Puking: A Primer

So, as is the case with most vacations, at least one member of the vacation party must at some point tangle with the fury of Le Vomitmonster. Its, like, a going-on-vacation rule or something, right? Anyway, as my luck would have it, last night it turned out that *I* was that unfortunate, pathetic sap.

And it occurred to me, during my dance of near-death with every porcelainized receptacle in our beach house household, that in my own meager experience there are at least three very distinct and wholly separable types of puking:

1. The Illness Puke: You have the flu and you already wish you were dead, but fasten your seatbelt bucko, cuz its gonna get a whole lot worse when the spaghetti and meatballs you had for dinner a few hours back make a semi-digested, frothing reappearance. The Illness Puke has additionally been voted Most Likely To Make You Weep And Call Out For Your Mommy (even if said Mommy resides on the other side of the country).

2. The Alcohol Puke: You did this to yourself. How can it be that you did this to yourself? Have you some kind of sick wish for your own torture and death? What the hell is wrong with you, anyway? The Alcohol Puke holds the title of Most Likely To End In You Proclaiming That You'll Never, EVER Drink Again, Okay God? Just Please Make The Room Stop Spinning, Okaythanksbye.

3. The Food Poisoning Puke: Ahh, the stealth of The Food Poisoning Puke. You never expect it, even when its practically sitting on your gut, mashing its rancid bee-hind into your digestive tract. Its always “Oh, I just have a little indigestion” or “Must be gas” -- wishful fucking thinking, man. The Food Poisoning Puke has earned the moniker of Most Likely To Be A Satisfying Vomiting Experience, Ending With A Sense Of Having Purged The Noxious And Offending Consumables, Coupled With A Readiness For The Next Round Of Questionable Eating Behavior. Because you SO TOTALLY rule.

Now there are doubtless more variations in the Puking Pantheon, but I've yet to experience The Drug OD Puke or The Chemo Puke (thankfully), and so can't really speak to those. But give me a week or so and let me get back to you, m'kay? I've got some free time and some friends who know people, if you catch my drift.

All of this said, I think my episode of last night falls into Category #3, despite having imbibed many delicious Palomas during the preceding evening hours. For, prior to that, I feasted on fish tacos. Except the fish part of the fish taco was shark. SHARK. And if there's one thing I know about sharks its that those fuckers aren't going down without a fight. It was like my own personal gastronomical Jaws flick. Jaws VIII: The Pukening.

Plus the whole actual vomiting experience was oddly enjoyable, which is rarely the case in the other two noted instances. I recall distinctly having a conscious awareness of the inherent and indisputable goodness of my purging while it was taking place, and a sense that this was simply what my body needed to do to rid it of all evil. It was damn near REFRESHING. Like a whole body douche or something: NOT-SO-FRESH DIGESTIVE TRACT BE GONE! I feel like I should be running through an open field of wildflowers in white chiffon, with dapples of sunlight cascading over my newly squeaky-clean body, forming a halo of purified post-puke radiance. Or, umm, something.

Anyway, no more top-o'-the-food-chain sea carnivores for me, at least for a little while. Perhaps I'll instead sample some Pufferfish, which I hear is simply TO DIE FOR.

[Originally posted July 19th 2007]

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PS: I'll be back tomorrow with tales from this year's BlogHer, including the story of what was quite possibly The Worst Day Of Whole Entire My Life, I shit you not. In the meantime, I'll be furiously digging myself out from under the mountain of accumulated laundry and chores I've found waiting for me upon my return (gurgle).

So, as is the case with most vacations, at least one member of the vacation party must at some point tangle with the fury of Le Vomitmonster. Its, like, a going-on-vacation rule or something, right? Anyway, as my luck would have it, last night it turned out that *I* was that unfortunate, pathetic sap.

And it occurred to me, during my dance of near-death with every porcelainized receptacle in our beach house household, that in my own meager experience there are at least three very distinct and wholly separable types of puking:

1. The Illness Puke: You have the flu and you already wish you were dead, but fasten your seatbelt bucko, cuz its gonna get a whole lot worse when the spaghetti and meatballs you had for dinner a few hours back make a semi-digested, frothing reappearance. The Illness Puke has additionally been voted Most Likely To Make You Weep And Call Out For Your Mommy (even if said Mommy resides on the other side of the country).

2. The Alcohol Puke: You did this to yourself. How can it be that you did this to yourself? Have you some kind of sick wish for your own torture and death? What the hell is wrong with you, anyway? The Alcohol Puke holds the title of Most Likely To End In You Proclaiming That You'll Never, EVER Drink Again, Okay God? Just Please Make The Room Stop Spinning, Okaythanksbye.

3. The Food Poisoning Puke: Ahh, the stealth of The Food Poisoning Puke. You never expect it, even when its practically sitting on your gut, mashing its rancid bee-hind into your digestive tract. Its always “Oh, I just have a little indigestion” or “Must be gas” -- wishful fucking thinking, man. The Food Poisoning Puke has earned the moniker of Most Likely To Be A Satisfying Vomiting Experience, Ending With A Sense Of Having Purged The Noxious And Offending Consumables, Coupled With A Readiness For The Next Round Of Questionable Eating Behavior. Because you SO TOTALLY rule.

Now there are doubtless more variations in the Puking Pantheon, but I've yet to experience The Drug OD Puke or The Chemo Puke (thankfully), and so can't really speak to those. But give me a week or so and let me get back to you, m'kay? I've got some free time and some friends who know people, if you catch my drift.

All of this said, I think my episode of last night falls into Category #3, despite having imbibed many delicious Palomas during the preceding evening hours. For, prior to that, I feasted on fish tacos. Except the fish part of the fish taco was shark. SHARK. And if there's one thing I know about sharks its that those fuckers aren't going down without a fight. It was like my own personal gastronomical Jaws flick. Jaws VIII: The Pukening.

Plus the whole actual vomiting experience was oddly enjoyable, which is rarely the case in the other two noted instances. I recall distinctly having a conscious awareness of the inherent and indisputable goodness of my purging while it was taking place, and a sense that this was simply what my body needed to do to rid it of all evil. It was damn near REFRESHING. Like a whole body douche or something: NOT-SO-FRESH DIGESTIVE TRACT BE GONE! I feel like I should be running through an open field of wildflowers in white chiffon, with dapples of sunlight cascading over my newly squeaky-clean body, forming a halo of purified post-puke radiance. Or, umm, something.

Anyway, no more top-o'-the-food-chain sea carnivores for me, at least for a little while. Perhaps I'll instead sample some Pufferfish, which I hear is simply TO DIE FOR.

[Originally posted July 19th 2007]

. . . . .

PS: I'll be back tomorrow with tales from this year's BlogHer, including the story of what was quite possibly The Worst Day Of Whole Entire My Life, I shit you not. In the meantime, I'll be furiously digging myself out from under the mountain of accumulated laundry and chores I've found waiting for me upon my return (gurgle).