Damn Cupid laced the arrow with something *updated
I'm back.
Sort of.
Eh, I know I've talked about poo on here before, but if you're not up for some grossness, I'd pass on today's entry.
It all started back on Tuesday. I went about my normal routine, I got a call saying that my friend Sal was coming down to pick up his van at our house just as I was going to take the train into town. I being the clownfish to Sal's sea anemone, struck up a most symbiotic deal, offering to drive Sal's van into town for him. It went smoothly.
But... for some odd reason... out of nowhere there came a nausea that lived in my core. Sourness that seemed to appear as instantly as a bowl of delicious Cream of Wheat.
I ran upstairs and like a confused 6'4" squid, rocketed two alarming jets of Yoohoo from my bottom.
I shook it off and wondered what the hell was going on. Maybe it was the Thai I had for dinner the night before.
Into town I went.
When I got there I went to the tattoo shop and talked shop about motorcycles for a while with a couple artists and a dude who works at Greater Boston Motor Sports.
I continued to dash off to the bathroom to make the same noise one makes when one aims a firehose into a toilet and turns the pump on.
The guys at the shop were merciless. One even put his ear to the door and laughed and yelled "Hooker was there any poo in there or was it just blood?"
This terrible scene played out literally six or seven times in two hours. Around 4:30 I started feeling terrible chills and the masochistic bastard who eavesdropped offered to give me a ride home.
Long ride and long story short, I got out of his car after a crappy ride through traffic and felt dizzy when I stood up.
I hadn't been here in nearly 13 years.
Throwing up while sober.
I was terrified.
As a kid my family used to make fun of me for a notorious story my mother told all of them about when I barfed multiple streams and in between motioned the sign of the cross out of pure terror.
I put my bags down in the first convenient place I could find. Not on the walkway leading to the house, but in a large bush next to the driveway. Then I saw my roomate out walking the dog. He asked how I was. I shook my head "no" and waddled over towards the trash cans. I propped myself against a tree and heard him coming towards me. I waved him away like I was prissy Dracula and he was wearing strands of garlic. Pure fear. I was like a cat hiding in the basement just before it dies.
The next 48 hours were filled with trips to the upstairs bathroom (the pipes in the bathroom close to my room froze on Tuesday), curling into a tiny ball and whining, not eating, guzzling pedialyte, halucinating, throwing up two more times, more poo, etc. etc.
Jesus. Sorry.
I'll stop.
There's a new painting up I think. I don't know. Someone hold me.
www.hookermedia.com
*Wait a minute. After scrolling down and giving it some thought... this may have been some act of vengeance by the universe. I depicted a beloved childhood figure on the toilet showing an obscene gesture to another childhood figure and a week or so after I complete the painting I'm doubled over muttering "oh no.. oh no... ooooh no" in a quiet, shaky, unintentional Droopy Dog voice.
I'm sorry, Big Bird.
I am so sorry.
Maybe I'll hold off on the painting I was going to do of Ernie tying his shoes. I don't even want to know what would happen to me if I went through with that idea.
Sort of.
Eh, I know I've talked about poo on here before, but if you're not up for some grossness, I'd pass on today's entry.
It all started back on Tuesday. I went about my normal routine, I got a call saying that my friend Sal was coming down to pick up his van at our house just as I was going to take the train into town. I being the clownfish to Sal's sea anemone, struck up a most symbiotic deal, offering to drive Sal's van into town for him. It went smoothly.
But... for some odd reason... out of nowhere there came a nausea that lived in my core. Sourness that seemed to appear as instantly as a bowl of delicious Cream of Wheat.
I ran upstairs and like a confused 6'4" squid, rocketed two alarming jets of Yoohoo from my bottom.
I shook it off and wondered what the hell was going on. Maybe it was the Thai I had for dinner the night before.
Into town I went.
When I got there I went to the tattoo shop and talked shop about motorcycles for a while with a couple artists and a dude who works at Greater Boston Motor Sports.
I continued to dash off to the bathroom to make the same noise one makes when one aims a firehose into a toilet and turns the pump on.
The guys at the shop were merciless. One even put his ear to the door and laughed and yelled "Hooker was there any poo in there or was it just blood?"
This terrible scene played out literally six or seven times in two hours. Around 4:30 I started feeling terrible chills and the masochistic bastard who eavesdropped offered to give me a ride home.
Long ride and long story short, I got out of his car after a crappy ride through traffic and felt dizzy when I stood up.
I hadn't been here in nearly 13 years.
Throwing up while sober.
I was terrified.
As a kid my family used to make fun of me for a notorious story my mother told all of them about when I barfed multiple streams and in between motioned the sign of the cross out of pure terror.
I put my bags down in the first convenient place I could find. Not on the walkway leading to the house, but in a large bush next to the driveway. Then I saw my roomate out walking the dog. He asked how I was. I shook my head "no" and waddled over towards the trash cans. I propped myself against a tree and heard him coming towards me. I waved him away like I was prissy Dracula and he was wearing strands of garlic. Pure fear. I was like a cat hiding in the basement just before it dies.
The next 48 hours were filled with trips to the upstairs bathroom (the pipes in the bathroom close to my room froze on Tuesday), curling into a tiny ball and whining, not eating, guzzling pedialyte, halucinating, throwing up two more times, more poo, etc. etc.
Jesus. Sorry.
I'll stop.
There's a new painting up I think. I don't know. Someone hold me.
www.hookermedia.com
*Wait a minute. After scrolling down and giving it some thought... this may have been some act of vengeance by the universe. I depicted a beloved childhood figure on the toilet showing an obscene gesture to another childhood figure and a week or so after I complete the painting I'm doubled over muttering "oh no.. oh no... ooooh no" in a quiet, shaky, unintentional Droopy Dog voice.
I'm sorry, Big Bird.
I am so sorry.
Maybe I'll hold off on the painting I was going to do of Ernie tying his shoes. I don't even want to know what would happen to me if I went through with that idea.
posted by Hooker at 6:51 PM
10 Comments:
That sounds awful and I hope you're feeling better. I must admit, though, that I laughed out loud while reading your story.
So, my question is not related to crap or vomit. When are you going to start tatooing? I have a friend who wants a tatoo on the top of her foot and so do I. Just a little tatoo of a "forget me not" flower at the base of one of my toes. (feet are my thing since I'm a Reflexologist).
My friend said that tatoo artists will not tatoo the area on the top of your foot. Is that true?
They will, but the veteran artist at the shop listed the top of the foot and the sternum as the absolute most painful places. though if yours is small it may not be too bad.
I'm going to start practicing soon. You'll definitely know when I do.
Geez, I should have known that the foot would be painful. According to Reflexology, there's about 2000 nerve endings in the foot. Guess I'll have to have a couple of Jamiesons before I have that done.
It will just be a tiny flower so I think I can handle it, tough as I am!
Hey the dixie chicks all got multiple foot tattoos done. You'll be fine.
i was eating my morning oatmeal while reading this. mmmmmmmm....
hope you're feeling better.
Wierd. I'm eating oatmeal right now.
i'm sorry for all of that.
however, it reminded me of something funny. years ago i played that game where i got an early start drinking and i found myself at delux later, buying shots of jameson for everybody. well, everybody wasn't drinking their shots, so i was berating them and drinking them myself. it got ugly. i remember reading the children's book that papers the walls in the bathroom. and then my best friend kris got me out the back door and i ended up sitting down on the sidewalk with my back to the wall. kris talked our friend katya into driving me home, but the last thing i wanted was to get in a moving vehicle... i was spinny drunk. but get in i did, after stating that i would only go if i could chirp out the window.
kris and cave dave recount the story as watching me drive away, head out the passenger window hurling, my hand up with devil horns. it is referred to as the Chirp at The Devil! incident.
that was a long and possibly boring story. sorry. i sat through your gross story.
Got TP?
i just read this on boston.com (sorry, too lazy for links):
http://www.boston.com/yourlife/health/blog/2007/02/stomach_bug_con.html
and thought of you and your sad, sad poo post. at least you know you were not alone!
not only did this story make me laugh and cry at the same time.....you should know it is parables like this that make everyone that knows you, love you.
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