Throwing Up In Seattle
(WARNING: Multiple and graphic puking references.)
Shortly after I graduated from high school, I had a couple of friends who attended the University of Washington in Seattle. Mike was one of them. His mom's house was about a quarter-mile away, and he came back to Vancouver nearly every weekend just to have a party there. Professor Bob's parents lived between us. Professor Bob was a year older than us and had already been attending the U of W for over a year already. Tall and scholarly with a full beard and glasses, Professor Bob was indeed bright but prone to getting overly-excited about one hobby or another. Once, I remember him not being able to shut up about all the different barbiturates he was taking. At another time, he was unable to shut up about how much fun square dancing was(!).
Professor Bob and Mike were roommates at the University of Washington, and what a room it was. "Lee & Lee Apartments" was located right on busy Aurora Avenue near the north end of the Aurora Bridge. It was probably the shittiest little apartment I ever set foot in. It consisted of one large, uncarpeted, smelly room in which the kitchen and pretty much everything else was located, a small bedroom, and a tiny bathroom which featured a sink and bathtub with huge brown holes worn into the porcelain where unrepaired leaky faucets had been dripping for years.
One day, my neighbor and local pig-farmer John Warthog and I decided to go spend a weekend in lovely Seattle with Mike and Professor Bob. We threw our sleeping bags in John's green Mustang and away we went.
Perhaps the best thing about having a friend like Professor Bob was the fact that he looked 21 and could buy beer at the local Safeway in Seattle. Shortly after our arrival in Seattle, it was time for the four of us to go on a belated beer run. Professor Bob had discovered this new beverage that "gets you drunk a lot faster than regular beer". He was excited about buying it and couldn't shut up all the way to Safeway. By the time we got there, I was convinced. That is how Professor Bob and I wound up pooling our money for a short case of Olde English 800.
We went back to Mike & Bob's squalid abode and began drinking. After about two Olde English 800's, I noticed that my drinking had suddenly slowed, and so had Professor Bob's. A short time later, my stomach started to turn sour. Soon, I was trying to keep from puking. I finally gave up and headed for the bathroom. I locked the door and put my head in the toilet. But I couldn't hurl! As bad as my stomach felt by now, I really wanted to get it over with, but no such luck. I sat on the edge of the bathtub for a minute, then passed out while perched on the tub.
I woke up to a loud banging on the bathroom door. It was Professor Bob. "Open the door!", I could hear him yelling, then coughing up some vomit. "Open the door!" I got up and opened the door. Professor Bob's very large beard was full of puke, and he dived for the toilet. I quickly stepped over the accumulated puddle of throw-up in front of the bathroom door (apparently it took him a while to wake me up), and went back into the main room, hoping to pass out in a big, dilapidated chair.
Unfortunately, Mike and John had decided it would be a good idea to cook up some Top Ramen about then. The smell of it filled the room, and I could take no more. I raced to the bathroom, where Professor Bob was still praying to the porcelain altar. "Move over, Bob!" I yelled. And so it was that Professor Bob and I had an intimate conversation over the toilet: "Don't you feel awful?" (barrrrrff!) "I sure do!" (ralllllph!) "They're cooking Top Ramen out there!" (hurrrrl) "Oh god!" (puuuuke)...
I never drank Olde English 800 again. I don't know where Professor Bob is these days, but I'll bet he never touched the stuff again either.