Mine was last night. My son was up puking all night long. First all over his bed then all over mine… Yum! I have a weak reflex and I was gagging while holding his hot lil head.
There is just something gross about doing laundry at 3 in the morning. I think I need disposable sheets for just these occasions.
Last year, the SO and I went to Florida to meet one another’s parents. After an 8-hour plane trip, airline food, snacks from the airport, and other culinary delights, we arrived at my folk’s house, settled in and relaxed with my mom and dad, sister, and a few bottles of wine. After something like 4,5…maybe 10, I don’t really remember, glasses, I started feeling pretty queasy and excused myself to the restroom. Having gotten rid of that, I decided that it was time to go to bed. I dressed myself in my SO’s boxer shorts and a teeshirt, lay down, and the room started spinning, yes, once again, I heave. Fortunately, I made it to the restroom… Unfortunately, this time, I also lost control of my bladder, in his shorts. He cleans me up, rinses out the shorts, re-dresses me in clean ones, and puts me back to bed, only to have the exact same thing happen again five seconds later (urine and all). We’re up to two, eh, dampened pair of his shorts now and only two or three left in the suitcase. My family is laughing hysterically at this point, SO cleans me up AGAIN, gets me back into bed, and I fall asleep. A little while later, his crawling into bed wakes me up; I’m immediately nauseated again and attempt to get out of bed to the restroom, only making it far enough to hurl into our open suitcase, leaving us with NO clean clothes.
(g-d, am I glad we were at MY folks house and not his…)
SO got up early that morning and washed everything. My parents sent him two packages of brand new boxers shortly after we left - ‘just in case’ they were ever needed.
my parents tell me I projectile-vomited on a missionary.
We were taking the ferry across Lake Michigan - I was about 18 mos. & apparently not taking the trip well.
The lady missionary said “What a pretty baby - may I hold her?” and just as she picked me up… HEAVE HO!
One of the (several) reasons Mr. Pol & I aren’t having kids: I am a sympathy-puker. I have to go to another part of the HOUSE if he gets sick.
I can deal with puppy-puke if I have to - tho I do hold my breath & gag a bit.
My story, like many amusing Puke stories, takes place overseas.
As I’ve mentioned before on other threads, I did a 7 week archaeologal dig in Bulgaria when I was in college. We stayed in the dorms of the American University located in scenic Blagoevgrad.
To celebrate the final night of the dig, we had a massive toga party on the roof of one of the dorms. Archaeologists can get pretty fancy with their togas, let me tell you. Anyhow, the MOST expensive alchohol in the nation of Bulgaria probably costed about $4/fifth at the time (1996). So the booze was flowing like, well, you know, booze.
I guzzled a 2 bottles of Retsina (a pine-infused greek wine) in quick sucession and was attempting to get overly friendly with my friend Doug. My other friend Edy, knowing that I had just started a relationship before leaving for Bulgaria, pulled me away and sent me to bed “for my own good” before I did something rash, like shag him and then have some explaining to do. So I retreated to my bedroom, where I immediately went from “But I’m fine!” to “Spin Cycle” to “holy god I’m gonna hurl.”
I have a pathological hatred of vomiting, and usually with a combination of breathing and concentration I can avoid it. All of a sudden, I just knew it was gonna happen. I leap up, stagger to the bathroom, and proceed to yak my absolute guts out.
In the morning, it was revealed that the toilet was not securely fastening to the floor and I had moved it with the force of my expulsion. My suitemates were duly impressed.
Dao’s vomit stories:
The last time I really chucked was in sixth grade. And it was in the school sink, which promptly plugged up. I don’t envy the janitor. But when I staggered back into the office, my mom* was there talking to the office lady. I walked in right when Mom was saying “When Daowajan throws up, it’s like projectile…” :eek:
This, like most of my really funny party stories, is about my dad. He was in a Mexican restaurant up in Minnesota with my uncle, and he wasn’t feeling that good to begin with, on top of several (dozen) beers. As they walked out to their cars, he vaguely remembers puking in the bushes.
Six years later, the restaurant had changed hands, and was now a homestyle cookin’ place. My dad goes back there, and there’s a blasted and bald spot on the lawn right where he’d thrown up six years ago.
*Who somehow had the presence of mnd to use my SD Name.
A couple of summers ago in Seattle is the last time I really threw up.
After eating a pound of clams washed down with a chocolate shake, my family and I walked around in 90+ degree heat at the zoo. We got done at the zoo and I still felt fine. We ended up at a Barnes & Noble with some of my parents’ friends.
I started feeling sick and asked my mom if I could get a bag and go sit outside. She thought I was trying to get out of being around her friends so she told me I couldn’t.
Finally I felt the urge to puke. I made a dash for the bathroom, which seemed to be on the opposite side of the store. I managed to hold most of the puke in my mouth until I could get to the bathroom and then puked all over the place.
Man that was bad. I suppose it was pretty bad for the guy that came into the stall after me to take a dump, but that was his problem.
In first or second grade I was feeling a little green around the gills so the teacher sent me to the office. On the sidewalk crossing the lawn I met up wiht the Principal Mr. Wessner - wow, hadn’t thought of that name in a while - he gave me a hearty hello to which I convulsively replied, “Bl! Blu! BLOOORRRCH!” right on the damn sidewalk.
“Uh, do it on the grass next time okay”
The Hook: My younger brother once vomited all over a major celebrity. I ain’t tellin’ who just yet; that’s why they call it a hook.
Me, I don’t really have any horrific puking tales of my own; I guess I’ve been lucky. Sure, I have a few alcohol-related horror stories, who doesn’t? One bears a remarkable similarity to the fishing story told by lieu above, even down to the locale: Cabo San Lucas. The only difference in mine is that the chain-barfing happened in the condo before we left to get on the boat at 6am, instead of on the boat itself. I also remember, or don’t actually, the New Year’s Eve when I was 17, and waking up in a La-Z-Boy with dried puke on my chest. I assume it was mine.
The funniest puking incident I’ve ever witnessed (but not participated in) happened at a summer fun park. (Northwest residents, this was at Enchanted Village/Wild Waves.) My wife and I were waiting in line at our favorite ride, the Octopus. That’s the one with the long arms that rotate around a hub like the spokes of a wheel while simultaneously going up and down. The end of each arm is forked, and on each fork is a freely spinning car. (There’s another version of the Octopus that’s similar but that has four cars at the end of each arm. The one at Enchanted Village is the two-car model. Irrelevant detail, but I didn’t want to get nitpicked.) The upshot of the upchuck, of course, is that one of the passengers became violently ill in mid-ride, leaned over the side, and sprayed an arc of vomit that eventually drenched every single car on his half of the ride. The angry/disgusted faces of the passengers filing out of the ride’s corral were priceless.
And now my brother: This happened when he was maybe six months old, around thirty years ago, so he escapes without blame. My parents were in the airport in Los Angeles, which is where we used to live, and they spotted, a ways off, a major celebrity. My mother gets excited; this guy is a serious favorite of hers. Me in tow and my brother in arms, they scamper over to meet him. He’s very nice and gracious, and (although I don’t remember) is nice to the children. He even asks to hold my brother for a moment, because that’s the kind of celebrity he was. My mother is thrilled, and hands my brother over to him. Two minutes later, she’s helping clean the baby vomit off this celebrity, Mr. Danny Kaye.
About a year ago, my boyfriend and I planned a romantic weekend in upstate New York. We had just started dating, and I was all set for a fabulous first-bloom-of-romance-mondo-manic-boink-a-rama.
Unfortunately, we had picked Plebe Weekend at West Point for our little trip, and ended up having to take a crummy room at a crappy motel because there were no good hotels left.
Anyhow, I got there first, and while I waited in the scary-women’s-prison-dorm-looking room for him to get there, I ordered a crappy anchovy and sausage pizza from a crummy local pizza parlor.
It tasted okay.
About three hours later I tasted it again, and this time around it didn’t taste okay. In fact, that pizza didn’t taste okay each time I re-enjoyed it every hour or so for the next day and a half.
There is nothing like being miles from home, vomiting enthusiastically into a cheap plastic trashcan while slumped sweating and shivering and naked on a rusted toilet in a mildewy motel bathroom. See, I had really spectacular diarrhea too. And I made all kinds of loud bloorpy farty noises accompanied by strangled juicy retching. And it smelled just like you’re imagining.
Not wanting to call any more attention than necessary to my problem, I dutifully dumped the puke out of the trashcan after each episode and rinsed it out myself; so I had to stare at what I had just glorped into the trashcan while it sloshed chunkily around.
In the other room, naked in bed, was the man of my dreams, seeing me not exactly the way I had planned, at least not quite so soon.
A year later though, we’re still dating. And I can finally eat pizza again. But I’ll never feel the same way about anchovies or cheap motels.
I can’t match the tales here, but something unusual once happened to me. As a youngster, I indulged too much in a hot dog supper one evening. During the night, I puked in my sleep. Sleep-puking is not recommended, I awoke to this stinging sensation inside my head, with puke streaming equally out my nose and mouth.
Next day, for half the morning I had this terrible burned-out feeling inside my head. I tried blowing my nose over and over, it just made it worse. Until I blew really hard, and a bite size chunk of weiner flew out my nose.
Felt much better after that.
Walking through the French Quarter with Naomi and Dempsey in broad daylight. Naomi had just had a big breakfast that didn’t agree with her and suddenly had to kneel down on the sidewalk and unswallow it. Just as she started to puke, generously, hash browns coming out her nose, one of those horse-drawn carriages full of tourists rolled past. They were all staring at her with her orange hair and purple glasses and laughing, and probably thinking they were getting the Authentic French Quarter Experience. But they WEREN’T because she was completely sober. None of the motherfuckers bothered to tip her.
3 stories
Me: 3rd or 4th grade cycling to the Italian grocery near my elementry school. The place where I live is real big on sidewalks for the kids to use cycling to school. However,due to property rights or something, the route is all driveway dips (the incline to the street). So I am effectively riding a condensed roller coaster. And I begin to feel queasy about halfway to my destination. But I am a responsible first born anal retentive so and so and pick up the dough Dad had asked for and head home. Getting greener with each house I pass because each house equals at least one trench and popup. I finally get home. Mom is visiting her parents out of town. My dad is babysitting. I love my Dad. But babysitting is not his strong suit. Messy cleanups were Mom’s jobs. I made it to the restroom, just. Friday cafetria pizza and chocolate cake all over the wall next to the toilet. Poor Dad.
Brother: maybe eight years old. Blows chunks in the same (!) bathroom sink. I ask him, “why?” Answer: “I didn’t know what to do.”
Brother: maybe four. Mom has brillant idea to “help” little brother eat his food. There has been a long fuss at table about the veggie this evening-spinach.
Mom:You chew it up then I will press your nose and Elevator going down, you swallow that mouthful.
Brother: ::sheepish and tearfull: Okay
::shovels in the dreaded spinach, chews, chews, chews, Mom presses his nose:
Mom: Elevator going down.
Brother:gulp! Elevator going down
three beats : : :
Brother: Elevator coming back up :ulp!
::all over his plate, across the table:: eeewwhhhh!
I have more stories but they will keep.
Ohhhh ys. I was pregnant with my son, it was my 22nd birthday. I wanted Mexican food. My in laws invited us over and bought Mexican food. I ate the yummy delicious Mexican food that I had been craving for days. Walked out to the driveway, vomited on their cars tire. Yummmm
Son turned 21 today, I’m still sure it was all his fault. 
Thanks, folks, I really needed this thread. I mean it. I’ve been sort of depressed lately, and after reading this I literally have tears running down my cheeks, and my sides hurt from laughing, and I feel a lot better. I used to flatter myself that I had a “sophisticated” sense of humor, but the threads I usually laugh the hardest at are the ones like this( and the gross toilet threads) There are exceptions, such as evil Nazi groundhog classics, or song parodies, but they are fewer and further between.
That said, I don’t really have any funny puke episodes of my own. I don’t drink enough to hurl from that, most of my toilet worship is due to nausea from kidney stone pain. And I have another lithtripsy(the fourth) on Nov 30.
But I have a good one tho tell on a former Army roommate. Poor girl, it wasn’t really her fault. I was at Camp Humphries in South Korea. My unit worked six days on and had three days off, so on the evening of the sixth day we often went out and partied. I limited myself to two drinks, but this gal"Sue" went with us for the first time and made the mistake of saying she had never drunk alcohol. So folks were buying for her, telling her she had to try this drink or that one. We made our seperate ways back to the barracks, and as I opened the door to our room I thought I smelled beer. So I flicked the light on and off fast in case Sue was already in bed. Was she ever. Good thing she had the bottom bunk, as she was hanging half out of it. She had puked all over the floor, the bedding, everything. So I got four other women and they hauled her down to the showers, one on each limb, just like in the movies. I stayed in our room and mopped the floor, stripped her bedding, and took one of her nightgowns down to the shower. We put her in the common room on a plastic couch. And poor Sue never truly woke up, just kept mumbling, “Oh he’s going to kill me, Red’s going to kill me.” Her husband was due to arrive in about a month and she was afraid he’d hear about it and be upset. We never told but as far as I know she never took another drink, at least not with the rest of us.
Laying in the hospital bed after major spinal surgery, I couldn’t stop vomiting. But I was still hungry, so I ate some food. I start feeling queasy, I tell the nurse that I’m going to be sick, she runs out of the room to get a bucket…I projectile vomit a steady stream of mushy food and it HITS THE ROOF. The nurse returns and stands there with her mouth open, staring at the roof. She was amazed at how far I could vomit.
That was my claim to fame.
Evening of my divorce. Big decanter of Crown Royal. Several vegetable-and-dip trays. Lots of coffee.
End up in friend’s apartment. Middle of the night, lying on the floor, room spinning like the hubs of hell.
Crawl through the patio door, squeeze my head through the railing bars, puke on the patio furniture of the downstairs neighbors. The Wicker patio furniture of the downstairs neighbors.
Wake up at 7:00 AM desperately in need of a pee. Unable to extricate head from between patio railing uprights. Call out to anyone who will listen, and downstairs neighbors awaken, open patio door, and slip and fall into giant puddle of congealed Crown Royal/veggie dip puke. I laugh so hard the pain in my head makes me piss my pants. I return to blissful sleep moments later. Awaken some hours later with firemen prying the railing apart to extricate my head.
Kids, don’t try this at home.
billy “Better get a Bucket” rubin.
I don’t deal well with puke.
I don’t deal well with knowing someone puked.
Two times in the same day I had to deal with puke. I was eating lunch at school, and all of a sudden, I hear screams. Someone puked in the hall and all over the bathroom door.
Later the same day, yet another kid pukes on the bus on the way home from school.
I’m gagging just writing this post. I couldn’t even read the other posts.
Anyone elsr here very girssed out by puke, but if they are near it they have to look at it? I do this, and I can’t think of puke without gagging.
Another tale.
First grade: Our desks are arranged in a rectangluar formation. Kinda like those board meetings we see in commercials. Facing into the center of the room, all the desks flush against the next. It is the first day of cool weather. Freddy turns green and urks on his desk. It, the vomit, slides across his desk onto the ajacent desks. We all sit there for a count of two then the whole room starts to sympathy gag. Mind you --17 6-yr old kids all heaving-- amazingly the teacher manages to get us all out of the room before anyone else was productive. Never did find out what set Freddy off.
Two tales here.
First, I was an intern at a clinic and giving birth control tests and sitting in on some parenting classes. I was holding a little girl - About a year old? Something like that. I bounced her a little on my lap, she laughed and then puked all over me. Cheerios, balony and graham crackers.
Second, I went to a shrimp boil. I ate sausage, corn, potatos and shrimp. And then made the fateful mistake of drinking about a half glass of red wine. Then I listened to some fellow law students debate about God - what a headache! It all came up in about 10 minutes. Lord, that was sick.
Tibs.