A Buzz Kill Ruined the Puke Party

Nunya is incognito. She sent a Puke Week story, but wants to remain anonymous. And that's probably for the best because her story gets pretty personal. So personal that she describes an experience with an anal suppository. I'm not kidding:

My sister and I were in high school and hooked up with some friends at a local TGIF one night. My sister and I shared potato skins which I'm sure is what poisoned us. That night, she woke up first. A little while later, I climbed over her limp body laying on the bathroom floor and sat down to go to the bathroom. While I'm doing that, I start throwing up on the floor.

Sister: Mom, Nunya is throwing up!

My mom comes running in and grabs a trash can. I was already done by the time she got there. I finished doing my business and I took my sister's place on the bathroom floor while she stands up and starts yarfing in the toilet. I fall asleep and without warning, feel my mother shoving one of those suppositories up my ass to help stop the nausea.

Half the night passes with my sister and I kicking each other outta' the way so we can each take a spot on the cold tile floor. Finally, at some point, we both made our way back to our prespective rooms. We're just getting comfortable when we hear YYYYAAAAAAAAARRRRRRFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFF.

Our mother was now throwing up.

At 3-something that morning, I hear my father tell my mother that he needs to leave the house or HE's gonna' start throwing up.

He came back a few hours later with Coke syrup.

Dad: This will make you feel better.

I threw up. All over him. He threw up. All over me. We started laughing.My mom comes in, sees what happens, grabs my trash can and throws up. My sister is whining from her room "Stoooooopppppppp Iiiiiiiiitttttt!!!".

She's such a fucking buzz kill.

Boobs and Vomit!

I really can't figure April out. She says she had a horrible embarrassing experience drinking Captain and Coke, but now she runs a website called Captain & Coke with a Lime.  You'd think she'd steer clear of that particular beverage.  It's like if I had a blog called Superbowl martinis and a Subway sandwich.

Someday I'll tell you that horror story. Until then, check out April's Puke Week story involving strippers, exposed funbags, and a dude with a hard-on covered in vomit.

This was embarrassing at the time, but now it's just funny.

My boyfriend (now husband) and I had decided to go to a strip club. Usually I'm the designated driver, but we were riding with a friend who was not old enough to drink at the time so I was able to get my drink on. However, I am a lightweight. After 2 Captain & Coke's, I was feeling a little buzzed and came up with this brilliant idea. I was going to strip for him. Not right there in the club, but when we got home. Why not? Not only would he be able to touch me in places that you can't on the strippers, but we could have fantastic sex afterwards and he didn't have to put money in any of my crevices. But I needed to drink a few more to have enough balls to do this for him. So I drank and I drank until I was officially trashed.

Finally we got to his house and I was ready to unleash my plan. I put in a cd, sat him down on the corner of the bed, and it was on. Things were going really good until I could feel my stomach turning. Then all of a sudden, it came up. All over him, down my chest, on his bed, on the floor, EVERYWHERE!! I hadn't even gotten my pants off yet!! How embarrassing.

It was then that I decided to leave the provocative stripping to the strippers.

Millions of Peaches, Peaches for Me

Trouble from Dubious Wonder gives us a Puke Week first: two stomach-turning tales for the price of one. And for the record, the title of this post was a tough call. I was thinking of making a Steve Miller Band reference, but opted to go with The Presidents of the USA.

The first...I was a freshman in college, 18 years old. My sorority sisters and I were at a college mixer with the Lambda Chi Alphas, gayest fraternity on our college. Seriously, I bet half those guys have come out of the closet since graduation. The only way to make it through one of their parties was to be totally shitfaced. One of my girls had the brilliant idea of getting different flavors of schnapps. We each chose one to drink, and drank the entire bottle before the party. I was peach since I had peach-shaped boobs.

Got to the party, and a bunch of use went up on the roof and were kicking it when it hit us that we were pretty much getting shitfaced. I think I puked 7 or 8 times on the lawn of the frat house, in the rain, before I sort of got it out of my system. Went home, crawled into bed, and died.

Got up shit early the next morning, my mom had arranged a job interview for me to have a summer job that actually paid halfway decent. I had a wicked hangover. Since I was a runner in college, I thought I'd go for a run and clear my head before I went to the interview.

Halfway through the run, I start smelling...peaches. Fucking peaches. Where are they coming from? Holy shit. At first I thought the smell was just left over in my nose from the night before, but it's new...fresh...peaches. It's in my SWEAT. My sweat smells like fucking peaches. I didn't even make it another hundred feet and I'm on the ground, puking my guts out again.

Cleaned up, went to the job interview. Went okay, but after, I smell the peach smell again. More puking.

God damn... it was like a decade before I could eat peaches or even smell them without getting nauseated.

Other story:

21st birthday...I grew up in Kansas City, Missouri. The thing to do in those days was to go to the downtown bar district, known as Westport, to drink on your 21st. Westport Road was lined with one bar right after another, down the entire street, on both sides. On your 21st, every bar would give you at least one free drink, and patrons would even spring for more if they were in a good mood.

The girls and I headed down there. Started with a long island ice tea. Then a patron at the first bar bought me a flaming shot of ouzo in return for a kiss. Second bar: beer. Third bar: Long island iced tea. Fourth bar: Shot of whiskey. Fifth bar: More beer. Sixth bar: another long island iced tea. This went on...I lost track of the drinks. I do remember getting kicked out of a comedy club there because I puked all over their big red antique, English-style phone booth in their lobby and all over their ladies room.

I think we had more drinks after that. The girls dragged me to the car. I had my head out the window the entire way back, puking. It caused one or two of my friends, who'd been drinking just as heavily as me, to puke as well.

Next morning, the girl who drove went out to check her car. It was January. There was puke frozen all over the back half of the car on both sides. It stayed there for at least a week because it was too damn cold to use a car wash and get it off.

All Liquid and Brown in Color with Bits of Nuts

*Lynne* leads off day three of Puke Week with a story that proves you can really have too much of a good thing.  I may never truly enjoy a root beer float again.

I was probably in my early teens.

Act 1: My brother and I created our "root beer floats" at home; we might have actually used the good ol' A&W Root Beer, but I know that we used some weirdly-flavoured ice-cream. Vanilla-based, but with nuts and caramel or something. It was nice, we pigged out, but I don't think my tummy was too happy with the combination.

Act 2: Soon after that, we went to visit a distant relative who had had heart surgery. I didn't know him, but I remember him as a painfully thin young man, with this awful scar running down the middle of his chest. The sight of that really got to me: my already queasy tummy got queasier.

It didn't seem like we were leaving anytime soon.

I remember "feeling pale"... and I went closer to the open window (louvre type) to get some fresh air.

Some inane conversation was still going on between the patient and the other visitors.

I pressed my face to the window, desperately gulping down air.

I think someone *finally* noticed my, errr, condition, and asked if I was okay.

And just about then, huuuurrrrrrrrrrrrkkkkkkkkkkkk..... suddenly EVERYTHING just spewed outta my mouth, splattering all over the floor, by the patient's bed.

And aww geeee what a sight (all liquid - brown in color.. but streaked with creamy white ice cream... and bits of nuts...) and urrgh what a smell!

The embarassing thing? Or rather, the SHAME, was that the person we came to visit helped clean up the mess I made.

Everyone assumed I had been upset by the sight of the guy's scar... but i wonder, if i hadn't been dragged off to do that hospital visit, would I have puked that day? Was it the combination of the float AND the scar that did it for me, or was it *just* that ill-conceived float? or *just* the scar?

Bleah.

Belly Bloating Beer Goodness

William from Mountainous Mole Hills sent this one in. It's one of my favorite Puke Week tales so far and I'm not sure why. Maybe it's because I'm a functional alcoholic. Maybe I just really liked the line about the AIDS virus. Or maybe it's because it includes the most accurate and disgusting description of cold beer vomit I've ever read.

As with most puke stories, this one will degenerate into a drinking story.

I was set to do a Centurion, which is 100 shots of beer in 100 minutes. Drinking a shot of beer sounds quite weak, but add it up, it's about 12 beers in under 2 hours. About 10 minutes before I started I ate a large quarter pounder meal and a cheeseburger. I can't defend that, but it happened, and it really didn't leave much room for the belly-bloating beer goodness. (Go Alliteration Avenger, Go!)

10 shots in and I was completely filled up. I couldn't fit anymore in. When the timer sounded, I took a shot, and ran outside before swallowing. When I gulped it down it immediately came back up again. Cold and frothy, I heaved and expelled the vile mixture into my rose-garden, which now appeared as though it had grown a white mould. Why my vomit was white, I may never know. Perhaps it's one of those questions man is never meant to know the answer to, like "What is the meaning of life?", or "Who exactly fucked that monkey and started the AIDS virus?"

I heaved and heaved, but nary a sprinkle came out. I was exhausted. I lit a cigarette, lay on the cement, and occasionally rolled over to spit into the garden, and that's how my night ended.