When I was around preschool age, I was obsessed with the television show, CHiPs, much like all the other kids I knew. As far as I was concerned, the coolest motherfucker in the world was California Highway Patrol officer Frank Poncharello aka “Ponch“. With a cool uniform, a motorcycle and proficient in a wide variety of skills such as skate boarding, street and roller hockey, handball, racquetball, basketball, flying, singing, jet-skiing, hang-gliding, sky-diving, wind-surfing, demolition derby driving, square dancing, drag racing, volleyball, chess, and Karate—Ponch was cool. Ponch got bitches a-plenty. I wanted to be exactly like him. His partner, Jon Baker was a fucking hick tool.

One day, I watched an episode where Ponch, having returned to his apartment from exercising, pours a glass of milk, cracks two raw eggs into it and drinks the mix. Supposedly, this is Ponch’s secret recipe for starting the day off right. I became fixated on this raw concoction. It was the magic potion of coolness. If I were to drink this elixir of milk and egg, I would instantly become cool like Ponch. If I managed to drink it every day, I’d surely get a motorcycle and roller-skating bitches would just flock to me like a pint-sized porn magnet. I was a big kid now. I didn’t need diapers anymore and I sort of knew what a vagina was. I needed this.

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I’m not sure what caused it, but I have been enjoying what I suspect is some choice, plump and deliciously mild food poisoning. Sitting here at my computer in a death sweat, drinking some mad concoction that’s supposed to keep me from redecorating my home in shades of puke, I wonder if tonight I will see a few hours of respite from the nausea gnomes and catch at least a few hours of sleep, free from the tossing, grumbling and weak promises to god to never eat finger food at a public event ever again.

Still, when one is down in the doldrums of a general malaise, there’s always something to perk up about. Words like ‘barfalicious’, ‘barftastic’, ’spewmongous’ and ‘pukeriffic’ bring a weak grim to my pasty mug. Daydreams of massive projectile vomiting on subway passengers, knocking newspapers, babies and hairpieces to and fro with a massive, multicolor blast of barfy righteousness elicits a slight giggle as well.

I would trade all this highbrow, self-perpetuated entertainment for a stomach that would behave in a second, of course. But as it stands, I feel like ass. Fuck that, I feel like some old dead guys ass, stuffed with a dead ferret. I could make comparisons between my current condition and all sorts of asses, alive, dead, stuffed or otherwise, but I think I’ve worked that angle to death in previous posts. I just want my stomach back.

Have I offended the barf god? Do I need to slay a goat at the temple of hurl? Seriously, give me a sign and as long as it doesn’t entail jumping-jacks, licking ashtrays or gargling on cockroaches, I’ll do it.