Fishman here. I’m sorry about my long absence. Shira, my first and only girlfriend, moved away to London to study abroad this past week. I was spending most of my time with her before she departed. She won’t be back until June, so we decided it would be best if we ended our two-year relationship. I know it sounds crazy, but it’s not the sex I miss - I just miss her. Wow. That was partly queer with a chance of fag. Since my mind was shrouded with misery, I couldn’t eat, sleep, or masturbate, let alone write. I’m feeling better now, I guess. This little piece of writing is about throwing up.

The most interesting stories are about throwing up. Sex stories you hear from friends are interesting too, but I always feel a twang of jealousy because I’ve only had sex with one girl my entire life (many times, though. OH!).

Let’s say you’re telling a sex story to a kid who’s a virgin. They’ll be enthralled by your tale of coitus, but they can't relate. Everyone can relate to vomit stories because everyone has vomit stories. Even little kids have great vomit stories! Those tiny bastards puke everywhere just for fun! I’m not talking about the lame “I was home and sick with the flu” stories either. I mean the drunken vomits, the public place vomits, and the motion sickness vomits that truly define a person. I say that because if you never had one of those, you have never truly lived.

The first random vomit I can remember took place sometime between 1986 – 1988. I know it’s a broad guess, but I was 4, 5, or 6-years old. No one has a memory that sharp…well, maybe the Fonz. I love you, Fonzie.

Anyway, every Thursday was pizza night. My family and another family would meet at Friendlier’s Pizzeria and have a grand ol’ time. I recall one night it was just my mom and I, but I still had to sit in the back since I was so young. I recall staring at the lever to roll down the window of our crappy Peugeot. Then I just puked all over it. Why? I have no idea. I think I was just suddenly carsick. The vomit was all over the window and the seat.

“Did you just throw up?” My mom asked, turning her head slightly but quickly turning back to watch the road.

“Yes,” I replied. Man, the stuff reeked. Some of it was on me too. It was pretty cool.

“Are you sick? Do you feel sick?”

“No.”

“Are you sure, honey? I think we should get you to bed. You may have caught something.”

“No, I want pizza.” That’s the way, young Fishman! Keep your eye on the prize! It’s scary how some things don’t change. If I had puked in a similar situation today, I would still want some fucking pizza. I would walk into the pizza place with regurgitated food and stomach juices all over me, and be like, “Hey. Lay some pizza me.” If I ever have a son, and he pukes all over himself on the way to pizza and says he wants to go home, I would disown him ON THE SPOT.

“Daddy,” Matt Jr. would say. “I made sick on the window.”

“No shit?” I would respond, not turning around. “You still want some pizza?”

“No, I want to go home.”

“What? Are you out of your fucking mind? This is pizza, son – Pizza! Are you hearing me?”

“Daddy, there’s blood in my throw up.”

“You’re such a crybaby! You really don’t want pizza now?”

“No!”

“Okay, have it your way,” I would say. Then I would pull over on the side of the road.
“Get out!”

“What?”

“OUT!” Naturally, Matt Jr. would get out and I would speed away, leaving my whining son in a cloud of dust. Does he know the way back? I don’t care! He’s not my son anymore. Anyway, long story short, I still ate pizza with puke all over me.

Throwing up when drunk is great. I have to be really fucked up to do this, which means I’m having a really good time. That brings me to a story that actually continues the New Year’s Eve story from “Dr. F & the Women.” After Peter’s party was over (due to various drunks fighting each other), Jeremy and I went to his car. It snowed, so the roads were covered quite a bit. I was wasted beyond belief – my hearing was muffled, I slurred when I spoke, and my vision was blurry. I just wanted to go home and crash. That didn’t happen because Jeremy wanted to keep hanging out. It was like 12:30 a.m., so the night was technically early, but since this was New Year’s Eve, no one was out. Everyone was partying like fiends. Jeremy’s plan was to stop off at a diner and pour coffee down my throat to sober me up, and then we would drive around.

The trek to the diner was rough. Since it snowed, the car ride was extremely bumpy. I get carsick easily (hence the last story) but I was also ripped off my ass - not a good combination. Even worse, the trip was pointless because the diner was closed. Jeremy conceded that the night was over, and began to drive me back home. About three minutes in, a huge wave of nausea overtook me.

“PULL OVER!” I shouted. Jeremy didn’t say anything – he understood what was about to happen. He stopped on the side of a fairly major road, in front of someone’s house. I opened his door and began to hurl for quite a bit. Correction: I tried to open his door. There was so much snow piled up on the house’s lawn, I couldn’t really push the car door open. I tried to aim the puke spewing out of my throat through the tiny opening I managed to force open, but I didn’t do a very good job. Although I didn’t notice because I was drunk, about 75% of my barf was all over the inside of his car. 20% hit the snow…but what about the remaining 5%?

When I got home, my parents were still awake, but they were upstairs. I felt another wave of vomit gurgling, so I dashed to the downstairs bathroom like the Flash…or to a lesser extent, Quicksilver from the X-Factor comics from the early 90’s. Remember that guy? He could only run up to 180 miles per hour. The Flash could run at the speed of light. If Flash is a Costco, then Quicksilver is an Aldi. Anyway, as I puked my guts out, my parents were talking to me from upstairs.

“Matthew, how was the party?” My dad shouted.

“WWWWWWHHHHHHAAAAAAAAAAAAARRRRFFF!!! Y-Y-Yeah, it was…good. WWWWHHAAAAAAAAAAARRRFFF!!!” My parents kept speaking while I was vomiting my ass off in the toilet. I had no idea what they were saying, so I just replying with “Yeah. It was good.” They could have said, “Matthew, I heard you were fucked in the ass by a hobo.”

“Yeah. It was good.” I finally finished the wild ride, out of breath and dizzy. I hung up my jacket, went upstairs, and passed out in my room. I woke up the next day with a light hangover, and wandered into the kitchen to see my dad sitting there.

“Have fun last night?” He said, with restrained anger on his face.

“Yeah,” I responded. “It was a great party.”

“Come with me.” I followed my dad to the washer and dryer, where my jacket was hanging up on the coat rack there for some reason. There was a huge splash of vomit on the sleeve. That was the other 5%. “Did you get drunk and throw up last night?” I kept a very calm face, but I was panicking on the inside. My brain was screaming, “GAME OVER, MAN! GAME OVER!” Finally, I collected myself and said, “I’m not going to lie. I drank a little, but I didn’t throw up.”

“Then why is there vomit on your jacket?”

“Well,” I said, trying to avoid my father’s piercing gaze. “All of the jackets were piled on Peter’s couch and mine was on top. Maybe someone was drunk and threw up on it.” Fishman, you brilliant bastard! I got away with it, but I was yelled at for a month for not keeping a better eye on my jacket.

My most extreme vomit story took place in 1997. The original three Star Wars movies were being re-released in theaters, and being the geek that I am, I went to see A New Hope immediately with three of my friends. Right after the added scene where Han Solo talks to Jabba the Hutt, I felt really shitty. I began to sweat, but I wasn’t hot. I began to breathe heavily, but I wasn’t out of breath. Then I felt water gathering underneath my tongue, which as we all know, is the pre-cum of the vomit world.

“I have to get out of here,” I whispered to my friend, Aizaz. I sprang from my seat and rudely shuffled out to the aisle without saying, “Excuse me” in fear that opening my mouth would result in barfing on a total stranger. I ran up the aisle, but I couldn’t hold it back. I had a choice: puke inside my mouth or puke in my hand. I chose the latter, and a large chunk of vomit splattered onto my hand. I couldn’t believe what was happening! It was something out of a nightmare.

I turned the corner and was alone in the foyer of that theater. I already felt another surge arrive, so I puked all over the wall. I stood there, dizzy, gasping for air, and vomit all over my hand, face, and shirt…but it wasn’t over! I still felt like I puking! I ran out of the theater to find the bathroom, but to my horror, the bathroom was on the other side of a crowded lobby. As I stopped to think of another plan, a little boy saw me.

“Ew!” He shouted, while tugging on his mother’s pant leg. “Look mommy!”

“Shut up, you little bastard!” I said to myself. I dashed down a long hallway with a fire exit at the end. No one was around, so I unleashed my third and final wave of barf all over the wall. Then a wave of relief and calm swept over me. It’s a natural euphoria that bulimic men and women are addicted to. Everyone gets it right after they throw up. I felt so good that I was no longer concerned that I just vomited three times in less than two minutes in a crowded public place. I took off my sweatshirt, wiped my face off with it, and then rolled it into a ball. I washed my hands off in a water fountain, marched back into the movie with my T-shirt, and plopped my ass on the seat.

“Yo,” I whispered to Aizaz. “I just vomited three times. I feel great.”

I enjoyed the rest of the movie, and when it ended, everyone began to shuffle out of the theater – right past the huge splatter of vomit I left on the wall in the foyer. Three ushers were standing in front of it to block the customers from the hideous sight, but it was all over that wall. My friends were forced to look at it and smell it.

“Fucking sick, Fishman!” Aizaz said. “Fucking sick!” I laughed maniacally. In case you’re wondering, the reason for my barfing was due to a stomach problem I acquired after eating at some Chinese restaurant the previous night. On the way home from the movies, I felt like throwing up again, but my dad wanted to stop at a comic book store. After some convincing, he reluctantly drove me directly back home. I missed school the next day too, since I was still puking. Thank you, vomit.

Didn’t those stories put a smile on your face? I bet they did. These are the kind of tales you can tell your grandmother at Thanksgiving. Obviously, I puked countless times in my life, but none were as cool…and traumatizing…as these. You know what? I feel better just talking about throwing up. I’m going to grab a bucket, stick a finger down my throat, and have a puke party.

Questions? Comments? Love Fonzie? E-mail Fishman347@yahoo.com