This morning, I rushed onto the 2/3 train, heading into work, managing to catch a seat. As I settled, I spotted my upstairs neighbor a bit farther down the car from where I was sitting. I was about to wave when a man sitting next to where she was standing leaned over a let loose a massive wave of multi-colored puke onto the floor, liberally splattering her legs and feet.

Not even pausing for a moment of shock, she runs from the train, barely making it past the closing doors; I assume to go home and clean up. People quickly start moving to my end of the car. Meanwhile, Mr. Yakkity continues to hurl forth streams of joy and partial digestion.

For three whole stops, the man kept barfing. He must have had a second stomach or something, because it was fucking impressive. Someone gave him a bottle off water and some napkins and eventually, the torrent of chunks tapered off and stopped.

After wiping off his backpack, the guys stays on the train (thanks for that, buddy) and just slides down the bench, away from the scene of the crime and acts like nothing happened.

Gross, yet slightly exciting. I wish more morning commutes were like this.

Last Friday night, I went to a club on Avenue B. and saw Stoner Doom bands Wooly Mammoth and Weedeater. It was a fairly cool small space in a basement. I dug both bands, having never heard Wooly Mammoth before. Their bassist was mammoth-like and rocked the fuck out. Weedeater was awesome. They play a lot faster live as opposed to their albums and their bass player is a fucking wildman. I was right up against the small stage and as their last song began, he started chugging all the liquor within reach of him, which was a good amount. Mid-song, he leans over and vomits onto the stage, puke-splashing my feet and sandles, never missing a beat. Immediately after he spews the contents of his stomach onto the floor directly in front of me, he goes back to singing. Unbeknown to me, the guy does this every time they play a show.

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.