Write as much or as little as you want about your fondest memory of throwing up. Send a picture of yourself or don't. You can even just type it in as a comment after this post. Winners will receive an indie rock fun pak, hippie art or a paperback edition of
The Idiot by Fyodor Dostoyevsky. Contest runs 'til 2010 but winners will be announced whenever I decide.
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This is not a very good vomit story - in fact its a terrible vomit story, and it's not even about me - but it's the best one I have, so here I go.
When we were somewhere between 18 and 20, we learned that one deli owner in our neighborhood would sell us booze without asking for ID, and being enterprising young men we took advantage of this. Since we were into shitty nu-metal music and awful hip-hop at the time (I'm assuming this was the reason because there really wasn't any other), our first impulse was to buy 40s of Old English 800 malt liquor. It was easier to drink than equally cheap beer, but it would have the unfortunate side effect of making us throw up whenever we'd get about 3/4 of the way through with each bottle. (Sometimes when we were low on funds we would even drink St. Ides, which to a teenager looking solely to get fucked up might as well be manna.)
So, one night my parents were away for the weekend, and — again, being enterprising young men — we threw a little party, involving lots of video games, probably some pot and, of course, said malt liquor. My at-the-time best friend, feeling his oats at the time, had finished a bottle and, despite our objections/fascinated glances, went for a second. He was about halfway through when he regretted his decision, and went into the basement bathroom, closed the door behind him and vomited.
After he had discarded the contents of the Double Whopper Extra Value Meal he had just ate, I went into the bathroom to survey the cleanup damage. Apparently, his vomiting was so intense that he had managed to get a god amount on the ceiling, and - even more incredulously - on the outside of the bathroom door (which was closed the entire time).
Needless to say, me and my friends were in drunken awe.
I somehow cleaned the barf from the ceiling (don't remember how, honestly), and I never touched malt liquor again. The End.
My story is set in the sweet summer of 2004, France. I was 20. Not yet an expert on drinking or especially being hungover. The French celebrate Bastille day maybe. The American students fucking throw it down pseudo 4th of July style. Like I'm not sure where the fireworks came from but Americans can get fireworks anywhere, its a national superpower unfortunately. Anyways Bastille days the setup, I could go into more detail but wasted...blah blah blah yawn. The evil thing was that the program managers had scheduled a trip to beautiful scenic Verudn the next morning at 8 o clock. I somehow make the bus and being still intoxicated commence having a funtastic field trip time. Everyone else is miserable at how much fun im having and are trying to sleep(apparently this is the phemomena of being "still wasted"). Much touristy photography. Our tour begins and we get led through a dank fortress where "shocking number of so and sos" die I start getting queezy. This is an effective tomb slash museum and I start swaying. Thus begins the "DO NOT PUKE" mantra. Im dragging along the walls channeling mustard gased 20 somethings from 80ish years earlier. The knowing chaperons give me the YOU BETTER NOT PUKE eye. Phew, we finally get outside. Fresh air much better.... Then we had to watch some movie where they showed a dude getting flamethrowered, I started crying. Still thou no puking. WE got to peak on a giant memorial sword tomb full of bones , o and a viewfinder with severed limbs. Still no puking, Im just champing this out. Finally we leave evil evil Verdun and go back to the bus to freedom and mostly sleep. We stop at some French roadside buffet and I feel queezy after eating a piece of rice next to the untouched poisson. Somehow still survive. Time slows down. We go back to the bus. Im going to puke...dont puke on the charter bus....dont puke on the charter bus. Just fall asleep. Do not puke. We role up in front of school and before the bus even stops I burst from its doors and take off running across the a field in the French afternoon. The campus was located near this lake that hosted a lot of schools so lots of French etudiants are out enjoying a nice afternoon when astreaking across the grass comes some panicing American barfing majestically in the afternoon son. I dont stop. The puke propels me forward into the future...
Both of these made me laugh really loud.
Ok,you both win. To receive fabulous prizes please send your address to: morningmixtape@yahoo.com or to me at one of the many social networking sites I frequent.
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