Mushy
Vomiting comes to me rather easily. I can throw up and then go merrily about my way, stomach empty and queasy feeling vanished. (My friends liken me to a cat in that way. Just: "Blargh!" and the world is better!) While I've had my fair share of vomits in public (after roller coasters, post consuming of funky-smelling leftovers, on the airplane shortly before take off, the first two times meeting my college adviser, any time my mother would scold me before sending me to school, for a week solid after contracting food poisoning from a Caesar Salad), nothing will ever top my two favorite ralphings that share a common thread.

Throughout 2008, I was plagued every-so-often with stabby stabby stomach pains, always at night. I attributed the pain to gas, then lactose intolerance, then maybe a stomach ulcer.

I put off seeing a doctor, as I live across the pond in The Best Country In The Whole Wide World And Don't You Forget It ('merica). My job does not provide health care. If you work a job that doesn't provide health care benefits, chances are you can't afford private insurance. (But that's Somebody Else's Problem, right?)

The stomach pains culminated into the mother-of-all ice-pick-through-the-gut can't-stand-up pains one night about a year ago. I banged on my flatmate's door, literally rolling on the floor (not laughing, but moaning) and begged for a ride to the ER. Couple of hours later, laying in a hospital bed with an IV in my arm as the vampires are off running various tests on my blood, I finally FINALLY was able to throw up. Sweet Jesus and Mary, it was the best feeling ever. I'm betting that a night with a very willing Hugh Laurie can't even feel that glorious.

The vomit was the typical slippery, off-colored mess but with... perfectly-preserved sliced mushrooms from the pizza I'd had for supper. I could have sworn that I chewed those up.

I was nice enough to scoop the vomit mushroom soup out of the hospital's sink and into a biohazard container before passing out on the bed. (In retrospect, I wish I'd let the bastards do clean up. The stabbing stomach pains remained misdiagnosed until I ended up in another hospital the day after Christmas a few weeks later. Organ failure is a bitch!)

Better that that incident, however, was a car trip with my man-child of a stepfather. I was but a small girl, and the-Scum-of-the-Earth, myself, and my mother had almost reached our destination of a three-hour journey. And it hits me. That tightening of the tongue, the bitter, sickening flooding of adrenaline in the mouth. Before I could even complain about the feeling or request an immediate rest break, I was transformed into a geyser. The windshield was my target.

So what was the culprit behind the ruin of what had been a perfectly fine car trip? Mushrooms. Sliced. From a meal that I'd had almost 24 hours before.

I still fucking love mushrooms.

Apologies for length, of course. Mine is only three inches*




*from the ground
(TrillionGrams, Fri 8 Jan 2010, 9:11, Reply)

The Blood Donor
Many years ago, I used to give blood regularly. No problems.

The last time I went, I arranged to go to a Pizza Hut for Lunch with my sister after we had both given blood.

All went well, until I was driving home up the M1 to Luton in the evening. Almost home, when I felt a rumble in the gutty wuts. Next second, wumf, all over me and the velour seats of the car. Including the steering wheel, gear stick and hand brake too.

All invisible in the darkness. The last couple of miles were sheer misery, as I felt like shit, and the acid in my mouth was burning.

After getting home, and cleaning myself up, I started on the car. It stunk.

I sold the car 2 weeks later, It had more dangly air freshners than a minicab.

I haven't given blood since.

Or been to Pizza Hut.
( Bartleby A dead man on vacation, Fri 8 Jan 2010, 9:03, Reply)

Back in the day.
On my first ever trip to the 'dam, I was slipping a hooker one doggy style when I puked on her back. She made me give her an extra fifty guilders.

Happy days.
( The Awful Puppy Bakery is still bored, Fri 8 Jan 2010, 8:43, 3 replies)

Actually, if you don't mind me saying so.....
Being a hardcore emetophobic (fear of vomit) to the extent that a few years ago I wouldn't even leave the house in case I saw vomit in the street, and couldn't even read the last time this QOTW came up, I'm doing surprisingly well this time.
I've actually managed to read all of the answers without freaking the fuck out, and it's been quite........liberating.
I haven't puked in 16 years, and even prior to that I only puked about 3 times that I can remember - once age 6, once age 8 and once age 11.
My mum, when she was alive admitted that she probably only knows around 6 or 7 times that I puked, for which she was grateful...she passed her fear onto me (there's more to it than that, a hell of a lot more - control issues on my part).

I'm doing a lot better now, as I say, I've read every response to this QOTW, I drink, I go on fairground rides, I eat till my belly is bursting.....but I still have to carry anti-emetics around with me and have an ongoing prescription for them...just in case. (The doctors here in California take my phobia seriously! Woot!)

I also had my story about my phobia and "recovery" published in a book (can't remember what it was called - Slaying The Dragon or something, but one lucky B3ta reader got a copy of it a few years back - maybe Rob can help me out here?)

I know one day it's going to happen, and a couple times in the last year or so it almost has, and I've almost let it, but I still can't let myself do that "hurl". When the feeling comes on, I grab a towel, lay under it and hope and pray it doesn't happen, while also hoping and praying that it does. They (the scientists) say people like me have a switch off button in the brain that doesn't allow the gag reflex to kick in, or something.

Sometimes, I wish it would.
( Batshitmentalist is sane for once, Fri 8 Jan 2010, 8:32, 3 replies)

I think I'll skip QOTW this week
It's making me feel rather nauseated.
(Galahad is out of his gourd on yellow bentines, Fri 8 Jan 2010, 8:11, 3 replies)

Take one Peteloaf
Get him wasted until he pukes
Put him in bathtub until puke reaches an inch thick
When Peteloaf requests water bring him white rum in half pint glass
Tell him he needs to replace fluid quickly and to down it
?
Profit
( Peej, Fri 8 Jan 2010, 7:35, 2 replies)

This had to be the sickest question of the week in around six years
Honda Length Accord Mr T
(bad_advice QOTW survivor from the first trollocost!, Fri 8 Jan 2010, 7:25, Reply)

Damien
Damien was a pot head pixie of the highest order. And when we had a place going on an overnight trip (in all senses of the word) to Amsterdam his little face lit up like all his birthdays, christmasses and orgasms had been rolled up and pressed into one coach ticket.

Damien was a friend of my brother. My brother (the only person I know who took Class A to Amsterdam to bring Class C back) encouraged Damien in many ways, mostly in daftness but often in challenges of gross stupidity. For instance, Damien was not a drinker, but on the ferry over my brother told Damien that a drink would make the crossing easier, and he bet Damien £10 that Damien COULD drink a pint of lager in one. Damien said he didn't think he could but he'd give it a go. And give it a go he did, and downed the pint in one. "Fuck me" shouts Damien, punching the air, and then gives my brother the tenner because he failed in his side of the bet. He was great fun, and a petty thief, who nicked to order. Anyways...

On the coach over, Damien's mum had made him some sandwiches, and along with a carton of drink and some biscuits and put it all in a poly bag for his journey.

When we gets to Amsterdam, Damien is still carrying this bag with his butties in. We get to the first "coffee" shop, and Damien proceeds to exchange all his money for resin, bush and skunk, and goes and sits in a corner (true shadies always go for the corner) and starts his hooliday proper.

About an hour in, Damien throws the biggest whitey I have ever seen, reaches for his buttie bag and blows his biscuits directly into the bag. Not wanting that to spoil his holiday, he continues to smoke himself stupid.

Later on, we did some window shopping, laughed at the goods in the sex shops, and enjoyed some of the drug related tool shops and such. Finally we have to go home, and as we are getting back on the bus, someone notices Damien still carrying his polythene bag of butties and chunks.

We almost had to prize it out of his hand, he'd grown that attached.
( Piper Alpha is being a grumpy northerm bastard on:, Fri 8 Jan 2010, 5:43, Reply)

Some years ago
I was in my mid 20's, and having a whale of a time with some mates on the Isle of Crete. We stayed in the sleepiest of places Ag-Nick, whilst at night we loaded up the Fiat-Pandamonium and headed out to the fleshpit that is Malia.

General practice was to get ourselves ready in the appartment, and at around 6pm, go down to the little taverna at the sside of our gaff, and partake of a good steak and chips and a couple of pints. Then jump in th car, do the hour drive, and then scout around for a host for the night, deposit DNA, then drive back in the morning.

To get the party started, we hung out in a friendly bar we new, and proceeded to get warmed up on a few tequila slammers. This was well before binge drinking was popular in the meedya.. and was done purely as a way to lower our low standards so that "every hole was a goal" type mantra was chanted.

On this particular night, we knocked back 5 slammers in quick succession, however, when I partook of the 6th, a strange feeling came over me. My stomach was rejecting the spirity goodness, and was forcing my fizzy fix back up the esophagus. I put my hand over my mouth and directed a jet of liquid vom into a plant pot that was holding some sort of palm tree. The jet was akin to one of Mr Creasote's finest, made even more spectacular because it sprayed out in a fan from between my fingers.

I made my way through the bar to the bathrooms. Shit! The gents was full, and my upbringing meant I could not enter the ladies. Therefore my only option was a sink that was positioned in the corridor between the ladies and the gents.

I opened up and let the whole of my stomach vacate.

Now that's fine, except I wasn't drunk. The alcohol hadn't had time to do its magic, other than being rejected by my stomach. As I looked down I was faced with a new problem.

Cretian plmbing is about an inch wide, and the sink was not able to process a healthy portion of beefsteak and chips, plus the days partially digested collection of full English and numerous beach snacks (sandy gyros spring to mind). It blocked itself right up.

So, I looked around and saw a bin under the sink, took off my watch and did a sink-to-bin removal of all the big bits into the bin.

Just as I'm doing this, a pretty Irish girl walks by and says "Ewww. Who done that". I reply with "I don't know, but I catch them I'll kill them." She asked me if this was my bar, to which I immediately told her it was, she added that this was her first night in town, and I immediately offered to show her around.

And that is how I started the charade of lording it up in Malia pretending to be a bar owner, having a wonderful time in the process, and one of the funniest one-night-shags ever.

Vomit! I love you!
( Piper Alpha is being a grumpy northerm bastard on:, Fri 8 Jan 2010, 5:20, 1 reply)

Perfect Spew
It was a friends 18th birthday and following the Aussie stereotype we had a big BBQ and pool party. The birthday boy and our group of close friends had started drinking at 11 that morning so by 9 o'clock we were feeling pretty sloppy.
It was decided that now was the time to replace some vital nutrients lost to a day of solid drinking. Pizza would be our fuel for the night, and it was promptly ordered.
Now my friend, who I will remind you, has just just turned 18 and was probably drinking the hardest out of us all turns to me after his 3rd piece of pizza and says in a Ralph Wiggum voice, "I don't feel right.." and promptly spews a full slice of pizza into his hand.
I thought this guy was a magician because no one can chuck up a full slice of pizza and have it land straight into your hand. Turns out he is part duck.

The clincher.... he re-ate that slice of pizza.

First post. Be nice.
(SkoaL, Fri 8 Jan 2010, 4:24, 1 reply)

Ringtone
So my friend Verv, who's come up in stories before, is an infamous alcoholic who will often induce vomiting in order to stay out later. Though usually it comes out involuntarily. He's been known to projectile vomit while walking without missing a step or even slowing down. Once I challenged a bunch of friends to a story-telling contest for the best Verv vomit story. I won with an epic tale of projectile-vomiting onto the pitch at a Korean football match, but that's more of a you-have-to-know-him story.

One night, Verv was out on the street purging his guts, when a friend of ours whipped out his video phone and recorded the scene. He then set it as his ring tone, so every time Verv (and only Verv) would call him, he'd hear the sounds of a chunderstorm brewing in his pocket, and he'd pull it out in time to see the video of Verv barfing again. Great way to receive a call.
(racetraitor has an alibi for, Fri 8 Jan 2010, 3:59, Reply)

How I Met Your Mother
Some years back myself and three coworkers found ourselves at a loose end looking for a night's entertainment in Port Moresby, PNG. Then, as now, it was a SPS (South Pacific Shithole) and therefore we had low expectations of a good night out. We struggled with ideas for a good night out gathered in one of our hotel rooms.

I found inspiration via a bottle of duty free Kahlua we were using to make white and black Russians. Not a wise choice in the "drinks before dinner" department, but I digress. I recalled a visit years before to a Japanese teppanyaki restaurant called Daikoku. Notwithstanding the SPS status, it must be said that the seafood in Port Moresby is amazing. The others were convinced, and fuelled by our questionable cocktail choices we taxied off looking forward to some sharp knife and hot grill action.

Steak, fish, prawns, vegetables all fell to the might of our meagre Aussie dollar allowances. We were not disappointed, and the liberal consumption of hot sake helped things along.

I found myself spending a lot of time with one of my coworkers, and things got cosier as we nibbled and pecked at each other and our food. The memory becomes hazy now, and after dinner and a few more drinks at a bar - I know not where - the last thing I recall is being all over each other on the floor of her hotel room. I also recall the other co workers awkwardly stepping over our writhing bodies on the way out of the room.

The next thing I remember is waking up on carpet, face down, clutching a plastic bag in my hand. A dry mouth and a "what the f…?" feeling: we have all been there. The bag in my hand contained a large amount of vomit, obviously from last night's efforts. On closer inspection the bag appeared to be a small bin liner.

I stumbled to the bathroom to get rid of the bag. My toiletry kit was on the bench - so obviously I was back in my room. But the bin liner in my bathroom was intact. Hmmm…

At a muddle-headed meeting with my partner-in-crime later that morning, we figured that I had thrown up in HER bin at some stage (her bin liner was missing), and - ever the gentleman - I took said bag with me back to my room so that she wouldn't have to deal with the mess.

My display of up-chuck chivalry must have impressed her: we are still together 12 years later, happily married, best friends and madly in love.
(bulbus1 *whoop whoop* pull up, Fri 8 Jan 2010, 3:38, 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...
(Ted Cunterblast, Fri 8 Jan 2010, 3:19, 1 reply)

It's all in the mixture
Before I start, I would like shamefully declare that this story is completely true, it isn't fodder for the badger and I even thinking about my head dips in shame.

It was a balmy night in Sydney, the sky was clear, stars where twinkling over head, an almost full moon shone its pale light over the harbor and the boys and I had headed to the city for a night of drinking and unsuccessfully trying to convince pretty young things to let me do messy things in their inids.

We found our selves at the tastefully named but, not so tasteful pub the Slip Inn. When I first saw her I was smitten as only a drunken early 20 something can be smitten. She was about 5 foot 10, blonde, and thin. Chest assets that where more pert than freshly picked peaches and generously filling a C cup, all wrapped in a low cut sparkly dress that displayed the most glorious of cleavage.

I knew I had to speak to her, and so mustered my courage dutch style with another 4 schooners of domestic beer and half a dozen Jim and cokes while keeping a close eye on her location. A few other very cool young (and perhaps not so young) men had tried to engage her in conversation with little success, and because I was not cool but, suburban offspring I knew I was in with a chance.

I approached, I prepared my best opening line and then my mouth went dry and I flapped my lips and a sort of squeaky hum came out. She looked at me and asked,

"why have you been staring at me all night?"

Oh, fuck she noticed, I thought I was being discreet, (perhaps following her around and keeping within 5 feet of her without saying anything but, watching her every move gave me away or perhaps she was very observant).

"ummm, I think your dress is really nice" I replied.

Her face lit up with a smile, and she thanked me and told me she had made it herself and it was the first time she had worn it out. She asked if I thought it was too slutty, too revealing, too low cut or too short and I assured her that it was perfect in every way.

We danced together, we drank together, I made several trips to the ATM to draining it of funds and with the logic of a pissed idiot, assured myself that I wouldn't need food or petrol for the following week, and that the land lady (who was the money hungriest angry old bitch to ever stalk the earth) wouldn't mind being paid the rent late. And as the early morning hours ticked by, and she became quite pissed I convinced her I was alright and she should take me back to her place.

A reasonable distance in a taxi and my final 35 bucks was exchanged for the fare (she was good enough to pay for a couple of burgers on the way), we arrived at the place she shared with another girl. After a bit of a drunken roll and grope on her lounge room floor we adjourned to the bed room. More kissing and cuddling, more feeling and fondling (well that was mainly me) I removed the sparkly dress and unleashed the funbags from their lacy cage and partook in more kissing and licking but, not of her lips.

I did notice she was wearing a rather largish set of black grundies (for these where beyond the size and shape one would refer to as knickers) and as I attempted to slide my hand down the front, she informed me that the painters where in, the no entry sign was up, the red tide was flowing and her crutch cavern was closed. Being of an intoxicated state and hornier than a triceratops with two heads I suavely convinced her that a suck of the sav was in order (read begged for a blow job) and probably because the booze I had fed her had stripped away her inhibitions (or was that self respect) and after removing my own jeans, and shirt she moved her face to my groin and started the delightful process of gobbing.

The thing was, being fairly well blind, that although getting a horn was no problem, using it to its full completion was an issue and unfortunately, she was not the most competent cock sucker I have met, things where taking a reasonably long time.

So there was me, lying back on her pillows, arms behind my head, watching her pony tail bobbing up and down like an old maccas wrapper on a not so calm sea (I even thought about having a smoke) when I felt the warmth spread over my knob, onto my stomach and even a bit down between my legs.

“That's funny”, I thought, “I didn't know I was going to cum, and it didn't feel like a normal spluffing, no tingle, no jolt up the spine, just feeling of hot cum on my shaft, guts and some running over my sack and groin but, she is sitting up and wiping her mouth so I must have, and (big grin to myself) that must have been a fair load to get everywhere it has but, why is she apologizing to me”?

Then I realized, the booze, the burger, the 15 mins of bobbing had triggered her gag reflex and she has spewed on me.

SHIT............. and I haven't even issued the baby batter!

As she lay back looking a little green, I sat up on my knees and started pump my tackle like a contestant in the Tour De France with two flat tires. Not many people would know this, and I should be more ashamed than I am that I do but, a mixture of part digested burger, bile and booze mixed in the stomach is better than any store bought lubricant you can buy.

So there I was, furiously wanking over her body, no doubt spraying specs of her own vomit over her tits and face, cross eyed, tongue probably poking out the corner of my mouth, using her intestinal juices as lube and then shooting a fair amount of spunk onto her face but, mainly into her right eye and then (oh the shame) using her sheets to dry myself down.

Spent, I lay back down on the bed (on the opposite side to where the wiping took place) and had a rather one sided conversation with her (I talked she said nothing). Realizing that the trains had started running by now but, the ticket collectors probably hadn't I got up to leave. As I dressed I asked her for her phone number but, she replied "just leave" so I offered her my phone number, which got the response "please fucking leave now".

When I arrived home 2 and a bit hours later. (The stinker could have told me it was a good hour’s walk to the nearest station) one of my house mates was already up.

"Bad Advice" he said "you smell like you have rolled in 2 day old vomit"

"Oh Yes I do" I said, and gurning like a loon took myself off for a shower and bed.
(bad_advice QOTW survivor from the first trollocost!, Fri 8 Jan 2010, 3:09, Reply)

I was once sick
On a supermodel's tits.

She called me a cunt, and also called my children cunts.

So I drove the supermodel down in my wonderful Honda car, I can't remember what model it was.

Then I did a karate against the moon. HAI-YA.

Apologies for MASSIVE PENIS JOKE
( Theoban What of it, Fri 8 Jan 2010, 3:08, Reply)

Well,
16 years of age + Fosters and vodka lemonade + unexpected can of Woodpecker =
Taxi - My insides + Thick as fuck taxi driver who can't hear a wrecked teenager obviosly saying to his friend that he has just threw up all over himself and there's a pile of vomit in the middle of the back seat of his taxi +
Exit out of taxi + going for a shit + sleep = Waking up in bed with sleeping gear on and not knowing how he got to bed or who wiped his arse.
(deanrobson, Fri 8 Jan 2010, 2:07, 2 replies)

Hot Shot
1993 - 11 year old Zapiola is sat in a darkened cinema, one sweaty hand grasping a bag of sweets, the other delving into a tub of popcorn (my pre-pubescent self probably sub-consciously reckoning that this whole obesity thing needed a damned good run up to be done properly) in a state of delirious excitement waiting for Hot Shots Part Deux to start. Oh and I'd also polished off rather a lot of coca-cola too.

In front of me was a couple - probably in their early 20s. The girl was dressed in a delightful lime green longhaired jumper (it sort of looked like fur - but made of wool or something - and lime green), and had one of those wonderfully bouffant early 90s hairstyles.

Can you guess where this is going?

I lasted until the point where Charlie Sheens character runs out of arrows so uses a chicken instead. The expression on the chickens face sent me apoplectic with laughter. I liberally coated the lady in front - not only with puke, but also with the remains of my popcorn.

I don't think she enjoyed the rest of the film.
(Zapiola zip-zap-zop, Fri 8 Jan 2010, 2:04, 2 replies)

Splashback in The Gambia.
About 20 years ago. Being the fearless (idiot) traveller; I ate everything I was offered, drank same with "local" ice in it, then did it all again the next day and every day after. For seven happy days. Day eight began innocently enough with a nice fried breakfast and was topped up with some interesting lumpy, cloudy local beer from the dirtiest fridge on the planet.

By the late evening I was starting to feel a bit queasy, light headed and had curious bouts of numbness, shakes and sweats in no particular order. Taking myself to an early bed I found myself having to curl up in a ball to contain the stomach cramps which were of John Hurt/Alien proportions. Then the real fun started.Within the hour I was sitting on the greasy, tiled floor of the bathroom, shaking, soaked with sweat and trying to focus on any object my flitting eyes lit upon. I was tripping big time, cockroaches became cracks in the tiles, the tiles became swirling stars, the stars, well cockroaches again. I wondered vaguely if I might die, such was the horror of the symptoms. I toyed with the idea of crawling to the door to shout for help but that was firmly rejected as the first wave of nausea swept in. Now, we've all puked at some time or other, it's not fun but it usually makes us feel better once it's over right? Oh no.My stomach after one small lurch, turned itself inside out with such velocity that the contents hit the water, cast a graceful arc in the bottom of the bowl and sent a torrent of filth back into my face, hair and most unpleasantly, eyes.
And- there were things in there I swear I'd never eaten; things from another universe, from other dimensions, from Wes Craven's box of rejects too horrible to screen. Examining some of these objects with a mixture of fear and curiosity- they were, after all, hanging from everything nearby; I saw what I perceived to be bits of my internal organs fused with Taiwanese Christmas tree decorations and chicken soup. Maybe. All of this became swiftly incidental as the second and third waves followed, Tsunami style, to paint the areas of the bathroom that had escaped the first onslaught.

I flew home the next day, a fragile, shaky shell of the person I'd been on arrival. I didn't eat or piss for 6 days afterwards and was not right for another month at least.

Horrified with the whole experience I visited Senegal the following year....
( Infidel , shit and wrong, Fri 8 Jan 2010, 2:00, Reply)

Some useful advice for if you are sixteen and drunk
1. Don't combine beer, cheap white cask wine (AKA "goon"), cider, goon again, scotch and yet more goon.

2. When you are sitting on a couch in your friend's room and the urge to vomit strikes you so you run out the door, make sure you turn right and go straight into the front garden instead of turning left into a corridor jam-packed with revellers blocking your access to the bathroom somewhere off in the far distance.

3. When the revellers stand there looking at you turning green and ask "You OK?", don't open your mouth to reply "No you fucksticks, I'm about to chunder everywhere."

4. When said chunder starts to erupt from your throat as you open your mouth, don't clamp your hand over your mouth in a vain attempt to stop it as this will instead cause you to spray puke over the crowd like a vomit-filled claymore mine.

5. Make sure that the guy who catches the brunt of the vomblast isn't a student in the class that your dad teaches.

6. Don't believe him when he assures you that he won't say "Oh yeah? Well you know what your son did to me on Friday?" next time your dad tells him off for not paying attention in class.

7. Don't catch the bus of shame home stinking of vomit to the extent that nobody will sit in the same half of the bus as you and several of the passengers come close to puking themselves.

This advice may be based on personal experience.
(oball needs Satan more than he needs me, Fri 8 Jan 2010, 1:56, Reply)

Not me, but my sister
Sitting right at the back of the Royal Albert Hall, almost at the top...
In the middle of a poignant harp solo.....
The vomit rushed downwards, down onto the next row, and the next one after that.
Caused quite a stir!
( ejlflop errrrrgs. Regularly., Fri 8 Jan 2010, 1:39, Reply)

Regurgitated Wotsits and Irn Bru Cocktail
Back in my youth I used to delight in the fact that if I ate certain snacks like Monster Munch, Quavers, Space Raiders, Wotsits etc, I could regurgitate them a good few times soon after eating them and then nom them again.

This would taste pretty good the first couple of times but then they would eventually start to taste a bit like sick. That would be the sign to ingest the pulpy boke-ball once and for all.

This one time though when I was about 13, a couple of my mates were round at mine playing Commodore 64 and we had munchies aplenty with lashings of Irn Bru. I then had a brilliant idea. I grabbed a bag of Wotsits and scoffed them in a oney, opened a bottle of Bru and said to my mates

'Look! Check this.'

I then brought back the Wotsits into my mouth, transferred the contents into the bottle and gave it a wee shake. It looked like some fucked up specimen of some sort floating around with bits breaking away from it. Picture an orange shite bobbing about in a pool of red tinted piss.

My mates looked on disgusted as I drank(and ate)the whole lot. Didn't taste too great as I recall.

Not sure if I should still be proud of this but I am.
(Helmut McBucket invites you to pull his finger on, Fri 8 Jan 2010, 1:38, Reply)

Rapists Tears.
It was only last summer and me and some fellow cohorts had gone forth on our annual camping trip to a large festival in some field in the middle of nowhere. Usual sort of deal, live in a tent for four days, live off nothing but alcohol and pot noodles plus whatever greasy food you find at the burger vans. (although there was actually a hog roast stand which was pretty good)
Normally this wouldn't have been so bad, however after a night of drinking my friends home-brewed ales, one of which was known as "Rapists Tears" (said so on the plastic keg) i was feeling a bit worse for wear and collapsed in my tent. Now... rapists tears has been known to bring a 30something year old man with twice my constitution to the floor, and being a 20something student i can normally handle a good amount of booze, so woke up the next day feeling utterly shite however the birds were swaying and the trees were singing so all seemed fine in my opinion, so nipped down to the big tent we had set up, and munched on a pot noodle for breakfast.
Now this is where it all went wrong, after my morning cig i stood up and felt a bit woozy.
Oh dear.... best nip down to the portajohns.
However half way there a large amount of vomit was already in my mouth, not a good sign, so i ran into the portajohn trying to fold back the tides of rapist's induced vomit, locked the door, turned to face the john and...
BLUH!
Noodles.
Shit loads of Noodles.
All over the back wall.
The side walls.
The floor.
And around the toilet, but not so much in it.
Noodles.
Que me exiting the john, trying to look inconspicuous and slink back to our groups tent before anyone notices.
( mr schteven In a staring competition with a squid on, Fri 8 Jan 2010, 1:31, Reply)

stomach flu
when i was about 12, my parents decided to go out for the night, leaving me at the mercy of my deranged auntie. i was feeling unwell before i got there, but by supper time, i was very ill. i didn't know i had stomach flu, i just knew that EVERYTHING inside my body wanted out RIGHT NOW.
my auntie lived in a second-floor maisonette, one of those concrete monstrosities with a communal balcony affair by which acces to each front door could be gained. as my body began a passable impression of vesuvius, my auntie decided she didn't want me to be sick inside the house, so i was hustled, in my nightie, onto this freezing cold communal balcony.
for over an hour i stood there, leaning over like a very unwell L-bracket, both ends erupting in gut-spasming unison and increasing regularity.
finally, the foul emissions ceased and i stood, covered in my own filth, looking for all the world like an exploded burrito. all i wanted was to be able to clean myself up.
the door opened and my auntie stepped out. did she have a clean nightie for me? an old t-shirt i could borrow? some clean underwear? even a bucket of cold water to rinse myself off?
no.
she handed me a packet of j cloths and muttered "i've run out of bog roll."
fucking bitch.
( Smash Monkey lowering the tone of the whole internet, Fri 8 Jan 2010, 1:14, 3 replies)

Best tasting sick i've ever had
Is it possible? Yes.

When the first Men in Black came out, me and my family were on holiday in Wales (caravans were still cool back then). We decided to go to the cinema to watch this movie. As a little kid, I had drank lots and lots of coke and as the alien baby scene arrived, I had to be taken out to be sick outside the cinema.

Now, if I remember correctly, this sick was the NICEST tasting sick I have ever had. It was the sweetest substance I have ever projected out of my body.

To be honest, I'd rather projectile vomit than gag out a few chunks of cheese (as i did once). Cheese is the worst thing to puke because if it isn't digested, it will come back the same way you ate it - in blocks and very oily.

I also HATE those "mini-sicks", which is what the nobby Michael McIntyre describes them as. I seem to get these ALL the time and they taste absolutely awful.

Anyway, bye :)
(I've got the clap has some cool sentence here, Fri 8 Jan 2010, 0:47, 4 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.
(richvs, Fri 8 Jan 2010, 0:31, 5 replies)

Coming out of both ends
Not long after starting my first proper job I had a day off sick, a particularly unenjoyable combination of sickness and diarrhea. When I got back to work I updated the shared Outlook calendar to reflect the day's absence by adding the appointment "GarbageFan off ill - coming out of both ends".

I thought that was pretty tame, but this type of update quickly flushed out the coworkers that share my sense of humour from those that think such things are "inappropriate".
( GarbageFan didn't know what to have as a board sig on, Fri 8 Jan 2010, 0:02, Reply)

well, i'm a uni student...
so i have a few stories of being sick (all alcohol related)

firstly, theres ed. ed likes to keep up with the rest of our group, no matter what, so when a couple of us get irish carbombs, he gets one too, announce he's lactose intolerant, then downs the drink. a while later, he excuses himself and heads off to the loo. the rest of us think nothing of it until another guy and i go off to drain our bladders...

ed had painted the cubicle with vomit, he had covered everything except the toilet, which was the one thing he had missed! we felt sorry for whoever had to clean up after him...


next up is the xmas party. on arrival we were given a voucher for a free glass of wine. we left to meet a friend, and returned. we were given another voucher. in the end we left and returned about 20 times each, before proceeding to use all the vouchers on cheap red wine. the night continued with a free buffet, karaoke and dancing.

all was well until the next morning. shortly after waking, i found myself in the toilet. my vomit was flourescent yellow, and was pouring out my mouth and nose. worst. morning after. ever.


finally is the movie night with a friend. i had a bottle of vodka, but nothing to mix it with, save for vimto. after downing the bottle of vodka, things get a little hazy (i cant remember a thing)

apparently i went to stand up, collapsed flat on my face on the middle of the floor, and layed there unconscious for 5 mins, before getting up, and being dragged back to my flat, being left in the lobby, and somehow getting back to my room using the keycard system for every room and floor, before going to sleep. apparently i had left a trail of vomit between my mates house and my flat...
(baldpig pee'd in your pool on, Thu 7 Jan 2010, 23:49, Reply)

Don't sit in the back of the bus
...on the ride home from a company drink-up if you've had 2 or 3 or 11 beers and a belly full of various restaurant finger-foods.

You WILL get tossed around back there like a ping-pong ball in a washing machine. Like it did to me one night, all the way back from downtown.

I could feel the gut rumblings three blocks before my stop, but I decided to make a valiant effort not to blow chow all over my fellow passengers. I didn't want to make a bad impression.

So I held it. It was coming, but I held it back. Finally my stop came... I paid my fare... I stepped gingerly off the bus... I turned around from a safe distance, looked the driver in the eye, and said "Thank yoooooooooUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUURRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRGGGGGGGGGGH" as I looked like one of those ornamental lion fountains as he hurriedly slammed the door shut. I swear that bus left a smoky burnout as it left the scene.

I took a different route after that.
(The 2-Belo OH SHI--[Sound of impact][End of recording], Thu 7 Jan 2010, 23:41, Reply)