9622.net

"Ship...out of danger? Jim.. I am... and always will be... your friend."

Miguel, this post encapsulizes my fear of office Xmas food. It hasn't gotten me yet, but it's only a matter of time before someone's homemade 7-layer dip sends me groaning from my cubicle, clutching my tummy in agony.

There's a holiday cheese ball out there with my name on it, and I know it.

I was driving to Kentucky with my brother to do some fishing when we decided to stop at a truckstop for dinner. I am usually quite sensible, and when in a restaurant I'm not familiar with I typically order something easy (aka "club sammitch and a sprite, please). But for some reason, some insane measure of gastronomic bravery, I instead ordered...

...the chili.

The first gut pains hit about an hour later. "Pull thee over, my brother!" I yelled, knowing I had little time before I would soil the upholstery in my bro's new Camaro, as well as know that simply lifting the T-top and singing-in-solids wasn't going to be adequate. We got to the shoulder, I half-fell/half launched myself out of the door, and proceeded to vomit like my shoes were trying to escape through my mouth. Finished, I wiped the fetid remains from my beard and dropped myself into the shotgun seat with all the poise and grace of a sack of medical waste. "Forward, sibling mine," I rasped.

I thought it was over, but owing to my then-considerable metabolism, my guts had moved too quickly and had allowed some of the offending materials to escape into my intestines. Too high (for now) to launch aftward dysenterily, but too low to be expelled in my first whiplash-inducing hurlation, my alimentary canal's only recourse was to light the barf-light again, and keep lighting it until either the wad of hot truckstop magma was full expelled or until something broke.

My brother found me an emregency room around Mattoon, IL, got my ass plunked into a room with a chair and a pail, and I saw what passes for a doctor in those barbaric little villages that dot the eatern half of Illinois like pimples on a bunny's ass. He examined my heavings with a critical eye, excitedly declared me the victim of "acute gastritus," and gave me a shot that he claimed, as I slipped out of consciousness, would "...probably stop the vomiting." It did, and the next morning, we again proceeded - my brother disgusted, and I shaky and hollow - toward the crappieman's mecca, Kentucky Lake.

I miss Fes.

I once drank three beers that got left in my golf bag over the winter in the trunk of my car.

Didn't affect me none.

I worked at a hotel that provided lunch for employees. Most of the time, lunches were good, but every now and then we'd see the same food two times in a row.

So, this one time, after working like... fifteen days in a row, I was finally getting a weekend off. And right before I clocked out, one of my coworkers was all, "Hey, did you take a lunch yet?" "No," I said, "I'll join you."

So, we get down to the lunch room and find this tray of pig. And by "pig", I mean...ham slices, diced ham, porkchops, bacon, Canadian bacon...all lumped together in a big piggy pile. Well, we reasoned, they're all the same animal, right?

So, ignoring the rainbow-like glisten off the greasy mound of oink, we scooped up a spoonful of pink and white and brown mystery meat.

And then we had seconds.

I spent my only two days off sitting on the edge of my tub, violently vomiting and...(I'm really sorry to share this)...crapping into the tub at the same time. I felt like a burrito being squeezed in a vise.

When I came back to work, I complained to the management and they reasoned that if it didn't look good, then why the hell did I eat it? Was I some kind of moron? I wasn't smart enough to argue my case, but I never ate there again.

I'm already sorry I shared that.

Don't be.

No, be sorry. Be very sorry.

In May of 99, I took a road trip with about 10 friends to Chicago for a week. Midway through, I had my first experience at a Thai restaurant. I was hesitant, but figured I had little to lose.

About 3:00 that morning, I found myself thanking Vishnu that the toilet was right next to the sink, as I was left with little choice as to which I'd rather hit first. ColdChef's burrito in a vice analogy is absolutely perfect. I spent the next day and a half in that precarious state of being. That's the single most vulnerable feeling I've ever had. Someone could've taken razor blades to my cd's, kicked my dog, and pissed in my tequila and I wouldn't've cared.

Turned out it was some bug that my friend's ex brought with her on the trip. Didn't stop me from avoiding Thai food for a couple of years, though. Thankfully, I've come back around to appreciating it.

And I, too, miss Fes. Don't worry, good sir, I'll be sure to lavish many a kiss for you on kimmy. Tongue and all.

I think the pictures from this meet-up should be more interesting than usual, what with the unruly boners and all.

ColdChef's story is the most beautiful morality tale I've ever read.

I've never gotten food poisoning, knock on wood. But there are times when I've eaten something that slid right out my ass in such record time that I wonder if my lower GI isn't some sort of Rube Goldberg chutes-and-ladders contraption. This has happened every time I've eaten at an International House of Pancakes. I don't know what they put in their food, but twice I've found myself--after setting down my fork and knife and squeegeeing the last drops of "boysenberry" syrup off my plate-- in such immediate agony that I couldn't even move. Once I had to tell my date to drive my car home. "But I'm not good with a stickshift!" he protested. "I don't even have a license--it was suspended years ago for several reckless driving infractions!"

Needless to say I was thankful that I lined the passenger side seat with a drycleaning bag before driving home at 65 mph in 3rd gear.

I think the pictures from this meet-up should be more interesting than usual, what with the unruly boners and all.

Dear, dear Tizzie, since I consider you a good friend, not to say a schoolmate who's as much part of my life as Martinis, you should know (meaning in my Portuguese mind "already know" and not "I inform you" or any such thing, that, oh, 4 in every 10 boners are unwilled and spontaneous - rather than reactions to exciting circumstances - and not less than 1 in 10 are inexplicable.

Happily, horniness is visited on us - we welcome each boner (even when it's oblivious to the current situation and obviously embarrasses others who are trying to concentrate and deal with the matters at hand - oh boy were those words ill-chosen!)) without claiming or assuming any merit.

The ruly boner (I've never tried Viagra - to me it appeals as much as a pill guaranteed to make me love cocktails) is a very rare phenomenon. However much women nowadays insist they get a better deal from sex.

One of my own daughters - at 19! - smilingly, almost compassionately "asked" me whether it wasn't undeniable that men are condemned to only the odd glimpse of truly lasting pleasure, thus precipitating, at the tender age of 45, my first blush/wish a faulty trapdoor has just opened itself underneath my chair.

Almost all boners are unruly. It's a relief when the primitive things is at rest. This may not exactly recommend us but, after the first fifteen or twenty years, boners become ... oh I don't know... little jokes God plays on the less sophisticated gender.

The great consolation, of course, is that, however much we learn to live with these boners and not give them undue (or due!) significance, women do appreciate them and this is almost always a reason for joy.

I hope this clears things up for once and for all. ;)

Miguel, that was a wonderful post and contained an uncountable number of new 9622 taglines, not the least of which is:
9622.net: horniness is visited on us

I love you! and I'm in absolute agreement. Women do appreciate them, ruly or unruly as they may be.

Tiz, for the life of me, I can't understand how women manage to appreciate them. The male member is like an internal organ on the outside of the body. Very unbecoming, line toting a pancreas or something.

Yours is on the outside? No wonder you're so bitter.

I've had food poisoning a few times (from supermarket sushi, mainly), but none of my experiences were nearly as entertaining as ColdChef's.

And my cousin Beth once mused, "Men are wonderful. And they have such convenient handles."

I remember getting food poisoning once, shortly after leaving the nest for my first apartment (and eating regularly at the very greasy-spoon down the street). I was curled up on the floor, just outside the bathroom, and realised that this is what it meant to be 'out on your own'. No one was going to bring me ginger-ail, cover me with a blanket and brush the hair off my forehead. It was just me, the carpet and the four feet to the toilet.
I felt like I'd been cast into the outer darkness.

Breakthrough news! Pringles might cure the poisoning, but then what would it take to cure you from eating the nasty Pringles?

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