September 20th, 2004


Puke (Not Mine).

Girlfriend's mom is still in town, which means I've been doing a lot more of my old weekend activities lately. That means I've been training sea lions to kill for money; I've been knitting the Koran out of yarn; and I've been holding bottles of Grey Goose upside down over my mouth.

The last activity, not surprisingly, has brought back an old nemesis of mine - one that I've hated with a strong passion and feared like a dainty little bitch. Vomit. This past weekend I came across my nemesis twice.


At the end of Friday night we were dropping off a friend of mine - I shall call him Jeremiah. Jeremiah lives in one of those downtown buildings that were built in the Thirties and were recently refurbished into swanky lofts. Really cool pad, but you walk right around a corner and BAM Skid fucking Row.

As the car was a coupe and I was in the front passenger's seat, I got out of the car to let Jeremiah exit. While doing so I stepped in something profoundly squishy. When you step on something that squishy, there can only be something bad on the bottom of your shoe. In the best possible outcome, it's a discarded placenta. Given our location, I knew it was either human feces or the liquid contents of a transient's stomach - perhaps Night Train or mouthwash.

I looked down, and saw a sizable puddle of chunky brownish-orangey-yellow. My footprint was right in the middle of it. I started scraping my shoe against the sidewalk like those horses that solve math equations with their hooves.

Jeremiah, who still hadn't gotten out of the car yet, looked down and said, "Dude, make sure you don't step on that."


Saturday night we were at a house party. In the fricking Valley. The house was very large, very bright and extraordinarily clean. Every time a group of people were done mingling and walked to another part of the house, the birthday girl's mom would immediately walk over with a mop and wipe that area diligently. She kept doing this all night, waiting for people to walk away so she could quickly cleanse that spot of their filth.

This one girl who came with us, I shall call her Ruth, kept making everybody do shots of Peppermint Schnapps. I am not a big fan of Schnapps, particularly the kind that taste minty. I'd rather pour fire ants on my tongue. But my mouth was already numb from a severe vodka bludgeoning, so I and the rest of us obliged.

We were driving home - piled five into a car - when one of the backseat passengers suddenly noted that Ruth wasn't feeling well. And by that she meant that Ruth had silently chucked all over her side of the car. No advance warning. No "Pull over now," or "I think I'm gonna blow." Just a blast of puke.

At this point, I started smelling something really rancid. Not just your standard vomit odor. It was as if she'd shitted in reverse. So much for drinking all that minty Schnapps - that did nothing to disguise the horrendous odor filling the cabin. The driver immediately got off the freeway and we pulled into a gas station. We jumped out of the car before the rest of us threw up from the smell.

Even though it wasn't his car, the driver ended up doing most of the cleaning. The main casualty was the car owner's stuffed Mashimaro bunny, which had the misfortune of being on the floor of the backseat. The car owner tossed it on the side of road as I turned to Ruth and said, "You owe that woman a bunny."

We climbed back in and drove home. The smell was still fucking powerful, like some ancient evil. What did that woman have for dinner? A rotting corpse? I stuck my head out of the moonroof as we zoomed down the freeway as fast as we possibly could.

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