Ah memories, a mates 21st
We had gone into the East end from deepest essex, and been on a bit of a pub crawl (like the pope is a bit catholic), 2 of the lightweights had lost the power of locomotion and had been propped up and deposited their excess alcohol into bins and recovered.

We had been mixing drinks, one irish pub saw the landlord buy us all a jamesons, and so chasers had started.

On the way home we got to Stratford station and were waiting to change to BR. The pre honk gurgling started and nearby was a wallmounted bin. in days gone by before plastic bags took over there were 2ft by 1ft by 2ft galvanised bins for ciggie butts and rubbish in metal holders at each end of the oval station rooms.
I casually walked up to one and chirruped under total control. Someone had taken the bin out and I honked inside the half cylinder, through the coarse mesh and all over my shoes.
Mm stylish? not!
(tootired Is searching for a funny sig, nothing good so far, Sat 9 Jan 2010, 3:33, Reply)

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?
(Spoffin, Sat 9 Jan 2010, 3:23, 4 replies)

One Fateful party, millenium eve
this is one of peej's legendary parties. we're all about 17. our friend jimmy, who incidentally iirc was wearing some kind of dress, a large floppy dr seuss style union jack hat, and tights and fake titties, has partaken of a heroic amount of guinness, and ballycastle (lidl's answer to baileys) and was urgently summoned by his organs to perform his vesuvius impression.

" i need somewhere to be sick" he cried, looking wildly round the garden. foolishly, i gave him a tesco bag to perform his vile oral ablution in.

now armed with one rather full and dripping tesco bag full of what i can only describe as the bastard offspring of cottage cheese and creosote, jimmy, faced with limited disposal options, decided on the ONLY logical course of action. into the bushes? nope.
in the toilet/sink/bath? nope. down a drain?
no chance.

looking down the garden, at the garage and the tips of the chainlink fence beyond, jimmy decided a well-aimed trajectory culminating in the bag performing a graceful arabesque into the waste ground was the right choice to make. sizing it up like an olympic hammer thrower, he made his move. swinging the bag for all the world like a one armed man doing backstroke, he began a slow run, and triggered the automatic floodlight on the garage JUST in time to coincide with hitting himself in the back of the calf with the hurtling bag of spew.

the resultant explosion of shiny, sligtly lumpy brown globbets was ALMOST beautifl, far more so than jimmy, in drag, pissed as a loon, covered head to toe in his own cheesy vom.
(UppityDamnPrimate LET'S OPEN THIS F*CKING PIT UP, Sat 9 Jan 2010, 1:49, 1 reply)

Rites of passage
Most people who've been to India for any length of time will know that getting sickness and diarrhoea is par for the course, i.e. it will happen to most travellers, if not all of them. When I was working in Bangalore, living in a shared house with various other westerners, it happened to me - about halfway through my eight week stint I picked up a bug that made me feel awful for about two days (sweats, shivers, feeling really weak and faint) and culminated in a horrific torrent of puke and bile, for the entire night (and the toilet was only flush-able between 8pm, and 8am). After that came the diarrhoea, and then both together, etc, etc - the usual sat-on-bog with-bowl-on-lap type saga, not one I'd want to experience again

The point is, after about three days you do start to get better (and at some point you'll begin to put back all the weight you've lost - mine was around two stone). Then you can watch, safe in the knowledge your own immune system should now be fully adjusted to its new environment, as various bright eyed, fresh and pretty young explorers from Australia, Europe, and the United States arrive, with all sorts of dreams and ideas and a real zest for adventure... which lasts until the bug catches up with them and they too spend their ritual 48 hours puking and hurling their guts into India's still medieval sanitary and sewage systems. If you haven't faced that, you don't really know India (or Vietnam or the Philippines or Indonesia, for that matter)
(Katabatic wasn't, and will never be on, Sat 9 Jan 2010, 1:48, 1 reply)

did you know mini babybel wil make it through a FULL hot wash cycle relatively untouched?
neither did i, until an ex girlfriend, who shall remain nameless, decided to go out for a night out with me and some friends, randomly ignore me and go flutter her eyelashes to randoms for free drinks, ALL night, then proceeded to put down a bottle of ropey looking cheap sangria, and a whole net of mini babybel cheeses in the car en route home... where she wandered in the door, into the bedroom, busted out the most incredible arc of red cheese-laden vomit onto the duvet, ignoring the available bin, and floor, and large mostly empty plastic storage tub. i, like a good (spineless) boyfriend, stripped the bed down, and slung it all in a wash cycle, and returned to find she'd once again decorated the mattress, and passed out in it.
i slept on the couch, and when i woke, i was being shouted at.
needless to say, i have since returned the damaged goods to the store and picked up an upgrade.
(UppityDamnPrimate LET'S OPEN THIS F*CKING PIT UP, Sat 9 Jan 2010, 1:37, Reply)

Oh yes! I almost forgot this one...
I was on a normal night at my local and there was a group of quite rowdy lads obviously gearing up for a big night out somewhere else (you can't have a big night out where I live, it's called Crowthorne, look it up).

One of these upstanding young gents then decides he needs to be sick but that physics didn't apply to him and thought he could hide it by simply covering his mouth with his hand - cue an epic projectile into the CEILING of the pub! A good 3-4 feet above the young mans mouth.

What happened was that his hand formed a "mirror" if you like, and his sick simply "reflected" off this surface onto the ceiling!
(Captain Sensible "I'll be your animal in a yellow plastic bin", Sat 9 Jan 2010, 1:27, Reply)

1st Year of Uni
You know the deal; this is the place where you truly discover alcohol. Obviously being raised in the British Isles and hailing from an Irish family alcohol is going to be consumed pretty soon after you get to 14/15 or so. So I was no stranger to the stuff, but I'd never messed with a certain Mr Jameson before, and oh boy was this going to be a MASSIVE fail.

I was a couple of months or so into the course, so me and my hall-mates had got to know each other a good deal over the previous weeks, and this night was a typical Friday like many previous ones before it. Myself and my mates on my floor (plus a few other faces) had gathered to the social hub that is the Student Halls Kitchen, ours being on the ground floor we were the obvious choice for the HQ so to speak. A bit of pre-drinking was in order before we marched off to "cheap Friday" at the union (so called due to £1 pints, but not many pints were touched this night, oh no) and being the adventurous type, I went for a bottle of whiskey at the local Sainsbury’s beforehand. Now being of an emerald shade of heritage as mentioned I decided to skip the scotch and go straight for the Irish (we invented whiskey by the way, not the Scots) to see what this drink was all about. I’d never had any whiskey before, just beer/cider/alcopops etc, standard stuff. But I underestimated the power of the Jameson’s this night (and many subsequently) and it was spectacular.

So we’re in the kitchen doing the usual, drinking, a bit of banter, some joking around etc. Now I clearly stated at the start of the evening when everyone saw my purchase that I was only going to go for about 1/3 of the bottle, what with the union itself I figured I'd be pretty fucked come kicking out time. So I proceeded to drink. Now my memory to this day is as blank as wayne rooney’s expression. Completely gone. But from video evidence and eyewitness accounts I can say I drank my 1/3 and we all left for the union. Now this evening I decided to heed my parents words “don’t mix your drinks”, so I didn’t. What I did do was order double Jameson’s every 15-30 minutes and quickly became more and more lamp-posted as time went on. I came home and, according to video footage I’ve seen, proceeded to down a full (probably 300ml) glass of straight whiskey. I did. I then rushed over to the sink and despite the cheers of my mates and various cheeky insults, I held it in. “Fucking sorted” I thinks and then went upstairs to fetch my bass guitar to serenade my companions for the evening.

Did I fuck.

What happened was I went upstairs and got my guitar and amp, wedged my door open with a chair for “easy” (you’ll see) access later, and went back to the kitchen to set it up. I then straight away walked too far, pulled the amp off the side, smashed it on the floor and snapped the cable. This pissed me right off so in my state I stumbled back upstairs and proceeded to kick my chair for a good 5 minutes, hoping it would miraculously shift and I’d be presented with an easy route into my room. No. My mate who video’d it had to come and shift it for me and then proceeded to put me to bed.

I wake up to Saigon circa 1975. My room is destroyed, my chair is in pieces everywhere and my phone is in a similar state. I looked up and found sick on the ceiling; I say again there was SICK, on the CEILING. What happened the previous night was I had been angry about the amp issue and had then gone into my room and destroyed 95% of its contents. The furniture, my work, my possessions from home were pretty much massacred, and to top it off there was sick on at least 5 of the 6 faces of the cube that was my room, one of which was the ceiling. That must have been some projectile considering I was laying down! Since then, every time I touch the stuff it ends similarly, short outbursts of violence with a big spew session afterwards.

Whiskey = evil

Apologies for length? That is a negative.
(Captain Sensible "I'll be your animal in a yellow plastic bin", Sat 9 Jan 2010, 1:12, 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.
(lustfish, Sat 9 Jan 2010, 0:21, Reply)

T-shirts, buses and vom
Not about me, but about a friend. Many years ago, my mate Mike was out on the lash. A lot. He took the bus to Southampton for a pub crawl. At the end of the evening, he staggered back in time for the last bus (the pisshead special) home. Because it was the last bus, and because it made quite a few stops, they sent a double decker. It was one of the old-fashioned types, where the driver sat in a separate little compartment - luckily for him.

When Mike boarded the bus, the only seats left were upstairs. Wearily, the bus wended its wobbly way through town and dale, and folks came and went until Mike was briefly alone on the top deck. Unfortunately, all Mike's beer, weed, kebabs and chips weren't mixing well with the swaying and rocking of the top deck, and Mike started to feel quite poorly. He desperately looked about for salvation - to no avail. The windows were chewing-gummed shut, and he couldn't hoy up all over the bus, so, with (as he put it) a shrug, he tucked his tight, white T-shirt in, pulled the neck forward, ducked his mouth into the shirt and...

A couple more times this happened, until he was awash with stinking semi-solids, swilling around his middle and seeping through the T-shirt. He said that someone came to sit next to him; he smiled ('coz he was feeling much better) but she didn't. Clocking the seeping, the stinking and the swilling, the nice (but quite pissed herself) lady instead puked her guts up - but not into her T-shirt. This set off the rest of the passengers on the top deck. Then the ever-increasing ocean of puke on the top deck started to trickle down the stairs, and the bottom deck of the bus joined in the fun.

Eventually, Mike got off at his stop. He stepped off the bus (followed by a small puddle of puke that I saw later, on my way home), untucked his sodden T-shirt and let the solids splatter to the ground.

I saw the bus at the depot the next day; they were hosing it out and the guy with the hose was wearing what looked like a hazmat or biological warfare suit.
(lustfish, Sat 9 Jan 2010, 0:12, Reply)

Oreos
Ate a package of Oreo cookies once, and then forgot about it.

Ten hours later, all that jet-black gruel came back up. Thought I was dying!
(Perv With A Dog had his eyes pecked out by scrub jays on, Fri 8 Jan 2010, 23:56, Reply)

never play skipecac
As we came to call it. Drink the recommended dose of ipecac and then eat skittles until you vom. The last one to puke wins the pot, usually it was pot, or roughly 5 dollars.
Please, I beg you, don't taste the rainbow this way, it ends badly every time.
But if you're a spectator, it's ends hilariously.
(CactusZack Shaved his coin purse on, Fri 8 Jan 2010, 23:53, 1 reply)

Object of my desire !
Many years ago it was a female friends 18th Birthday party and apparently it was known by all that I had a bit of a crush on her.
Well anyway, come the party and everyone is having a great time, many a laugh to be had, plenty of beer is consumed by all, especially me !
Towards the later side of the night and I am especially chatting bubble's with this girl, all glittery in her new white birthday dress.

I felt a bit bloated through all the lager I was drinking during the night, and thought that I could try and let a burp out, but instead I managed to fire a salvo of projectile vomit onto this girl's dress.
To say that she wasn't happy is an understatement, and off she rushes to the kitchen to clean it off ASAP.
Couldn't have been that bad though, as I still managed to pull with her later on :)

I got a large amount of kudos for that night, however looking back I realize that I was a cheeky cunt who got lucky instead of a slap.
I'll take the kudos anyway ...
(Stro, Fri 8 Jan 2010, 23:25, Reply)

You are disgusting and should be ashamed
I managed to blag my way into some poncy free drinks in the city one winters evening with free booze and food. Having only just started working in London as a runner, on a retardadly low salary, I was in heaven surrounded by food and booze.

After shoveling my face full of food and knocking back enough beer and shots and wine to kill a small country, it was fairly obvious I should make my way home.

I go the train and promptly fell asleep. Half an hour later, I opened my eyes as I was pulling into my train station, at that point, I knew I was going to hurl, but was too far from toilet and as we were pulling into the station, i thought I would be classy enough to get off train and vom on the platform our outside the station. My guts had other ideas and as soon as I stood up, i hurled, projectile, the entire evenings contents. Onto the seats infront, onto the floor, into the walkway...

There was a lady sitting in the set of 4 chairs next to me who was quite dissapointed in my behaviour and said I should be ashamed of myself as she clambered over the seats to not get my stomach all over her shoes. I grinned like a maniac at her and got off the train, only to continue to vomit down the stairs and out of the station and all over myself.
(Eeevil You are losers, Fri 8 Jan 2010, 23:12, 1 reply)

God almighty
Undoubtedly a repost in some cases, so bear with me, but the cases of spew related carnage seen when working behind a bar are too numerous to fully recount (or remember, was a looong time ago) -

The bloke who strolled up to the bar with his girlfriend, started ordering a round, spewed *violently* all over the (very small) bar top, wiped his gob, apologised and continued his order (while we stood, mouths agape in shock);

The 21st birthday party boy who demanded a "dirty pint" and got what he asked for - as well as boking Baileys smelling vom down the wall / himself / passers by / a fruit machine / an unwitting steward / the floor five minutes later and being ejected;

The bloke who ran through a crowded Saturday evening dance-floor to the bog, hand clamped to mouth, watery spew spraying from both sides of his clacker;

The girl who climbed the stairs to the DJ booth and let the exertion get the better of her, letting fly a technicolour yawn into the crowd below which stank of Aftershock;

The massive stewards carrying *massively* drunk students downstairs for medical assistance looking oddly like some sort of fucked up BioShock "Big Daddy & Little Sister" - except with spew all down their backs

Thinking back you were guaranteed at least one episode every evening that would be a talking point if not legend for months.


etc etc etc

EDIT : Guilty myself - namely

- Waking up with spew in very long hair (shaved head immediately)
- Spewing in own lap then falling asleep on couch
- Chundering on floor, slipping in it, landing on deck (hard)
- Throwing up in bath, forgetting about it, going through the following morning and being so disgusted I add to the already thick layer of gick

Interestingly enough, spew seems to strip the hell out of porcelain and stainless steel sinks, I'm assuming this is stomach acid? Maybe the medical bods here can shed some light?
(mymilkshakebringsallthemongstotheyard poison hearts, poison minds - joining hate, Fri 8 Jan 2010, 23:03, Reply)

Lettuce Spray
Talking to God on the big white telephone.
Well actually I didnt make it that far but I was on my knees saying 'oh god'.
Recovering from a tummy bug I couldnt keep anything solid down but after a several days laid up I figured it was safe to go out, providing I didnt eat anything.
However my stomach was rumbling in hunger and on arriving at a friends party I started to pick at the lettuce garnish on the buffet.
I didnt dare try anything more substantial and figured lettuce was a safe bet.
A glass of water, more lettuce, more water, boy I was hungry.
More lettuce and then more.
Then there was no more lettuce and I went into the garden for a smoke.
The gurgles started and I had that moment of fear about which end was going to explode first.
I made a dash for the house and didnt make it.
Apparently the highlight of the night was myself on my knees projectile vomiting green slime several feet in front of me.
A crowd gathered to watch and I do vaguely remember a round of applause.
And someone asking when my head was going to start revolving.
Well at least it was easier than throwing up undigested chips (fries)
They hurt coming up and your mouth fills with carbo sludge and you have to hack them up and out.
(insomniac-surfer oh go on then, just this once, Fri 8 Jan 2010, 22:57, Reply)

I swear it wasn't mine...
Fifteen years ago, a friend's family took me with them to go camping in Spain for a couple of weeks. The parents had the mobile home, and the kids (myself included) slept in tents. The camp site was so unbelievably boring, that we counted the minutes until 4, which was the time after which we were allowed to start drinking.

I'm sure that there are many stories to tell about the three weeks of boozing, but I honestly can't remember most nights. The last night was an attempt to drink beer together with gin shots. Let's just say that I lost track of time, space, and my crawl back to the tent.

When I woke up the next morning, I noticed that my tent mate (who had come home after me) had puked inside the tent. As I went to blame him towards his parents, I heard a croaking voice from within the tent saying that "the vomit was here when I got home". Of course, this became a yes-no discussion: who had barfed in our tent? Well, we had a chance to find out while cleaning up together. We found remnants of carrots in the gooey stuff. I had had carrots the night before. My buddy hadn't. Therefore - it had been me.

To make things worse - apparently, my buddy had come home equally shit-faced, found the insides of the tent covered in vomit, had used the bottom half of my sleeping bag (with me passed out inside) to move most of the puke to my part of the tent, and decided to fall asleep in the middle of what was left of dinner, booze and a VERY foul smell. Nice.
(dezwits Life ain't nuttin' but glitches and honey, Fri 8 Jan 2010, 22:50, Reply)

I was 15 and had spent the five years previous fancying girls but being terrified of being AN ACTUAL GAY. At fifteen I finally realised and accepted that I was a lesbian and I was fine with it even if everyone else wasn't.

I met a 17 year old girl at a local rock and pop concert in a town nearby where she lived, turned out she was gay too and we exchanged numbers and kept in touch (though at the time nothing happened).
Eventually we decided to meet up and she got the train to where I lived to spend the night, and though nothing was said prior it was pretty clear I was going to have my first lesbian experience with her, which I was completely terrified about. So terrified in fact that as soon as she arrived at my house I decided to have a drink for dutch courage, which then turned into me downing a whole 70cl bottle of cheap vodka in about 20 minutes. As soon as I had finished it we headed into town, we made it about halfway before I decide that I was just going to go for it, dragged her round the back of a bingo hall and went to kiss her. During my first ever proper kiss with a girl I vomited in her mouth, I don't remember feeling like I was going to be sick but I remember pulling away and seeing my sick on her chin and down her shirt and her looking absolutely horrified as I continued to be sick on the street. Then I passed out.

The next thing I remember was waking up in my bathtub with her washing shit off my legs. Apparently she called three taxis and they all refused to take me anywhere because I was such a vomitty mess. She dragged me home and kept dropping me and at one point dropped me in a pile of dog shit (though part of me thinks I probably did shit myself and she was saying that to try and save me a little dignity from the evening).

The most amazing thing was that it didn't disgust her THAT MUCH and we even laughed about it in the morning and stayed friends for years afterwards. Never got to fuck her though.
(bomb, Fri 8 Jan 2010, 22:33, 3 replies)

The Language Lab
Big fat kid called Sam in our French class at school, ran the unofficial tuck shop out of his school bag (undercutting the legit one by 1p on a bag of crisps), ate a worse diet than a Glaswegian taxi driver. Anyway, the pride of our school was the language lab, because it had tape recorders set into the desks and you could plug headphones in and listen to someone speaking with a less risible French accent than our teacher. There was all sorts of other weird stuff it could do and a big Star Trek transporter room-style control panel for the teacher, but I don't think even the school understood how it all worked.

This particular afternoon it's hot and stuffy and Sam has been hevaily consuming his own illicit stock of comestibles, quite probably in the manner of a drugs dealer hearing the battering ram at the door. He has barely got his hand in the air to attract the teacher's attention when a tsunami of pale watery chunder erupts from his lips and just keeps on coming. The smell is unbelievable and what makes it worse is that it flows over the desk and into the tape recorder, dripping down into all that delicate state-of-the-art 1980s technology. We never used the tape recorders after that. What's "diced carrot" in French?
(rogerzilla, Fri 8 Jan 2010, 22:23, Reply)

A question for the QotW crowd
Some time ago, Harry Hill on TV Burp took the mickey out of a Casualty Episode where a vomiting man was brought in, complaining that his burps smelled of faeces. I missed the name of this amusing condition.

I know everyone on B3ta is a big Casualty fan, so does anyone have any idea what it was?
( Amish Information Systems hates misplaced, commas, Fri 8 Jan 2010, 22:07, 7 replies)

One of the funniest things I ever saw.
My mum's quite houseproud. She had nice cream carpets in the hallway and was always getting them professionally cleaned as my dad is a mucky engineer and is always trailing in dirt. Christmas before last we were all at my mums as usual and we were not keeping an eye on my eight year old nephew as he chomped his way through numerous chocolates, biscuits and vimto drinks etc. He was playing about as normal in the hallway fine and dandy and then all of a sudden projectile vomited red sick in an arc all over the cream carpets.


Now my mum's new hallway carpets are red.
( girlinthehole, Fri 8 Jan 2010, 22:02, 3 replies)

dry retching
is evil. Vomiting I can about handle, but when there's nothing left to heave and you're spasming away hunched over the porcelain, croaking like some sort of demonic pink frog with every lurch of your gut - that ceases to be fun for an encyclopedia of reasons.

The least of which is the tendency to shit yourself if it continues for too long.
(mymilkshakebringsallthemongstotheyard poison hearts, poison minds - joining hate, Fri 8 Jan 2010, 21:50, 1 reply)

Fabric, London
A couple of years ago I headed to fabric with a few dear friends... High-quality Mandy was along for the ride, in appropriately obscene quantities.

Happily dancing around gurning my little tits off, I felt my stomach begin to register complaint regarding the large quantities of powerful phenethylamine that had been ingested.

I attempted to hold back a chunder, but sadly was not able.

However, I did manage to catch all the vom in my hand, and not wishing to be thrown out by the ever-present bouncers I hit upon a solution to how to proceed next...

I nommed it all back down, washed my hands clean with my bottle of water, and carried on dancing and gurning like one of God's most unique and special little creatures.



Nom nom nom.
(anvil, Fri 8 Jan 2010, 21:35, Reply)

Woooo
I don't tend to relinquish the contents of my stomach that easily now, the times I've vomitted recently has been through a desire to sober the hell up before trying to sleep. However, there have been a few pleasant moments in the past, the most memorable of which I naturally have no memory of at all.

After a heavy drinking session (Started by drinking a bottle of cheap red to myself whilst being timed, before moving on to an unpleasant amount of Cheeky Vimto (Port in WKD), a bottle of jagermeister to myself, and a few tequila slammers thrown in for good luck), I firstly managed to piss my girlfriend of the time off enough for her to go home by declaring myself to be "Dead Kennedy'd" and pushing her off me, before topping the evening by staggering through the kitchen, which was occupied by my flatmate, his girlfriend, and another close friend, completely naked, throwing up the exact same lurid purple that my hair was into the toilet (Ex-council flat:. Bathroom attached to kitchen....), staggering back through the kitchen and passing out.

Moral of story: Drink less, remain physically capable of sex, put clothes on before vomitting.
(oneiromancer was rifling through your fridge on, Fri 8 Jan 2010, 21:21, 2 replies)

Jean Paul Sartre
I think I was 13 or so when I found myself in a rented beach-house with my then-younger mother and almost total lack of reading on a hot summer vacation. The village library offered nothing more than the complete works of Lenin, Marx and some Dimitrov, as it was in still communist Bulgaria.
In a desperate need to fill my nerdish brains with any written information, instead of rolling in the dust under the blazing sun, I found that my intellectual mother has brought with her a recently published, for the first time in Russian, Nausea. Needless to say, Sartre is not the best reading for the underaged. But as he was a newcomer to our shores, nobody was aware of it. So I plunged into the existential hell accompanied by the chicken cackle and cicadas heard through the window.
Upon reading the 50th page I felt quite bad. By the page 70 I was definately ill. Nauseate, to be precise. When it was obvious, that I'll vomit in a minute, I ran to the shack pretending to be a closet (definately not a water-closet), and threw up. While doing so I understood that the enemy (Sartre, possibly) attacked from behind as well, as the specific feeling of a diarrhea was growing. Cursing the French I had to turn around, and continue emptying my intestines. And turning again. And again.
I spent three days in bed, taking rounds in the shaky toilet. Haven't read Sartre since. Don't think ever will. No need. I know him by my err.. stomach.
(Restoration Dept., Fri 8 Jan 2010, 21:15, Reply)

The worst sight in the entire world.
I don't know what brought this on. I didn't feel queasy before the unfortunate episode; it was quite literally a vom from out of the blue. So: I'd indulged myself in egg fried rice and noodles for dinner and retired to bed happy. Some time later I woke up, blinked, realised I was about three seconds from a technicolour yawn and scrambled out of bed. The only receptacle in sight was the rubbish bin, so I took aim and let fly.

One ***FOOM*** later, I opened my eyes to behold a sight of rare disgust. The bin had been almost full to the brim with dog ends and ash, into which I'd projectile-puked a startling quantity of mostly undigested Chinese food. The force of said ejecta had raised a cloud of ash, which now coated my face...and the only reason I didn't throw up again at the sight in front of my red-rimmed eyes was because I didn't have anything left...
(Leda74, Fri 8 Jan 2010, 20:53, Reply)

hot spew
i once had some friends round and we were having a good old booze up, nice cool bottles of sol i seem to remember. had had a few and the night was going great. Being a fan of hot food had recently bought a bottle of Dave's Ultimate Insanity Sauce, so thought i'd get the bottle out to see if anyone was game for a taste (a single drop is like the flames of hell itself), but nobody took me up on it. I seem to remember smelling it, and putting the bottle back on the table. Unfortunately the bottle was rather chilled being recently taken out of the fridge, not a million miles away from a certain cool beer. well what happened next i am sure you can guess, i wasnt paying attention, picked something up and swigged away. followed by a loud FU#K, swift exit to toliet, and red hot lava like spew coming out of my mouth and what was 5 times worse, my nose. Took a few hours and some proper beers to cool back to acceptable level!
(vanhood, Fri 8 Jan 2010, 20:52, 1 reply)

Salmon, Champagne & Garden Hedges
As many of you B3tonians will be aware, it has been fucking cold and icy this Christmas. I had my works night out in a function suite in Hampden Stadium this year. The very same place where the Scotland football team lose all their home games every few months. I was dressed up in a fancy suit and after I ate my salmon steak for dinner, I proceeded to pour as much beer into my face as I could humanly manage.

The night went by uneventfully enough, until I decided I wanted to steal a mascot suit and run onto the pitch for a game of football. While trying to open a fire exit to the pitch I was stopped by a security guard who threatened me using words like “life ban” and “criminal prosecution”. I may have been drunk, but I didn’t fancy spending the night in a police cell, so I returned to my table in search of something to drink and someone to fornicate with.

I eventually found a woman who managed to put up with me for longer than five minutes so we sat down at a table. Being the kind and generous guy that I am (read: stupidly drunk and horny), I bought us a bottle of champagne. Things started to go downhill pretty quickly. I was throwing back glasses faster than was reasonably safe and my stomach soon began to tell me that it wasn’t best pleased with what I was drinking.

Eventually the woman got sick of me and left with her friends so I finished up the rest of the champagne. It was near enough leaving time anyway and there weren’t any realistic opportunities to bring someone home so I found a mate of mine and we left too. It was very snowy and icy out and I did my best to walk him to the bus stop without falling flat on my face, before continuing on my way home. Fortunately for me my flat is within ten minutes walking distance of Hampden so the bitterly cold wind and icy paths didn’t bother me too much. Until I felt it coming...

I was walking down a side street when suddenly I felt that unmistakable sensation in the back of my throat and the pit of my stomach. I knew what was next. I panicked as I looked around for a suitable place to expel my toxic mixture of beer and champagne. Upon noticing a gap in the garden hedges next to me, I readied myself for the violent convulsions I knew were forthcoming. Skidding over to the hedge, I positioned myself so that I was facing the gap. As soon as I thrust my head forward expecting to throw up, my feet gave way on the ice, sending my body hurling towards the hedge. I landed face-first in the hedge, with my arms and legs covered in snow and spread out wide like a snow-angel in a garden.

I then proceeded to vomit everywhere. All over my face. All over my arms. All over my bright white shirt. Vomit and bile covered everything.

When I eventually managed to pick myself up off the ground, I surveyed the scene. It didn’t even occur to me at the time to take a picture but I wish I had. The hedge was gleaming white under the glistening moon, except for a giant human-shaped hole, complete with arms and legs flailing everywhere like a cartoon character running through a wall, completely filled with orangey-red spew from head to toe.
( Fat Fred too weird to live, too rare to die, Fri 8 Jan 2010, 20:45, 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.
( Humpty Dumpty was Pushed Is unaware of having any limits., Fri 8 Jan 2010, 19:52, 3 replies)

Last meal...
oneinthepink's post (http://www.b3ta.com/questions/vomit2/post608584) has reminded me...

Late one night and after a couple of shandies I was busy calling Huey on the Great White Telephone. It was quite an animated call with both my nostrils and mouth take a full and proper part in proceedings.
Call over and feeling refreshed I pick a small piece of my last meal from my top lip.

My last meal was spaghetti. I can still remember the feeling of a full piece of said spaghetti being drawn through my nose and up from the back of my throat like some sort of slimey Italian neck floss.

But whats a man to do? Sat in the dim light, sweating and shivering in front of a bile covered toilet, I held aloft my prize, my trembling hand causing it to shake and dance oh so seductively.

I remembered to chew properly this time. Then I was sick.
( TheMattInAHat has a particular... odour..., Fri 8 Jan 2010, 19:50, Reply)