Reading this post of Velociman’s might cause the innocent bystander to throw up a little in the back of his or her mouth. Disgusting, eh?
And thereby hangs a tale.
Our friend Harris the Podiatrist - the one who diagnosed me as having monkeyshit feet - once told us an entertaining story of his misspent youth. It seems he had a cousin Enid (great name, what?) who had an unfortunate propensity to get carsick at the slightest provocation. Harris, meanwhile, was that rare kind of child with a cast-iron stomach.
One day, it befell that Enid’s parents decided to spring for a brand-new car, complete with brand-new car smell, shiny chrome doo-dads, the works.
Shortly thereafter, Harris happened to take a road trip with Enid and her parents. Said parents, knowing of their daughter’s notorious proclivity for the Blown Lunch, warned her that there was to be no getting carsick in the new car. Fell punishments were threatened in the event that Enid exercised her natural tendencies. And Enid took these threats to heart.
Harris and Enid shared the back seat. Not long after setting out, Harris glanced over at Enid and noticed that she was turning a lovely shade of green. Suddenly, her stomach spasmed and her cheeks bulged with what had to be a massive influx of Stomach Contents.
And then, she gulped it all back down.
Whereupon Harris, he of the cast-iron stomach, lost his shit completely, projectile vomiting unto the backs of the heads of the adults in the front seat. Bye-bye, New Car Smell.
And this is why She Who Must Be Obeyed and I use the word “Enid” to indicate the act of swallowing your own vomit rather than allowing yourself to puke it out. A Worthy Addition to the Blog d’Elisson dictionary, to be sure.