Last Friday, I barfed in the bathroom sink of a crap local restaurant/bar. I probably should have hit the toilet instead, but this particular shitter would have been named Worst Toilet in Scotland, if it had been in the running for that dubious honor. I'm tellin' ya, I wouldn't put my ass on that scatbox, so there was no way I was sticking my face anywhere near it. So I chose the sink, which was in a somewhat better state (i.e. I probably would put my ass on it), to make my hefty deposit. I'm not sure how I'm able to make decisions like that when I'm about to hurl. Vast experience under similar conditions, I s'pose. God, I really do need a bucket for vomitis to carry with when I'm out on a session (remember me at the holidays). Worse than throwing up in a public place on this particular occasion, though, was the fact that I'd seriously chunder-clogged the sink at this particular shop on this particular afternoon: there was no way I was getting out of there without the owner, who happened to be the only employee on duty, discovering that I had fucked up his bathroom sink by puking in it. You see, I'd been the only customer for the past two hours; the bossman had used the pisser just minutes before I honked in there; and, the joint was about to close. This, of course, meant that it was time for the surly, likely feral, owner to clean the bog as part of his shutdown (no, I shouldn't say it was time for him to clean; let's say it was time for him to make sure that no one had fucking puked in the sink). There was no way I was getting out of there without him discovering what I'd done. And I had really fucked up that sink. He was gonna need a plunger, Drano, and probably an auger to get those pipes clean. What did I do? I panicked, which nearly caused me to barf again (where's a sink when ya need one?). And that's all I have to say about that.

In no way related, my new favorite slang expression for 'pregnant' is "in the puddin' club." Previously, I enjoyed "up the stick."