For a long time, I thought the sight of vomit was the nastiest thing on the planet (not including feet). There can be no redeeming qualities about a big wet pile of half-digested human kibble mixed in with hydrochloric acid and God knows what other stomach juices staring you in the face. When I was in the fourth grade, some Chinese kid was eating pizza and puked it all up. The image of his PURPLE vomit has been seared into my memory ever since.
Figure 1: Good times
I saw a lot of vomit this weekend. I saw vomit on the floor. I saw vomit on a woman’s shoe. I saw vomit on the sidewalk. I even saw a remarkably large amount of vomit on the back of a hapless bouncer – which was rendered amazing by the fact that the vomit was located on his shoulder, which was way higher than the mouth of the perpetrator. And here I was thinking that projectile vomit was just a myth.
I learned this weekend, however, that it’s actually the SMELL of vomit that is the nastiest thing next to feet.
Last Friday was, of course, the informal and sparsely attended Stuff Black People Hate get-together. During the event, one of the attendees became insanely drunk and made what’s usually a rookie mistake – she stopped moving. Even worse, she sat down. Next thing you know, she’s leaning over and vomiting all over the floor. Part of me is smiling inside because I know this will enrage the owner (who happens to be my cousin, whom I hate), and another part of me is smiling because another chick in the corner of the room starting throwing up at the exact same time.
Figure 2: This doesn’t really fit into the previous text…it’s just funny as hell
Eventually I get my shit together and try to help the bouncer help her out. He, however, shoves me away for some reason (I’ll find out why in about 2 hours). I follow them outside to the smoking area – it’s at this point see the vomit (and karma) on the bouncer’s back – and then nearly get thrown out of the club when I try to bring the girl a cup of water. Over the next few hours, the following happens:
- I feel like I’m being followed by a strange, persistent smell that I can’t quite place
- I’m informed that the bouncers may be under the impression that I slipped the vomiting girl a mickey…which is interesting because she wasn’t drinking anything at the time
- I wind up taking a cab into Arlington, where some white guy has my phone that apparently I dropped in the club. Once in the cab, the smell is getting stronger
- The smell is getting stronger still
- The cabbie clearly notices the smell
- I retrieve my phone from a white dude named Greg. The cab has left me there
- I run 3 drunken miles from Glebe Road and Lee Highway to the Key Bridge before I find a cab
- The smell returns, and is now amplified by sweaty man funk
- Once home, I get a text message from a ‘witness’ indicating that I was vomited on
- I go to my closet
- The lower left leg of my jeans has puke on it
- The right sleeve of my jacket has puke on it
- Recognizing the smell, finally, I run into the bathroom and throw up my damn self
And as I sit here recalling the upchuckery of that night, I am reminded that one of the most painful things a man can endure besides passing a kidney stone is the empty vomit.
Ever done that shit? You feel the urge to yack, lean over the toilet/sink/cat ready to let one fly and finally feel better…only to wind up dry firing. Instead of a relieving flow of whatever the hell was making you sick coming out of your innards, you instead feel your stomach caving in on nothing, your abs clenching with a tightness well beyond your actual control and, of course, the horrifyingly empty and high-pitched “EEEEEEEEAAAAAAAAAAGGGGGGGHHHHHHH!!!!!!!” being emitted from your newly contorted lungs.
I am never drinking again.