There is the time when I was about 6, and my brothers (4 and 2) and my Mum and I were flying from Hamilton down to Palmerston North (both in NZ) to see my Grandmother and the snooty hostess had completely ignored my Mum and the hassle she was having trying to "control" 3 small kids. Right at the end of the flight she came past to tie us into our seats for landing and said "is every thing alright?" with her supercilious smile and in a move for which my Mum is still grateful (22 years later) I promptly threw up on the hostess's beautiful blue shoes.
Or there was the artistic fan shaped vomit which came as the result of experimenting with cask port when I was 16. I was swinging around a stop sign in Hunters Hill (Sydney) - in the style of "Singing in the Rain" - whilst throwing the contents of my stomach onto the road. My friend Tim (whom I am hoping will make his own entry to your encycolpedia of vomit) still recalls that one.
And then there was the one on the flight from Kathmandu to Bangkok when I had some serious Nepalese stomach bug which caused me to suddenly stop my conversation with an extremely attractive and wealthy Indian woman - complete with stunning white sari and dripping with gold - and neatly fill one of the very flimsy Royal Nepal Airlines airsickness bags. And then you should have seen the face of the stewardess who happened past at that moment and was handed the bag whilst it was still steaming nicely.
But the best is not actually mine. A friend of a friend met the woman who is now his wife at a party. They were deep in conversation and he suddenly realised that he was going to abort transaction on that last beer without enough warning to go to the bathroom. He upchucked down his t-shirt and quickly zipped his leather jacket over it and just kept on talking. Apparently she thought that this was so cool and calm that he must be worth getting to know better. The rest, as they say, is history.
- Brendan, Australia
A few years ago I was at a "technical retreat" in the Blue Mountains, which for the most part was pretty good. I'm not sure what exactly triggered me off, but I hold the tuna casserole from Friday's lunch in grave suspicion to this day. Whatever it was, I woke up Saturday morning feeling like I was dead, or if I wasn't dead like it was probably a better option. Instead of going to the lectures and briefing sessions that morning I decided lying in bed would be a better option.
The care-taker of the place (a nice old guy) thought-fully hooked up the convener's microphone to the PA system so that I would still get to hear the talks. Halfway through the main address I heard a little voice saying "It's time", and started my dash for the toilets. Amazingly I made it, and clutching the bowl as one is apt to do in these circumstance, waiting for the inevitable, I heard the convenor saying:
"...and if you've got a problem, feel free to BRING IT UP in your focus groups..."
With that encouragment, I felt very free to bring up my problems, and felt much better for it.
The post-script to the story is that I was sitting next the convenor at lunch that day, and told him about his remarkable timing and choice of words. He was most amused by the whole thing, and shared the experience with the entire group the next day. Oddly enough, most other people found it more disgusting than amusing. Such a dull group they were...
- Mike Grasso, Melbourne
Heres my bit of the puke. Best place yet, well how about the lobby of a Five Star Hotel.
This was in India in a hll resort called Kodaikanal or just say Kodi. We had a gig that night for an international conference by one of the big MNC's in India, was a cold October night and after mixing for nearly three hours for the band we were ushered to the bar. And lo, we fell upon alcohol like hungry dogs from the desert. It was shots of Cognac 4 that went down with coke in less than an hour. And before the lights in the bar went out mine did. But urged myself to find my way to the truck for loading our equipment back. Halfway down the lobby, I let loose. The next thing I remember was being thrown out into 30.F by the bell boy ....
This year (1997) on January 20th we had the first of two days of extreme fire weather which resulted in major fires killing three people on the 21st.
On the 20th I eventually left work at 3:00pm because a major fire had started in Langwarrin which is inside our group. Just after I got home our Tanker was sent to another major fire at Mt.Martha. With our tanker away our Pumper was the only firefighting appliance left.
Between 6:00pm that night at 7:30am the next morning I attended approx. 6-7 fires in the Pumper so I had not had any sleep since 5:00am on the 20th. (I get up at 5:00am every morning).
On the 21st my job was not to crew a fire truck but to work in FireSpotter 8. This is an aircraft used for fire spotting, plotting fires on maps and providing intelligence to the ground crews.
In the morning we were looking over the fires in the Dandenongs including the fire which raced through Ferny Creek where 3 people died.
Keep in mind that I have not had sleep since 5:00am the previous day, I have not had breakfast and I am dehydrated. Add to this the fact that I am in a plane being bounced around while trying to look out at the fires, then look back in at the map repeatedly.
After about 4 hours we landed at Moorabin airport for fuel. As soon as we landed our pagers went off requesting us to go to a fire on Arthurs Seat immediately. While the fuel was being filled we went into the fuelling office to get some water (we had run out several hours before). They had some cold water in the fridge which we gladly poured into our bottles.
Off we went to the Arthurs Seat fire which was busy racing up and over the hill. (People really do not appreciate how quickly a wildfire can move). Working flat out we had not yet had a drink but after flying for about five hours both myself and the other observer started to feel pretty crook and very dehydrated.
Out comes the water.
The bottle is pressed up to the lips.
A strange odour is detected....but it is ignored.
The water pours down the throat.
The brain registers the taste of Ouzo.
The stomach registers the feeling of Ouzo.
The stomach makes an emergency conference call to the brain to discuss this new invasion.
A snap decision is made that the stomach should refuse it's new tenant.
Thankfully the brain had time to organise the arms and hands to place a sick sac in front of the mouth so no mess was made.
But wait, the other air observer is looking green. Can he hold off? Why is his voice funny? He has that funny taste/feeling in his mouth. Sick-Sac at the ready........
The bastard. He has survived. He managed to prevent the big hurl.
Another two hours and the Arthurs Seat fire is pretty much contained. We head home with a total of 8 fires spotted, 4 fires plotted, 7 hours flying and one full to the brim sick sac.
And what was the best course of action while driving home? Macca's. That's right McDonalds. Mmmmmm.
- Anthony Ingram, Country Fire Authority volunteer, Victoria, Australia
In February of 1991 I went to Nepal with a couple of friends, and we stopped in Thailand on the way back for a week or so. Rather than stay in Bangkok, City of Smog, we decided to head to a touristy beach in the south of Thailand. This expedition required a 14 hour overnight bus journey.
Some time in the middle of the night we stopped at a service station and fast-food place. Unfortunately I was asleep when we got there and still asleep when i chose some food from under the incubator where they kept it. It tasted OK to me in my bleary state. A few hours later I knew better.
It began while we were still on the bus. Fortunately there was a toilet built into the bus and at this stage I just had the runs. We got to the place where we were staying and while we were sitting down to lunch I started to feel rather queasy. I knew it was going to be bad when I also started to black out. We were sitting at a table in the eating area, a roofed but not walled place with many tables and chairs. My reaction to beginning to black out and feeling the intitial preparations of my belly for an emergency evacuation was to stand up and start running for open space.
Rather surprisingly, this tactic actually worked and I made it across the room to vomit violently into the bushes. I was guided back to our room, but ended up spending the next two days lying in the shade outside the toilets and rushing in to explode from one end or the other (and sometimes both) every so often.
- Tim Chambers, NSW, Australia
I have this friend named George who's from England. All friends share a common interest, and ours is beer. George is always quick to ridicule the watery, pissy American beer, but he and I both tend to drink the yupped-out microbrews made locally, which he finds passable, though not as good as "proper English beer." This guy was a rugby player in his younger years, and he's still an enormous guy who can hold a lot of grog. He's also fairly quick to talk about how little Americans seems to be able to drink, at least compared to their far more masculine and studly counterparts across the pond. I have to admit that I've seen George drink a lot, but had never seen the slightest trace of intoxication-- not one slurred word, not one stagger, no evidence of slowed mental processes. Until this one night.
George lived in Freemont, which is a wonderfully funky neighborhood in the Seattle area. I used to go over to his place, and we'd walk down to his local, where we'd stay until they closed down. This evening he had made the acquaintance of a rather attractive person of the female persuasion who fell in love with his accent. I don't know if he was showing off or just thirsty, but he drank quite a bit that night, though of course I couldn't tell that it affected him in any way. About 1:00 in the morning, the three of us started heading back to George's place-- this was going to be his lucky night. So there we were, walking along making chit chat, when George, in his typical reserved English manor said "won't be a moment." Pausing briefly, he turned toward a neighbor's bushes, bent slightly at the waist, and showered the landscape with what must have been half a keg of partially digested beer and fries, delivered with a most impressive display of force and vigor, just like you might expect out of a thick necked rugby player. Then, to my (and her) total astonishment, he rejoins the conversation so casually you'd think he had just stopped to sneeze discretely into a monogrammed handkerchief.
I don't know much about dating etiquette in England, but over here a something of a culture gap had opened up. As soon as we got back to Joe's place, she called a cab.
- Dan Boren, Seattle, USA
I was young, 2nd or 3rd grade and had just finished lunch in the school cafeteria - 2 pieces pizza, 16 oz chocolate milk, red jello, and an orange/white creamsicle. Well, I started to feel a bit sick and turned to my then-best freind to tell him there was a problem. Well as I opened my mouth, I spewed forth the most colorful techni-color yawn I have ever seen. It absolutedly coated the kid - neck to ankle. It stank, too.
- Dan Ewing, USA
In the back seat of a Michigan State Police cruiser. My friend was pulled over for speeding and I was placed in the back seat while they checked our IDs. Needless to say, the troopers were not happy. Had to pay for the cleaning.
- L Niemann, Michigan, USA
I disgraced myself after a staff christmas party (yes, this story is one of self-inflicted illness and misery). I turned up late on the night, so missed out on any of the food other than a sad plate of corn chips - the only thing approaching solid sustenance left in the office. There was however, plenty of alcoholic liquid available. And to my good fortune (or perhaps in retrospect bad misfortune), one of my workmates had a bottle of tequila that he wanted to share.
After polishing off the bottle in slammers (lick, sip, su-nahh bugger the lemon - get me anussher shot) and all the corn chips (which I had by now decided were very tasty), we decided we really could do with another bottle of tequila. So we pooled our money and, being the only one of the pair who could walk in a reasonably straight line, I staggered off to the nearest bottle shop and bought another. While we finished off the second bottle (hey, we did share three or four glasses with a couple of others), I made occasional trips to the other side of the room to socialise with my girlfriend (so the net effect was that she saw snapshots of my gradual degeneration into a slurring mess). Hey, you can't say I'm not romantic!
By the end of the night, my girlfriend had to help me to the train to take me to her home in south Yarra. On the platform at Flinders Street, I was starting to feel a little queasy, but I thought "Two stations, I can make that EAS-SY".
Once the train got under way, I was a little less sure of myself, but still confident. That was until I realised that the train was not going directly to South Yarra, but THROUGH THE LOOP. Panicking did not help my stomach either, so I spent the loop thinking "It just takes concentration, I can do this (I think I can, I think I can, I think I can)" So my girlfriend didn't get a lot of conversation out of me on the train (it was turning out to be the perfect evening for her).
As the train pulled away from Richmond I knew with that dreadful sinking feeling that my stomach was not going to make it. Oh for the days of red rattlers with pull down windows! Unfortunantly, this was a new train and I was in no condition to force open a door. So I proceeded to cover the carpet with a warm, orange liquid (remember, the only solid food I had eaten that night had been cheese flavoured corn chips - I can tell you now that CC's take a fair while to digest). A kind soul offered my girlfriend his newspaper to catch any further display of my stomach contents (you can see why she went out with me, can't you?). Her explanation of the horrendous gastro-intenstinal illness affecting me died on her lips as the fragrant aroma of pure tequila wafted up from the floor. A yes, Escherichia alcholi....
After transferring some more CC/tequila slurry to a bin on a South Yarra station platform, I ended up hanging onto a neighbour's fence fertilising my girlfriend's garden. To end her magic night, she went inside and her mother asked her "can you hear that poor man outside?" TO which she replied "Poor man? That's Craig and his pissed!" I don't think she was very happy....
- Craig Lighton, Melbourne
The best story I have is the day I was riding home on my bike from work. It was Friday, after the obligatory Friday night drinks, and I had eaten some dubious Chinese food for lunch. It just wasn't sitting well, but I still got my bike clothes on, strapped on my helmet and put my face mask on to stop the pollution getting in. Little did I know that the reverse was going to happen.
I made it to the bridge (Sydney Harbour) and something just wasn't right. Suddenly the contents of my stomach leapt out into my lycra/latex face mask. I must congratulate the makers of the mask, as it bulged and bumped but did not disgorge its grisly contents until I, being so grossed out by the detritus of lunch and inability to breathe with the vomit around my nose and mouth, ripped the mask from my face. This caused the contents to spray wildly all over me, my bike, and the path. I slowly rode the remaining 10km home looking like someone who had just crawled out of the bin behind a Yum Cha. On arriving home, all my wife could say was: "You stink."
- Joel Hynoski, Sydney, Australia
The year: 1978. The place: Kennewick, Washington. A chubby 15 year old girl with thick glasses, there was very little about me to suggest anything even remotely resembling coolness. But Lord knows I did want, and try, to be cool.
I worked at a fast food chicken restaurant, and many of my work mates were cool. Some of them even knew people who had their own apartments and listened to Prince (that was back when he was Prince and had his original nose), and if that wasn't the pinnacle of cool in Kennewick, Washington, then nothing was!
One dark and stormy night, I found myself in the company of said cool people, who on top of all their other cool accoutrements had... wait for it... a BONG. And on this night I was to be included in the smoking of the bong, which no doubt would ensure my entry into the World of Cool.
You can be responsible and cool at the same time, and these people were. How so, you may ask? They made the munchies run to Safeway before we smoked. A list was made, and my request was for strawberry yogurt. (I was on a diet, which was cool.)
The munchies run completed, Prince pumping out the speakers, the bong was lit and passed. My experience with smoking had been limited to Marlboro Lights (I'd been smoking in an attempt to deepen my voice to a lower, huskier tone, which I thought would be cool). So I had no idea what to expect from smoking dope, other than the fact that it would make me instantaneously and irretrievably cool.
Many, many hits later, we dove into our munchies. With a vengeance.
Several hits after that, I excused myself to the balcony. As I said, it was a dark and stormy night. The wind was blowing so hard, I could see the stars being jostled about in the sky. Gripping onto the balcony railing for dear life, I expelled all 16 ounces of strawberry yogurt from my stomach. The wind blew it back at me - into my face, my hair and all over my clothes. Severely uncool.
- Lori Bowen, Melbourne, Australia
The year was '75. My college, uni to you, band was touring Europe. My mate, the other half of the bass clarinet section, just found out that she was jilted by her boyfriend. In an attempt to be the supportive, upstanding, nuturuting, guy who wanted to to be "there" for her, but who also found her incredably enticing, I invited her out for a supper and a shoulder. She accepted. We went out to the Parisian bistro which was just around the corner from our hotel and combined two pizzas with two bottles of the local rot-gut red wine. I returned the lady to her hotel room safely, without molestation despite flaming hormones, even punched out some guy who also had "the hots" for her and followed us to her to her room. I returned to my room and died.
The next thing I knew was a pounding on the door as I slept through my alarm and two wake-up calls. I immediately got up. All of the green peppers, mushrooms, onions, calamari, and broccali that I downed the prior evening reappeared in the only receptacle available...the bidet. Do you have any idea how hard it is to shove all that down that little drain? Lord help the poor chambermaid who had to clean it up. My mate and I were horizontal on the floor, not together, of the tour bus all the way to Louis XV1's palace at Versailles (sp?). Once there, Jen and I chose to tour the gardens instead of going inside. She was in as bad shape as me. After we both spewed in this French national garden, we both felt much better, thank you very much. The flowers had much more color. ;-)
Riding the metro in Washington, D.C. can be quite experience, packed in, armpit to armpit with 200 of your newly found friends. It was a warm autumn day and everyone was tired after a long day at the office. All of a sudden the lady behind me started coughing and then I felt this strange, moist, warmth on the back of my suit coat. I turned to the lady who tried to apologise but only more vomit came out, all over my shirt, tie, and face. I was riding to the end of the line and got really odd glances by the time I got there. It was another pizza crime as I was still wearing most of that lady's lunch. I burned the suit.
- Same Anonymous as the previous story
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- Great Vomits of the 20th Century