I barfed last night. To be more precise, I barfed in five different locations. The first two were test barfs. I was at this Japanese barbecue joint with some friends—the kind of place where you can get skewers of meatballs and chicken parts grilled on a hibachi for two bucks each, and wash them all down with a lot of beer —and when we were finished, I saw the table next to us get a piping hot bowl of ramen noodles, and I was like, Fuck, that looks good. So I got a big bowl and ate it.
Do not eat ramen for dessert. This is unwise. I was bloated with beer and soup, and doing that grabbing-your-belly-to-soothe-it thing when you've had too much food. And then another table next to us ordered this big fish cake … like a fucking mound of ground-up fish that stank like fish. And I really didn't want to smell fish at the moment.
So I went outside to get some air, but it was pouring rain, and the restaurant had no cover, so I had to go back in and breathe in that fucking fish air again. I ran to the bathroom and jammed my fingers down my throat to get rid of the bloat … a classic bit of preventive bulimia. But it was no use. I hocked up a little bit, but the stew wasn't quite done cooking yet. We finally left the restaurant and went to a nearby bar, and I tried, one more time, to pre-barf and get on with my life. Again, I left the can with very little to show for it.
My plan was to walk it all off. I can walk off a barf. I can grit and scrap my way out of a barfy situation. But I looked outside the bar, and again … rain. I WILL FUCKING DESTROY WHOEVER INVENTED RAIN. I needed to get home to a bed. So I made the classic mistake of getting in a cab, which you should never ever ever do if you don't feel well. You may as well get in a fucking dryer. The cabbie zoomed through the streets like he was fleeing Godzilla, and the cab jostled me around, and by the time we go to my hotel … the stew was ready.
I got out of the cab, took two steps, and barfed on the fucking pavement. Right in front of the fucking hotel valets, who groaned out loud. "DUDE!" Mostly, they were angry that I hadn't barfed in the street. Instead, I had barfed on hotel property. That vomit was now in their jurisdiction, even though the rain was already washing it away. I said I was sorry (I really was) and hurried into the hotel to get to my room.
But my body wasn't finished with me yet. I hadn't barfed everything out. And now I was in the lobby, and the rest of the churn was coming on full blast. I asked the receptionist where the bathroom was, because I knew I wasn't gonna make it to my room in time. I slipped the words out to her, like a fart you dangerously let out when you gotta shit. She said the bathrooms were downstairs. DOWNSTAIRS, SHIT. I flew down the stairs, but by then I couldn't stop it. I threw up, but kept my mouth shut to contain it and put my hand over my mouth to keep it all in, and then I barfed AGAIN, and my head seemed to double in size. I was on the verge of choking. The barf was leaking through my fingers as I sprinted into the bathroom and spotted a trashcan that was closer than any toilet. It would have to do.
I proceeded to barf up a gallon of used ramen into that poor can. It got in my nose. I got on my shoulders. It was like a water-main break. I could see all the noodly strands dumping down into the black plastic bag. Knowing I had failed to make it the toilet was the worst part of it. I felt like such a failure.
I finished up and looked around, and there was no one. If anyone had been there, they must have fled in terror. I ran to the deserted elevator, got to my room, took a shower, brushed my teeth, tried to sleep, failed, and barfed pure yellow acid into the toilet four hours later. Just the worst, most corrosive-tasting shit you could possibly imagine. It was done. I was done. I stand before you now a shattered man. I will have flashbacks to that can until the day I die.
And now it is your turn to share. But before you go Kinja-ing up your worst stories, here are more terrible barfy memories from the Deadspin staff.
Marchman:
The worst was when I projectile vomited all over the A train during rush hour and a lady gave me a diaper to wipe the barf off my face and then I barfed on the diaper. I got off at the next stop, obviously, but had to ride all the way from the Village to Park Slope with barf on me, with a transfer at Jay Street.
Jolie Kerr:
One of my exes barfed in my mouth.
Albert Burneko:
I barfed in my mother-in-law's bathroom sink once (couldn't make it to the toilet), and then found out that the faucet and drain didn't work, so I had to scoop it out and put it in the toilet.
Craggs:
A year or so ago I barfed in a Duane Reade bag containing the Prilosec I was about to take to prevent myself from barfing.
Samer Kalaf:
Once I barfed on the lawn of a synagogue.