I have no idea why, but my six-year old calls it “splitting”.
Mama, my tummy hurts, I gotta split!
Do a gut flush.
Spew your chew.
Second the motion.
View your vittles.
Degurgitate.
Test your refluxes.
Send a G-mail.
Hold forth.
Paint the curb.
Rather than toss, we always said shoot your cookies.
(It had more of a projectile tone, I s’pose.)
Talking to dinosaurs on the big white phone.
Bazooka barfing.
Biological baptismal.
Now we’re getting somewhere!