Now that was some vomiting

Thanksgiving, 1979: I ate to the point of discomfort, and ate some more. And then I had dessert. Being a teenager, this was quite a bit of food. Enough to feed an entire family of normal people.

And then I went out and hung with my friends. Who sparked up a fattie, and produced a bottle of gin. I smoked. I drank. I didn’t feel so good. So I went home and laid on the couch with the TV on. I can remember what was playing: Monster Island. You know, the one with the baby godzilla that blew smoke rings.

And I still didn’t feel so good. My mouth started salivating uncontrollably… salivate, swallow, salivate, swallow, salivate, swa… blaaaargh!

I launched a fountain of turkey, gravy, dressing, yams, green beans, apple pie, milk, gin, and whatever else I had consumed 16 feet across the room, smack into the drapes and sliding glass door.

I felt much better.

Then my parents came down the stairs to see what happened… they heard it from their bedroom.

January, 2004: My bachelor party. Empty stomach. Drinking game. Five different types of liquor, plus beer. Two hours partying. Three hours vomiting. One pissed off bride.

I was still hung over at my wedding two days later.

And I’m still pissed I don’t remember the stripper. I’m told I appeared to enjoy myself immensely, but I only vaguely even remember her arriving. But I do remember finding candle wax stuck to my armpit hair the next day.

Thanks for the laugh, bughunter. That Thanksgiving story is perfect.

I was actually saved (somewhat) by the excessive salivating. I remembered reading in a pregnancy book that it was a sign of impending spew. So after five hours of trying to ignore a really bad stomach ache, when I did my Pavlov’s dog imitation, I leaped out of bed, barely saving my brand new mattress and lovely 320-thread-count sheets from certain doom.

The worst is combining puking and diarrhea. The last time I puked, it followed a lengthy session of Fire-Hose Asshole; I had to quickly get off the pot, turn around, and projectile-barf into the yellow-brown water, desperately hoping I didn’t splash any of the foulness back up onto myself.

Wow, I can’t believe I get to be the first to give the official name of the Scary Eyeball Event. It’s called petechial hemorrhages, and yes, it’s caused by an increase in blood pressure. Medical examiners use the presence of petechial hemorrhages in a dead person’s eyes to prove the person was strangled.

It’s only happened to me once. Don’t know if it was food poisoning or a stomach virus, but my lower GI tract started clearing out. I foolishly took a full dose of Immodium. That stopped the lower GI tract, but then I started projectile vomiting and came out of the bathroom with pinpoint red spots on my cheeks. Freaked my mom, the RN, right out. For a second there, she thought I’d come down with scarlet fever.

Ah, yes, also known as the Screaming Twirl-Abouts.

I’ve never had Scary Eye Syndrome, but once when I was a wee slip of a lass, I barfed really hard and the outgoing spew took a loose tooth with it. I guess it was just hanging in there by a thread and wasn’t able to withstand the pressure of the chunky liquid gushing past it. As I recall, I was old enough to know there was no tooth fairy, so I just went to my dad, showed him the hole, and demanded payment.