I shouldn't drink wine
It was a boiling hot summers day and I was already feeling woozy from the heat. Now the only alcohol I can drink in this sort of heat is beer, nice cold beer. But we had wine.. 18 bottles of it.
My friends and I decided to start drinking. I quickly passed the stage of being aware that I didnt actually like the taste of wine, and an hour in I was pished. By now I had drunkenly stumbled to the toilet several times, knocking over glasses and headbutting mirrors.
Returning to the table outside, I recall deciding that yes, I was definitely too drunk to be around people any more, and in fact, i might just be sick. I was staying at a friends so somehow stumbled up the stairs to her bedroom.
From this point things went a little blank.. I recall waking up lying on a vomit soaked mattress, sick all over the pillow, bits in my hair.
And then I looked at the floor. The floorboards to be precise, and the puddles of my sick that were dripping between the cracks.
At this point I decided that I needed to do something about it, having also discovered I had sicked in a pair of my friends shoes.
Stumbling to the bathroom I grab a sopping wet flannel from the sink and proceed to slosh it all over the floor, attempting to push the sick further down the cracks.
I then fell asleep, only to wake in the morning to my friends brother discussing with their mum what was on the flannel that he had 'almost washed his face with.'
(elless, Thu 7 Jan 2010, 23:39, Reply)

Most traumatic hurl I can remember recently
. . . does not involve tales of booze and sex excesses, but a stomach bug. Sorry. Boring, I know. Stop reading here if you like.

I used to enjoy a nice cup of Milo before I went to bed, and had got into the habit of adding a marshmallow or two to the drink. Mmmmmn, I love the shmallows (no I'm not over 60)
Until the night of the 'tummybug', when I'd indulged in a few too many of the shmallows, both in the drink and during the making of(ok I lied about the lack of excess).

Think of the texture of melted marshmallow.
Think of the texture of it in your stomach, wanting to defy gravity.
Think of how it must feel, using pukepower alone, to try and unpeel these oysterythings that seem to have superglued themselves to your stomach wall.
Think of ribbons of semi-solid puke, exiting through nose and mouth, with a binder of pure sugar and bile, and accompanied by a tasty frothy malty chaser.
Not a single retch job, put it this way, it went on for about 10 mins.
God how my guts ached after that one.

And then I got the shits.
(maggotriddendirtbox fast, feral and sharp as a tack since, Thu 7 Jan 2010, 23:38, Reply)

19th December 2009
First time in town for a good 8 months.
Vodka = £5 Per 330ml bottle

Jagerbombs = £2.50 each

Sambuca shots = £1.50 each

Beer = £2 a pint

Projectile vomiting out of a moving taxi and hitting some poor tarted up lass walking past = Priceless
(Freddles, Thu 7 Jan 2010, 23:30, Reply)

It wasn't me but
I was waiting many years ago when trains had lots of doors on to go home a train pulled up. The first carraige was full, the third was full. But the second was empty. Just one drunk hanging out of the front window, with spew down every door handle. And he was still singing.
(Captain Spacker I lick windows, Thu 7 Jan 2010, 23:23, Reply)

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.
(Donkey Hotay Tilting At Windmills Since, Thu 7 Jan 2010, 23:22, 4 replies)

On Scout camp there was this bar
They'd even got a licence for the weekend, but not for 24 hours like they asked.

There was this red stuff I was drinking, and some yellow stuff and some green stuff which my friend was advertising to other people and at 50p a shot I couldn't really say no.

Next morning there were splodges of red vomit in the snow, and some yellow vomit, and frozen green vomit.

Nice..
( thistle, Thu 7 Jan 2010, 23:20, 1 reply)

full pelt towards the bog to vom...
crash in through the door and have no time to turn the light on, so blindly (but accurately) chug forth into toilet.

of course, the lid was down. being a small piss closet, my stomach chutney spread quite beautifully up the walls like a butterfly.
(injektilo smoking the weed that killed elvis, Thu 7 Jan 2010, 23:01, Reply)

So. I borrow my sister's car...
And head out for the night.
First stop is of course to have something to eat so the inevitable 400 beers at least have company in my gut.
A few mates and I choose a cheap pasta place, sit down on the footpath table and order. While it's coming, we start in on the drinks and inevitably, someone breaks the seal and has to go to the toilet.
He comeS back later with two bottleS in his hand: "Look! The loo's right next to the store room! I got us a couple of bottles of something!"
It was mineral water so we all laughed and he was shamefaced.
Then he got up, went back to the toilet and emerged... with an 18 gallon keg of beer.
Straight into the back of my sister's car it goes, down the gullet goes the pasta and away we are, in search of keg-tapping equipment.
By sheer fluke, we find someone who has the gear, set it up and phone everyone we know... and start drinking.
Fast forward to the next morning and I'm driving home, one eye closed to stop the double vision and no idea where I am (I had somehow ended up at a girl's house... another story).
Stopped at the lights, looked over at the car next to me in time to see a guy light up a cigarette.
Just the thought was enough and about 2 gallons of beer and pasta came up projectile style.
Straight into the dashboard (with recessed guages that filled up) down the inside of the windscreen, all over the wheel, the carpet and the seat.
It was on the rearview mirror, down the gearstick well, etc etc etc.
And of course me.
Picture a vomit bomb going off and you'd be spot on.
It took about two of the worst hours of my life to get it cleaned up but at least the car was clean when I dropped it back.
Then about an hour later my outraged sister is banging on my door demanding to know what the hell I had done to her car.
I'd cleaned the vomit, but hadn't noticed the incredible amount of damage a full beer keg rolling around in the back of a hatchback can do.
Ah well.
Got a shag though!
( difficultchild, Thu 7 Jan 2010, 22:58, 5 replies)

messy acid vomit
at my gf's rather posh flat in glasgow, her posh flatmates bounced in and handed us both a surprise tab of acid each. now i'd just finished a massive haggis supper and was having a few beers - once the acid kicked in i got really paranoid (as usual), and started compensating by drinking can after can of lager. it didnt sit well at all. its a bit cloudy, but i do remember walking into the pristine kitchen and boaking so hard and fast and in such volume that it went not just over the units, but through the gaps of the units and onto the plates, food and gadgets within.

cue screams, horror, disgust, etc, and me spending the next god know how long washing haggis boak off everything whilst tripping my tits off. i spent hours going through the cupboards, i saw was haggis boak everywhere.

next morning i discovered it really was everywhere - little individual grains of oats and meat and boak and beer and acid.
(big fat lazy man on a sofa is giving his piles a bloody good clawing, Thu 7 Jan 2010, 22:54, 1 reply)

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.
( TheMattInAHat has a particular... odour..., Thu 7 Jan 2010, 22:50, 1 reply)

Salt Lake City, 1994
I was 12. My parents and some friends had planned the skiing holiday of a lifetime, spending two weeks using Salt Lake City as a base to explore the resorts in the surrounding mountains.

Anyway. As you might be aware. Salt Lake City is the home of the Mormons. As well as believing that Christ travelled to the Americas after the Resurrection, and that his teachings to ancient American civilizations were recorded by an ancient historian (Mormon) on golden plates, the location of which was later revealed (by an angel) to a young man from Vermont in 1827 (I'm not making this up, honest...), they're also pretty negative about alcohol.

In fact, they have some extremely strict licensing laws, and as a 12 year old, I was not allowed in the bar - however hospitable the hotel was on most matters, there could be no exception on this. This meant sitting in the hotel room watching TV while the grown ups sat in the bar and had a beer. The staff were very apologetic about the arrangement, though, and I was allowed whenever I wanted to raid the running buffet they had down in the restaurant on an evening.

Being bored out of my mind one night, I hit the buffet a bit hard. I was mixing my snack foods. Chips (sorry, fries...), salsa, mini hot dogs, burritos... Inevitably, I wasn't feeling too great, and an hour after we all went to bed I alarmed myself and my parents by throwing up quite profusely over the bed, then onto the carpet, then finally getting into the bathroom to direct my final barrage into the bath.

Despite it being the middle of the night, Reception had to be called, as none of us wanted to sleep in a room resembling the set from The Exorcist.

An old guy with a cleaning cart turned up and cleaned up my stomach's former contents with a remarkable nonchalance and good humour. We were highly embarrassed but he was lovely about it. On his leaving, my Dad, being a Brit with a few beers in him finding himself in a somewhat awkward situation, decided to hazard a joke.

'I guess the boy can't hold his booze yet, eh?'

40 minutes later, after persuading the cleaner, Duty Manager, and Head of Security that I wasn't drunk, and my Mum having turned out all our bags and drawers in desperation in order to show them that there weren't any hidden stashes, we were left alone and got to bed.

Lesson learnt though: 'Taking the piss' should not be attempted with Americans. My Dad had to apologise to the Duty Manager the next evening and promise not to give me booze before they'd serve the grown ups in the bar...
(SnowyTheWereRabbit the Leporid from Hell, Thu 7 Jan 2010, 22:49, 2 replies)

I was sick
Bad it was. Really bad,

But really watery. Like some sort of yellow gunge.

Anyway, this bout of vomitusprojectus occured whilst in bed with the then Mrs Mullered, I awoke suddenly and realised that I was going to greet the night with the Technicolour yawn and indicated to my now awake partner that fluid was en route and for her to pass me a suitable receptical.

She did, and I was.

Unfortunately, she'd passed me a wicker wastepaper bin which made the resulting fluid disperse all over my bed in the same way as water would leave a watering can with a 'rose'* attachment.

Made a fucking state of everything. Carpet, duvet, sheet, pillow and both of us.

How I laughed as I retired to the toilet to say hello to God on the big white telephone and heard Mrs M changing the bedding.

*Rose attachment, the normal attachment you get on the end of a watering can.
( JeffTheDogFucker Can you dig it?, Thu 7 Jan 2010, 22:45, 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.
( Scaryduck LIKES EGG, Thu 7 Jan 2010, 22:32, 5 replies)

sick
I went to my end of sixth form meal thinking it would be a civilised affair. Four pints of stella later I had mooned the waitress whilst stood on my chair and spent the sweet course under the table with two more pints. I then got a taxi home with the girl who we affectionately called 'community chest' and one of my best mates as they thought I was too pissed to get into a club.

When we got home the community chest took me straight to bed without passing go, and we engaged in some sexy time. Unfortunately half way through my stallion like performance, the need to hurl overtook me and I asked politely if we could disengage (by yelling 'get off quick') and proceeded to aim for my bin, in my drunken stupor I crawled around butt naked looking for my bin, eventually settling for the likeliest candidate which was in fact my video player.

Whilst retching the fine beefeater steak, my mate who had been until that point passed out had come to check if I was ok, presuming I was on my own, which led to me in between mouthfuls of barf and still with a raging stiffy (i was 18) yelling 'for the love of god don't come in here'.

He didn't, but the community chest by this point was losing interest and my attempt to remount with a sicky mouth was not entirely successful.

Three lessons learned from this. One being sick on your video player is bad as it bakes on from the warmth and has to be chipped off. Two, begging that your mate doesn't enter a room because you are ashamed he will see you shagging a fat bird means you are not going to be friends with that girl for long and three, drinking beef cup a soup the next morning is a bad idea as it exits in exactly the same state it entered in.

Apologies for width (and sick).
(badgermonkey007, Thu 7 Jan 2010, 22:28, Reply)

Not going for the lols, just trying to be useful.
In 2009 I was reacquainted with my vomit.

For a good 2 years or so before then, I'd not seen a peep of the stuff. Then suddenly, bucketloads of the stuff. Red-coloured from some cherries, thick vomit, thin vomit, food-full vomit, the green vile stuff you get when you run out of food to give up. I'm an equal opportunities vomiter. Vomit while in pain, vomit to relieve pain, vomiting with jaundice... woo.

My cute NHS anecdote regarding vomiting was when I was staying over at the other half's place (before we were living together) and he decided "enough was enough" and called the GP surgery for me, only to be given a rather grumpy receptionist who had heard student after student claim an "emergency" when they had a drippy nose.
"Can we have an appointment today please? She's been up all night in pain and vomiting."
"Oh really?'
"Yes, look, we know it's gallstones but can we do *something*?"
"er... we can refer you to the nurs..."
At which point I started vomiting at the other end of the room rather audibly. Woman apparently then sounded a little shocked at the idea of someone actually being ill.
"Can you get here in an hour's time to see the duty doctor?"

Anyway, I picked up a reasonable amount about the NHS in my journey to remove my gall bladder. It only seems fair to pass it on. Everyone I encountered was awesome really, and I thank them lots for their help, sympathy, understanding and excellent treatment.

Tips:

1. Own a white or light coloured bucket. NHS people *always* ask if there are "coffee grounds" or suchlike in your vomit. They're asking if there's blood, basically. I've always had to answer "look, it's a red/blue bucket, it ALL looks brown and black." This annoys people on the end of the phone who want you to fit down their little diagnosis pathtree-thing, and hinders your chance of getting some magic drugs that make the vomiting stuff stop.

2. If you're feeling unwell, and aren't articulate enough to turn the forecoming yellow liquid dance event into some lol-spinning qotw entry, always keep the bucket in the bathroom when you need to use the toilet.

3. If you get seriously ill and are 25 or under, do it in Cardiff - I had a particularly bad gallstone attack while at a mate's and got a ton of stuff to help that would have cost me almost £30 normally.If over 25, there's still benefits: they also appear to have an excellent out-of-hours service. I actually saw a doctor at 9am on a Sunday, rather than the nurse in Reading's out of hours thing on a Bank Holiday who hugged me and gave me LULZ-painkillers without asking about existing medication.

4. Learn to wee on demand: People seem to constantly want urine samples when you're unwell, and expect you to just be able to do so within a few minutes. I had some nurse come in the bathroom in my GP surgery thinking I'd collapsed because it was taking me 30mins to wee.

5. Anti-vomiting medication has some hefty side effects, but it's fantastic if you can get it to work. If your GP offers suppositories for pain relief, politely decline as they'll be useless if your arse decides to join in on the body-fuckery. You want the ones that sit on the gum ^_^

6. If you don't drink tea and you're in hospital, expect some very very strange looks. Nurses get confused, and don't know what else to offer you. Hospitals run on tea. I've had a particular instance where I was refused more water but was offered tea instead. At 3 in the morning. I swear they put it in my IV.

7. Call up the people who do the choose and book, get their data on you: 95% of the time this should be fine, but an incorrect address can accidentally add on a few months to an operation or consultation date.

8. Your "outpatient" and "inpatient" records are on two separate sets of offices and computer systems. Expect to have to repeat and summarise the last 10 years of your medical life to pretty much *everyone* who sees you. Have it on paper, including medications and the history of what you were taking when.

9. If you're in a considerable amount of distress, some easy way of marking time that doesn't involve the clock is a good management tactic. DVD boxsets worked well for me, that is until the attacks started happening in clusters. But until then, find something.

10. Once you've vomited enough in a few months, *nothing* will gross you out. This is the perfect time to consider having a baby, as they're generally shit and vomit machines.

I'll add some more once I've had some dinner...
(mmmm curry doesn't really understand this sig lark, Thu 7 Jan 2010, 22:26, 1 reply)

I once 'shotgunned',
as the parlance of the day would have it, a can of 'Kestrel Super'. A superb idea, which immediately resulted in an overwhelming desire to rid myself of 500ml of shaken up 9% alcohol lager.

I sprinted to my friend's lavatory and proceeded to void my innards in a most spectacular fashion, remarkably almost entirely into the intended receptacle, but with one single exception.

A single, entirely whole, plum tomato, which sat jauntily on the seat of the lavatory looking for all the world like it had come fresh from a can.

It was fucking weird, I tell you.
( Monty Boyce, My cheese game is strong, Thu 7 Jan 2010, 22:25, Reply)

God I hate egg
I really, really hate it. The texture, the smell. It's worse than having a spike made of ebola rammed repeatedly into your skull. I despise egg in all it's forms.

When I was a nipper, my class-mates didn't believe this. One of them waved an egg sandwich in my face. There was a terrible, smelly pause.

I vomited all over him. I'm told it was fairly impressive. Then I ran to the toilets, mortified, and continued my green fountain some more.

The years of therapy have been kind. I can be near egg now. Just believe me when I say I don't like it, ok?
(Urban Hermit Exit, pursued by a bear on, Thu 7 Jan 2010, 22:24, Reply)

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.
(Zapiola zip-zap-zop, Thu 7 Jan 2010, 22:14, 9 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!'
(Juan Quar is clinging to her front teeth on, Thu 7 Jan 2010, 22:14, 1 reply)

The day someone introduced me to mixed drinks.
I woke up next to a bathtub that had been covered in vomit. My top hat had splatter all over it, and I'd obviously passed out on the floor with no memory of the night. I felt fucking horrible, and stank of shame and regret.

I haven't been drunk since. Most I've had was two beers.
(Scritty Bakerman., Thu 7 Jan 2010, 22:09, 3 replies)

QoTW
This may be a repeat (!) but I've not laughed at so many posts for ages. Keep it coming!
(gets coat)
( The Lone Groover has mal des nuts., Thu 7 Jan 2010, 22:07, Reply)

KFC
I haven't eaten KFC since I was 11, because my Mum made me eat some of it when I told her I didn't feel very well, she decided that I was faking and it was probably because I hadn't eaten properly that day. When we'd finished eating and she was in the kitchen washing up, I went out and told her I still didn't feel very well, so she gave me some pepto bismol to "settle my stomach".

It wasn't a good idea, it had the opposite effect on me and ten minutes later I proceeded to hurl pink tinted half digested chunks of chicken all over the kitchen tiles.

Neither pepto bismol or KFC has been allowed in our house since.
(Melody was not PMSing on, Thu 7 Jan 2010, 21:53, 2 replies)

As a teen I worked in an amusement park.
Running rides, one tends to deal with more than one's fair share of puke. After a while you become used to it so it's not quite as traumatic to deal with, but it's still unpleasant.

One day I was running a ride that broke down, so I wandered off to see my friends at the other rides. Joyce was running the Roundup (click here for a picture of it), one of my favorites as it was essentially brainless work- you got people on, you made sure they were fastened, you pushed the button, then you pushed a long lever to raise the whole thing. Ours happened to rotate clockwise as you look at it in the picture. I liked it also because you always got a nice breeze while running it. So I went to hang out with her for a little bit until I got the call to return to my ride.

I was a little puzzled to see it standing idle, with Joyce nowhere to be found. Then I heard a curse from behind me, and turned in time to see her emerging from behind a building, dripping water from head to foot. "Joyce? What happened?"

"A kid puked just as he was going over the engine. It went all up me and into my hair. I just had one of the maintenance guys spray me off."

She looked so pathetic that I ended up swapping rides with her for the day- but while the ride was running I stepped back a bit.
( The Resident Loon Not a demographic. Do not measure., Thu 7 Jan 2010, 21:48, Reply)

This is just so appropriate
I had to pull over on the way to work this morning to let MrKitty get out of the car and spew. At the end it went scary dark red....but at least this time he didn't get it all over my car.

No more drinking on work nights.
(misskitty reeks of sex and turpentine; laudanum afternoons, Thu 7 Jan 2010, 21:46, Reply)

Ahh the night my mum found me drunk
I went out with my girl to a friend's house and we got very drunk. I came home and my mother was probably almost pissing herself trying not to laugh at the fact that I was, in fact, completely tossed.

She confronted me about it in the downstairs living room and as I professed to not being drunk she kept insisting I was (which I was).

So after a while (I wish I knew how long it REALLY was) I said I was done talking and started heading upstairs towards my room and freedom.

Unfortunately my stomach did not want me to move. I got up, turned and put my hand to my mouth, and immediately barfed all over myself, my mom, the couch and the new carpet.
( Scoopzilla http://www.slapwatch.com now get to fuck, Thu 7 Jan 2010, 21:45, Reply)

Just a couple of tales from an abused liver......
back long ago (1990) a young boltneck had just finished the first part of his doomed engineering training and everyone there agreed it would be a good idea to have a party (mostly to celebrate the fact that we wouldn't have to set eyes on most of the twats on this course). A venue was found and much cheap booze was procured and then drunk. I found myself wandering round outside and looking for somewhere to sleep, when I realised that one of the lads (if you're reading this, sorry D) had driven down in his shitty blue mini with the idea of not drinking and making a few quid ferrying people back home. His car wouldn't lock properly and could be opened with a gentle tap just below the lock and bingo! Instant bed for the night!
10 minutes after I'd rested my weary head the sudden realisation that all the cider I'd consumed (on an empty stomache!) was about to make a desperate bid for freedom, just as D brought his first customers out for a lift home. You know in horror movies, when the victim gets gruesomely killed and the camera shot is behind a window and the blood splatters across it? Replace blood with 12 pints of farmhouse scrumpy spraying across his back window and you'll get the view that greeted them.
A few years later, myself and a few friends went for a quiet drink that turned into an epic session much to the annoyance of the designated drivers. One of the group, Mike, got so twatted it took 3 of us to bundle him in the car with his head hanging out the window "Just in case" It turned out to be a good thing as half a mile down the road, he unleashed an almighty torrent of red, green and yellow barf across the side of the car and due to the wind, his head. This in turn caused the rest of us in the car behind to collapse into hysterics, but coupled with the large amount of drink in me, I proceeded to puke right into the lap of my friend sitting in the passenger seat in front of me! End result? Damn near got my head kicked in and had to walk 6 miles home! Bloody funny though!
(boltneck sacrificed a smurf to Cthulhu on, Thu 7 Jan 2010, 21:36, Reply)

I was once placed inside a giant centrifuge.
It was a bit odd at first, but I slowly got used to the tremendous G-forces any my eyeballs bugging out. Then (maybe in response to the fast sideways motion of the chamber's interior across my vision) my stomach began to grumble, and soon enough I hoyed up its contents all over the visor of my helmet. It was pinky-orange, full of odd lumps and utterly vile - it was even worse when it started running down the inside of my helmet into my protective suit. Perhaps it was just as well that my stomach was already empty, as the smell made me want to retch again.

Shortly after I exited the rapidly-rotating vomitarium, I was fired from NASA and my childhood dreams of becoming an astronaut were mercilessly dashed.
( The Mock TurtIe ™ --- Thinks you are a cunt, on, Thu 7 Jan 2010, 21:31, Reply)

my best vom
came a few years ago whilst staying at a mate's house...

we got tanked up on tinned booze (adds that delicate metallic note when it rushes through your nostrils several hours later) to celebrate the finishing of my mate's kitchen, he'd spent a few grand making it look REALLY nice.

After said boozage we went to the local snooker club for a few rounds of pool and more liquid refreshment.

At kicking out time I spied a fine fast food outlet selling the greasiest nastiest kebabs known since the old testament, and proceeded to wolf it down. In the meantime my mate's missus proudly proclaimed she had bought a bottle of voddie from the supermarket prior the afternoon's lubrication.

We repaired to his dining room and proceded to play poker until the wee hours and finished off the ASDA smart price. Let it be known that this stuff is in fact turpentine in a pretty bottle.

They went up to bedfordshire leaving me in the living room on the sofa. I was lying on my back and noticed the room was spinning in a not-so delightful manner and then up she came...

The kebab riddled acidic vom fountain reached about 5 feet into the air, right up the newly papered wall and drenched the sofa. During vomtime I sobered up PDQ and thought what to do with the mess.

In my semi-battered state I staggered through his oak-floored dining room with my hands cupping a huge pile of mushy spew, and thought the best place for it was in the kitchen sink. Tipped a couple of handfuls in there and went to fetch more from the living room whilst leaving the tap on to run the last lot down the drains.

Good plan, I thought, only to return to find the (brand new) sink overflowing due to large hunks of very greasy meat blocking the plug/pipe/everywhere.

In a blind panic/stupor I ran out the front of the house and deposited another couple of handfuls of vom down behind the front wall onto the road, went back inside and passed out on the living room floor.

My first words to his stricken looking missus when she walked into the front room were "I think I've been a bit poorly..." The scream from the kitchen confirmed this!

I ended up paying for a plunger, upholsterers and then the drain folks as it seems quite a bit of kebaba had congealed down the waste pipe - bad times.

The best thing is they still think some random was walking by outside and heard me spewing which is why they sprayed equally acidic spume all over their front wall.

Needless to say I haven't troubled Mr. Smartprice since...
(Suomi_Finland_Perkele knocking 256 shades of shit out of your screen on, Thu 7 Jan 2010, 21:28, Reply)

every bathroom should have floor tiles!
bout.... 2 years ago, had a really bad bug. Vomming up brown stuff like bran flakes left in milk too long. Good old mumsey insisted i go home with her so she could look after me... I remember running to the little downstairs loo, mum in hot pursuit making little worried noises and holding my hair back for me.... I puked so hard a pissed myself all over her bathroom floor. She didnt even bat an eyelid. Just got on her marigolds and cleaned the floor while i chundered away. Aint mums brilliant!!
(Serbitar Has a furry shit canon called Whitey., Thu 7 Jan 2010, 21:20, Reply)