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I was in Baltimore, on a business trip with six other guys. We were considering buying some equipment from this manufacturer we were visiting, and were putting the gear through some trials. Anyone who finds themselves in this situation discovers one thing rather quickly: These people are going to kiss your ass for the next X amount of days, hoping you will sign the purchase order.
credit given to original author if known
This can mean nice dinners, tittie bars, booze, ball games, whatever. These guys took us out to some really nice restaurants. On the last night, we went to the Chart House (it has a nautical theme) one of my favorites. There is one in Philly I had been to a couple of times. We all made pigs of ourselves, and that was the end of it. Heh heh. Right.
The next morning, I felt a little strange, a bit bloated. I still had a full stomach, and really wasn't hungry. I just picked at breakfast. We finished up at this company around noon time, and they had a meat and cheese tray. I didn't eat much then either. We got packed up at the hotel, and went to the airport with a couple of hours to kill. Now I felt downright weird. I had hardly eaten all day, my stomach felt full, but I knew I should be starving. We went to a bar that had a buffet spread. I sipped a beer and picked at a plate. No good.
We still had an hour until boarding, and went to our gate. Once in a while a small wave of nausea would pass over me, and I'd go to the bathroom. I couldn't puke though, so I would return to my chair. I bought a pack of Rolaids, and chewed them nervously. I started to sweat profusely, and gas production in the bowels suddenly shifted into high gear.
We finally got on the plane, and luckily it was lightly packed. I had nobody else sitting immediately next to me, though there were a couple of women across the aisle. I sat back in the seat, just wishing I was home. As the plane lurched into the air, the negative-gee force made my stomach do a slow barrel roll. With utter certainty it flashed through my brain: you will not make it through this flight without puking. Oh yay, this will be a first for me. Whatever I am in the grips of, is also making me fart non-stop. They smell awful too, as if I shit my pants.
I surreptitiously located the barf bag, and regarded it. This was too embarrassing to be real, but here I was. The nausea just got worse and worse, finally I grabbed the bad and let go. Three or four good long strokes of vomit ensued, filling the bag to near capacity. Holy shit, that was allot of puke...I had a little on me too, my leg, my shirt, hands and arms just a touch. I took a glance in the bag. Yep, there's that Santa Fe chicken from last night. It took a few minutes, but I got up the balls to hit the stewar.....uuhhmm... flight attendant button.
Now when you have to hand a bag of half digested spew, some of which has been churning for almost 24 hours in your guts, you probably want one of those older matronly, mom-like women to hand it to. You definitely don't want a young cute one, somehow it makes it worse, believe me.
This girl was hot, looked like a swimsuit model. She noticed I had a bit of food on me, and seeing as how the in-flight meal had not been served, she made the logical leap. "Did you get a little airsick?" Hmm..a little? I show her the bag. "Can you get me some handi-wipes or something....and I guess this is for you." I am dying of embarrassment at this point, looking for the ejection handles around my seat.
"We have some things for motion sickness if you think it will help..."
I tell her I am not motion sick, and I have never in my life had motion sickness. She is not convinced. She leaves and I sit in the helpless agony of being sick on a plane. I feel for those people who *do* get motion sickness. I notice out of the corner of my eye the two women across the aisle are staring at me, disgusted. Like I'm doing this on purpose. I think venomous thoughts.
She returns with a fresh bag and a bunch of paper towels half soaked in warm water, the best they could do apparently. I clean up the best I can, and put the bag in a handy spot. For the next half hour, I sit, fart, and fight the returning nausea. People around me are probably looking for the inconsiderate dickhead changing their baby's shitty diapers. I would guess the reek extended for at least 10 rows in either direction in a thin grey cloud.
I was so miserable at this point I didn't care, fuck 'em what can I do? I ended up hurling once more, 15 minutes before touchdown. This time I got the bag only 3/4 full. My humiliation quotient had been filled, I left the bag on the seat when I exited the plane.
As I shuffled to baggage claim, one of my companions on the trip, Bill, slid up next to me. He looked green. "Man I feel like fuckin' shit" he said. I told him I had let loose on the plane myself, and hadn't felt right all day. We met up with his wife and walked a few feet when he suddenly bolted for the men's room door without a word. I smiled knowingly, said good-bye, and went to get my bag.
I fetched my bag, and got out to my truck. The 'tard in the parking booth was slower than molasses. Fer fuck's sake, all you have to do is put the ticket in a reader, take money, make change. I shit you not, this guy took five minutes to do this, torturing me. I fantasized about covering him in a stream of chunder ala the "Stand by me" barfathon. He got my change to me just before I stuck my fingers down my throat and took aim.
Somehow I got home, about a 20 minute drive, without letting go. I was saving this up, it'd be a good one. I walked in the house, my wife took one look at me and said "You look like shit...". I agreed with her as I charged up the stairs, and loosed a howitzer volley of my last remaining contents into the toilet. Then I dry-heaved for a few minutes, they are a great substitute for abdominal crunches, you can really feel the burn. I then dropped my drawers and mounted the bowl.
My bowels shook as I unleashed a mighty avalanche of ShitSludge(tm) into the waiting maw. Great farts ripped fourth with a liquid timbre. I felt a bit relieved, but the stench did elicit a few more dry-heaves. I went downstairs and explained what had happened thus far to my wife. I drank some water, and watched TV with her. Every 45 minute or so, the nausea would return, and I would go upstairs, puke, dry-heave for a while, and then feel better.
I kept sipping water, that way I wouldn't dry-heave so much. It also diluted the stomach acid & bile, I hate the taste of that shit, plus the way it strips your teeth down to the enamel, giving them that rough texture.
I went to sleep that night, but awoke every hour or so to repeat the barf-dryheave-drink water-liquishit cycle. About 5 in the morning I woke up, and felt...well....sticky....*down there*.... I pulled back the sheet and was greeted by the sweet aroma of feces. Seems I had built up a great pressure of liquishit, and in my exhaustion had not woken up to expel it. The pressure exceeded the maximum rating for the ring muscle, and this was the net result.
I had shit myself, another first in 12 hours. My ass and legs had a nice coating on them, slowly drying. Luckily the SR and I always fought over sheets/blankets, so we each have our own set. I pulled my sheet out of the bed, and trudged off to the bathroom to hand wash the affected area. I pulled off the undies, and tried to clean them. A couple of minutes later I wrapped them in a plastic bag, and trashed them. Underwear #1 ruined.
Note the foreshadowing here you literary types. I hopped in the shower and rinsed off, puked a little for good measure, and went back to bed.
My wife got up and went to work, said I should go to a doctor if I didn't get better. Unless I'm bleeding like a stuck pig, I don't go to the doctor. By 8:00 am, the puking did stop. As I was laying in bed, the pressure built up in the sphincter for the umpteenth time. It *felt* like a fart, really.
I grunted a bit....*squishhhh*....hmmm...it wasn't just a fart. Underwear #2 ruined. This time I dug up the oldest rattiest pair that my wife would have thrown out on sight had she known of their existence. An hour later I did the same thing again, this time I was *positive* it was only a fart. Score: asshole 3, me 0.
I did go back to work the next day, and over the next several days I put together the full impact of the event. Everyone in our group got sick, ranging from mild shits and nausea to a couple of guys who were out for upwards of a week. Strangely though, none of our hosts in Baltimore got sick, *none of them*. We ate the same food the whole time we were down there. Some thought we had gotten food poisoning, some a nasty virus. The debate has never been resolved.
And what about Bill, my buddy at the airport? He felt the sickness come over him, and fortunately there was a mens room right in front of us. He ran inside, to see some little asian/VC/boat refugee who had just cleaned this restroom to a spit shine. The porcelain was white, the chrome shined. Bill took one look at him and said "Man, I'm sorry" and opened the firehose o' chunks over everything in sight.
He painted a couple of sinks, the mirror, and a urinal or two on his way to a stall. Bill got cussed out good in a language he didn't understand, and the little guy wearily went back to work.
It's true what they say, the people who make the least money work the hardest for it.