all down the side of a vauxhall cavalier
A friend of mine had a party at her house and some jackass went into her room looking for a bathroom and opened the only door in the room (aside from the bedroom door, of course) only to find that it was a closet. I guess he couldn’t hold it, because he yacked all over her clothes.
I once threw up in the parking lot of a funeral home…
After hours of course.
Down the cold air return vent in my parents’ house.
I was pretty young. Woke up sick. Tried to fight it.
Couldn’t.
Made a run for the bathroom, but came up short. Dumped a bellyfull down the cold air return on the floor of the hallway.
Mom had the grate off and was cleaning out the top while dad was downstairs trying to dismantle the duct so he could clean it out from the lower end–cursing me constantly.
The house had a disagreeable fragrance for a while.
Master Wang-Ka wrote:
Thank you very much. There is actually a whole lot more detail to the “aftermath” part of that story (like D later going into E’s basement bathroom, and coming back out a half-hour later with his underwear in one hand, but otherwise dressed as he was when he went in), but I felt the need to cut the whole thing in half or so, since the thread is about puking and not what happens later. On a re-read, I probably could have hacked a bunch of the preamble, as well, but I’m not sure it would have had the same impact.
I was this close to throwing up on my one and only submarine ride. I have hydrocephalus and apparently my shunt broke just before I got on. I don’t really remember much of the trip, except for the damn headache I had. We were in the Cayman Islands and had to fly back for surgery that day. I ended up throwing up a lot on that plane ride.
-Lil
On a friend’s kitchen counter, which wouldn’t be so strange except that I was so drunk I was actually under the impression there was a sink there. There wasn’t.
And I suppose Rarotonga Airport at two o’clock in the morning would probably be the most exotic place. Gotta love those traveler’s bugs.
Dentist’s spit sink. And it overflowed onto the floor and spattered his chair.
It was caused by his hygenist, who farted in the tiny room, already filled with bleach smells, the combination making me nauseous.
The second she left I couldn’t hold it down any more.
I thought that was supposed to inhibit nausea.
I’ve puked in many, many bathrooms because I have a very nervous stomach and puke at the drop of a hat if I’m either stressed out or have to get up early. However, I pretty much always manage to make it someplace decent. I never understand it when people just start puking. I can always tell–maybe because I’m more used to doing it. I’m also a certified alcoholic, but I rarely puke while drinking, since I know my limits well enough to avoid pukeage. I sometimes puke during hangovers, but nowhere terribly interesting. In the bathroom of the building wherein I was taking a French test is the best one I can think of.
My ex-boyfriend, on the other hand. . . this guy doesn’t drink much because he’s enormous and can’t feel the alcohol unless he consumes mass quantities. Well, he was at a local “Oktoberfest” and had been wrestling this big black guy who had been beating everyone else, and people kept giving him drinks for being the only one to beat him. So he drank them. And drank more. And then drank lots of beer. And then a large amount of this green stuff that “tasted like cough syrup.” Then eventually he went to bed. His accommodations for the night were a friend’s tent (said friend was “visiting” for the evening in the tent of a lady friend), and were shared with some total stranger already passed out in there.
In the middle of the night, ex-boyfriend suddenly woke up having to puke. Tent was zipped. Ex was entangled in sleeping bags and still intoxicated, not to mention very clumsy in the best of circumstances. While struggling in vain to open the flap, ex-boyfriend puked all over himself, the tent, and the other guy. Other guy must have been quite intoxicated, for he woke up long enough to say “Don’t worry about it, man,” and then fall back asleep.
Ex-boyfriend lay outside, wallowing in shame, until he felt sober enough to drive home. Without his pants, since they were too puke-laden to wear. On the way, he had to pull over to puke in a KFC bag I had carelessly but fortunately left on the floor of the car the previous evening.
The friend to whom the tent belonged was unamused.
My current boyfriend also got extremely intoxicated once at a bachelor party (though he has no excuse; he’s regular-sized and drinks more often!), and puked out the window of his car, which his best friend was using to drive him home, all down Prospect Avenue, one of the major streets around here. His best friend was kind enough to take his car through a car wash while he was sleeping; otherwise I wouldn’t want to think about the carnage. I read this story in his Livejournal before I met him, by the way, and I love him nonetheless. 