Last night.
Perhaps the most intelligent conversation in which I have partaken in quite a while:
Drunken bricklayer: Were you born in Australia?
Which I find to be quite a strange question, actually. Do most people assume that other people were not born in Australia? But then again, I was there with John, who is so English I should really refer to him as Mr. Cup o' tea 'n' Toad in the 'Ole.
Me: No, actually. I was born in Wales.
Him: OH. Haw haw. Did you see any WHALES in WALES? HAW HAW HAW.
Me: [rolling my eyes] No, surprisingly not. But I did see WHALES in New South WALES.
Him: Oh, so there's no WHALES in WALES but there is in New South WALES? HAHAHAHAHAHAHA.
I thought he was going to fall over, it was so damn funny.
Today.
John and I were waiting for a bus after a completely unsuccessful expedition in the city, during which time I gave up on the idea of ever finding a dress that I like and decided that I will wear Doc Martens and jeans and will just avoid nice restaurants and go to kebab shops instead. To our left was perhaps the largest puddle of spew that mankind has ever seen.
The bus stop is outside a pub, you see.
This puddle was an absolute Barry Crocker. During the ten minutes we spent waiting for the bus, I managed to deduce that the spewer had eaten Chinese for dinner - containing hokkien noodles and beef - and that it had been consumed no less than ten minutes before it all came back up.
A boy started heading towards us. Thirteen or fourteen, I'd say, with headphones plugging his ears and a soccer ball. That is, he was kicking the soccer ball, rather than using it to plug his ears. He was nudging it along the ground and kicking it up in the air while his younger brother and father trailed along behind.
He nudged it closer. Then a bit closer.
Then it rolled straight through the spew.
The look on his face was absolutely priceless. I covered my mouth with one hand and clutched my side with the other. John almost fell over in a coughing fit. I damn near wet my pants as he gingerly picked the ball up and started scraping it on the wall of the pub, desperately trying to remove any traces of Beef Surprise.
His younger brother yelled 'EWWW!' loudly, to add to his embarrassment. His father tutted and shook his head. I almost fell off my seat.
Sometimes I wonder if I have the mentality of a twelve-year old.
Perhaps the most intelligent conversation in which I have partaken in quite a while:
Drunken bricklayer: Were you born in Australia?
Which I find to be quite a strange question, actually. Do most people assume that other people were not born in Australia? But then again, I was there with John, who is so English I should really refer to him as Mr. Cup o' tea 'n' Toad in the 'Ole.
Me: No, actually. I was born in Wales.
Him: OH. Haw haw. Did you see any WHALES in WALES? HAW HAW HAW.
Me: [rolling my eyes] No, surprisingly not. But I did see WHALES in New South WALES.
Him: Oh, so there's no WHALES in WALES but there is in New South WALES? HAHAHAHAHAHAHA.
I thought he was going to fall over, it was so damn funny.
Today.
John and I were waiting for a bus after a completely unsuccessful expedition in the city, during which time I gave up on the idea of ever finding a dress that I like and decided that I will wear Doc Martens and jeans and will just avoid nice restaurants and go to kebab shops instead. To our left was perhaps the largest puddle of spew that mankind has ever seen.
The bus stop is outside a pub, you see.
This puddle was an absolute Barry Crocker. During the ten minutes we spent waiting for the bus, I managed to deduce that the spewer had eaten Chinese for dinner - containing hokkien noodles and beef - and that it had been consumed no less than ten minutes before it all came back up.
A boy started heading towards us. Thirteen or fourteen, I'd say, with headphones plugging his ears and a soccer ball. That is, he was kicking the soccer ball, rather than using it to plug his ears. He was nudging it along the ground and kicking it up in the air while his younger brother and father trailed along behind.
He nudged it closer. Then a bit closer.
Then it rolled straight through the spew.
The look on his face was absolutely priceless. I covered my mouth with one hand and clutched my side with the other. John almost fell over in a coughing fit. I damn near wet my pants as he gingerly picked the ball up and started scraping it on the wall of the pub, desperately trying to remove any traces of Beef Surprise.
His younger brother yelled 'EWWW!' loudly, to add to his embarrassment. His father tutted and shook his head. I almost fell off my seat.
Sometimes I wonder if I have the mentality of a twelve-year old.
posted by GBE at 4:37 pm
5 Comments:
Ew! I can't look at vomit without at least dry retching, I have very low tolerance for vomit.
One day I hopped on the bus to go home from work and there was what looked like vomit spattered all over the window, with tiny chunks sitting on the window sill. (I couldn't move, it was a packed peak hour bus.) I spent the whole trip trying to ignore it and trying to convince myself that I didn't have to scrub myself with bleach and a wire brush when I got home, but I couldn't not analyse what it contained.
I think it was onion.
Vomit is gross :(
I'm so glad delightful jen said it before me... I thought I was the only vomit wuss alive.
See, for me, finding a puddle like that (which I did, directly outside my office on my first day at the job) is a traumatic event. It haunts my thoughts all day, and I find myself feeling nauseous and having to mentally tell myself to STOP THAT IMMEDIATELY.
I actually have to deliberately use mental imagery of cutting fresh lemons, being in a field full of flowers and butterflies... whatever will take my mind off of YOU KNOW WHAT. It only works for a few minutes at a time, though.
I don't know why some people find puking funny, and can sit and watch other people (at parties, etc.) do it without batting an eyelash.
Myself, I'm OUTTA THERE at the first mention of possible upheaval of dinner.
I just can't take it.
And yet, I can stand next to the autopsy table and watch with no problem, I can stand next to the operating chair and assist the doctor with eye surgery, and I can deal with medical emergencies relating to auto accidents firsthand without passing out or otherwise becoming incapacitated.
Go figure.
Jen, I'm not the hugest vomit fan but as long as I steer well clear and don't have to, you know, touch it, then I'm ok. Your bus story is extremely gross, but sadly a pretty good example of the state of Brisbane public transport.
Marcheline, if I see the aftermath of the vomit session, I am normally ok. If I see somebody vomiting, I am not ok. I guess having crap brothers who treated me like a boy until I hit puberty probably built up some sort of tolerance. Ooh, I could tell some stories that would make most people want to vomit. Which would, of course, cause this whole thing to repeat itself.
At my place of retail employ, a young child vomitted in one of the main walkways during the school holidays. While someone went to fetch the cleaner, paper towel was used to cover the spew. Then some absolute idiot walked on the soaked paper towel and slipped and fell in the spew puddle. So gross and so stupid.
Chikabub, highly gross! But funny, for I am immature. I told John and he giggled for about half an hour. Good ol' vomit stories.
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