Obviously, when you know you’re about to throw up there isn’t much you can do about it. Head for the nearest toilet if possible, of course. But, naturally, sometimes it isn’t that easy.
A few years ago I was working in the law library of a small local courthouse and felt that signal from my innards. I scooted out of the room and into the nearby women’s restroom–the men’s room was at the other end of the corridor and I knew I wouldn’t make it. After that I headed home.
About ten minutes later, I was driving home on an arterial street and I felt that sensation again. No time to stop; I opened the window and, with the car still moving, barfed into the street.
Ever feel that coming on and have to think fast about where to go whoop?
Once I was in Wales on a work assignment and suddenly thought “Oh oh. I’m gonna puke.”
I walked calmly out of the conference room and there was a garbage bin about 10 feet away. I lifted the lid of this 3 or 4 foot tall bin and hurled. I gently replaced the lid and went to the bathroom for clean up and a long drink of water. I was sooo thankful that bin was there, and even more thankful that I got away with the whole thing without anyone’s knowledge.
And yes, it was directly related to the pub the night before. Whew!
I’ve felt really bad about this for a couple of decades.
I was visiting Ottowa and had food poisoning. I felt ill and puked in the bushes right at the Peacekeeper’s memorial. Canadians standing nearby were lucky I made it to the bushes. Actual Canadians could have experienced American Style Hurling, but I made it to the holly.
Let’s just say, if there are Canadians reading this, I’m really really sorry. I swear I can feel Lester B Pearson’s disapproving eyes on the back of my neck every time I think about this.
My cousin’s wife once threw up on her supervisor. At the time, she was pregnant and she was racing to the bathroom, and the woman stepped into her path. Eek!
(A few times she had to pull over and throw up in a parking lot trash can on her way to work. This time, she wasn’t so lucky)
On behalf of all Americans I agree that the misspelling is an affront to Canadians.
There are Americans who misspell my city’s name as “Gardenia”–something I bet Canadians wouldn’t do.
I haven’t thrown up in public since I was a kid. Once, sixth grade maybe, my family was visiting relatives in Lincoln, Nebraska. It’s Sunday morning in church, and there was no air conditioning. In my pre-teen years I was sensitive to the heat. I knew I was going to puke, so I got up and left, my mom with me. I made it to the planters outside the front door and cut loose. Must have been a great advertisement for the church if any cars were passing by.
It’s never fun when that happens while teaching a class. Fortunately the men’s room was across the hall and I knew I could trust my students for a few minutes.
That’s for sure, 'cause we’ve never heard of it.
[…]
That’s OK. I don’t think many Americans have heard of Seventy Mile House, Flin Flon, or St. Louis du Ha! Ha!
During one of my worst nights of drunken excess ever, I didn’t remember much of that night - but the next morning, my friend informed me that I’d puked on my own backpack. “It’s purple,” he informed me. (The puke, not the backpack.)
