City". You would have heard the congregation joining in for the others verses, as the choir processed from the door to the choirstalls. You would have heard the generable muttering and shifting as the congregation sat themselves back down to listen to the first reading. You would have heard a short intake of breath as the reader prepared to declaim forth the first lesson.

And then you would have heard a sudden yeeaaaaaarccchhhhhblub as my friend vomited copiously over himself, his fellow choristers, and the immediate vicinity. You would have heard some faltering footsteps, and then a quieter gleurghhhhhh splot splot splot of chunks hitting the famous marbled floor as he tried to run to the vestry.

You would have heard nothing but the shocked silence of the entire choir, conductor, collection of vicars and 1000-strong congregation, as they realised that yes, this was being broadcast live on Radio 4.

And then you have heard the reader breathe in once again, and start the lesson with the faintest trace of horror resonating through his voice.
(, Fri 8 Jan 2010, 12:46, 2 replies)
boil in the bag
After a night on the piss I drew the short straw and ended up in this little rib doing support vessel operations. Was choppy as hell and I lost my goggles about nine seconds after setting off; cue high velocity rain and spray rinsing through to the back of my eyeballs.

As it was such a cold day I'd put a fleece jacket on under my drybag so when the rib pilot thought it would be ace to do eleventy knots and leap off the top of every wave i felt hot, queasy and gnarly as fuck.
Pulling the neck seal on my suit would release the high pressure combination of ale farts, sweat and scorching heat into my face.
The heebie-jeebie man had arrived.

Luckily in a quiet period the other chap pulled out a bag of pasties and convinced me it was a good idea to line my stomach. After the second bite we got given the order to 'go see whether that buoy is tethered in case i can rob it for my yacht hurr hurr'. Setting off at max chat, my pasty got blasted with so much seawater it became saltier than a dead sea bukkake sex cruise for pirates.
Two more bites went in, followed by all four coming out, followed by more going in, out, in out etc like some nautical meat-and-pastry based guttural hokey-cokey.

All was masticated because of the superior flavour (Ivor Dewdney's I believe) but i think most of the digesting was done by crabs.
(, Fri 8 Jan 2010, 0:31, 5 replies)

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