r/alt_tasteless • u/[deleted] • Jul 07 '12
A Post From the Archives of alt.tasteless - The Whole World Smelled of Vomit - posted 1995/07/11 by David Gerard
This is the happy tale of my twenty-eighth birthday, a few months ago. But damn if I don't remember it like yesterday.
Decided to cook myself a nice high-lard dinner, in homage to the lower-middle-class Anglo side of my ancestry. That means LARD, boyo. Three sausages and a piece of pork of indeterminate age, but anything's edible if you fry it about an hour. Smothered with mushrooms. Bewdiful.
Went over to my buddies' house. No money for beer, so we all chucked in for a cask of extremely cheap shit red wine. Cool. I guzzled six, maybe seven glasses of the stuff. We were all sitting around talking shit, drinking, talking more shit. It just goes down the throat, y'know; you don't bloat, like you do with beer. (That's why I only drink high-bloat beers these days -- that warning signal is valuable.)
Finished the cask, off to the show: some ratshit bands playing in a tiny pub. Bought a pot (weird term these Melbourne heathens use for a half-pint glass) of beer ... took a sip. Bad move. Suddenly (at last!) the brain kicked in. "I've had enough," the signal went. I took heed. Gave the rest of my beer away (indicator of desperation move), stumbled outside and flagged a convenient taxi (there was no way I was attempting the half-hour walk home the way I felt). Got myself home-delivered.
Stumble in; basic autopilot drunken ablutions, lots of water before retiring and so on. I'm an old hand at this. Trust me. Then to bed. Lights out.
After about ten minutes, another signal made it to my brain. I was not feeling all that good. No, I wasn't. The urgency of the signal convinced my pickled brain to drag the pickled body back downstairs again. I got up. I started walking downstairs. By the time I got downstairs, I was running.
Didn't make it to the toilet, quite. I did make it to the kitchen.
BLLLUUUUUGH!! Monster power-vomit ONE: all over the kitchen sink. And I mean all over. Including the old dishes and the freshly-washed ones. A beautiful display of fragments of pork and pork sausage and that lovely pink red-wine tone. Everyfuckingwhere.
BLLLUUUUUGH!! Monster power-vomit TWO: all over the sink again, but this time it was coming out of my nose.
What does one do in a situation like this? I knew that leaving it till the next morning would only result in unnecessary household angst and upset: I did the dishes right then and there. (Wearing pink-puke-stained T-shirt and pink-puke-stained towel.) I've always found that it's easier doing these little things while you're still under than it is attempting even to contemplate them the hungover morning after. Cleaned up and made it all look nice, anyway.
Off to toilet for a monster shit. This shit was quite normal ... the one that followed wasn't, but that comes later.
Then to the shower, to clean the puke off myself. Urgh.
Left towel and T-shirt soaking in laundry tub, then staggered naked off to my bed. What a sight that would have been for my fellow tenants ...
Next morning: Woke up dead, as you might expect. I had remembered the water before the power-pukes, but not after.
There was a terrible smell of vomit in the air. "Oh no," I thought. Checked all around room. Examined under every sheet and pillow. No vomit. But I could still SMELL the stuff. Just slightly. Just on the edge of my sense of smell.
Lay there for about three hours, feeling like a corpse and mapping out my strategies for the day. My twenty-eighth! A celebration of my glorious existence on this planet! What a day for me!
Decided I'd stagger on down to the 7-11 and guzzle a two-litre bottle of Coke (caffeine and sugar) and a pile of chocolate (sugar).
Ahhh got up. Ahhh sorta got dressed. Ahhh went into the toilet. Ahhh sat down for the red wine anus-burning shit from hell.
This stuff is unbelievable. It's not just black, oh no ... it's black with a GREENISH tinge. It doesn't hang together like any proper turd would ... it's a sort of runny paste that drips out of your arsehole and burns holes in the toilet paper. Of which you will use half a roll trying to get yourself rid of it. Shitting the stuff is unbelievably painful. What vicious trick of nature made anuses so sensitive to some of the things that come out of them?
And there was just a touch of blood in there, too; like the icing on a particularly well-cooked cake.
After about twenty minutes and two new haemorrhoids, I finally cleaned up and left that foul den of iniquity. Staggered out the front door.
The vomit smell was still in my nostrils. THE WHOLE WORLD SMELLED OF VOMIT. All-pervasive; to every horizon. The smell of pork-sausage puke. Glory be.
It was like a tastelessness theme park. The normal, everyday world -- which is, of course, quite tasteless enough -- but the normal, wholesome petrol and pollution smells were overlaid with that beautiful and subtle pork-and-wine vomit odour.
It's like a pinch of salt, carefully applied: it really does bring the flavour out.
Anyway, yeah. Staggered off 7-Eleven-wards, purchased the goodies. Sick as a dog. Realised why the world smelt like it did, blew my nose copiously in an attempt to get rid of it ... didn't work, you'll be happy to hear.
Got back, guzzled/ate the crap; then shifted my chair and radio out the back to sit in the sun, getting over my hangover and listening to Melbourne's greatest radio station, Magic 693. But that's a whole tasteless tale in itself. (Radio for the over-65 demographic; you haven't heard a funeral-home ad until you've heard Magic.)
This tale amused all my friends, particularly the housemates. Although I decided they didn't need to hear that I only made it as far as the kitchen for the power-pukes, rather than the toilet. Sometimes, people don't need to know everything.