Gag Me With A Spoon

There are days when I feel as if I’ve fallen into a hole, and if someone were to come along and ask me my name, I’d likely reply “Alice, Alice in What-the-F-Land.” This was one of those days.

It started about 3:30 a.m. when the “baby who’s not teething” woke me precisely every 15 minutes with a bloodcurdling shrill. By 6:45 a.m. I felt as if I’d never gone to sleep, but silently wished I’d never woken up. I’d stepped maybe five feet out of my room before I saw the daily mess, heaping helpings of dog puke EVERYWHERE. Little ones, big ones, red ones, brown ones. They were strategically placed throughout the house, and just when I thought I’d cleaned them all up, I stumbled upon the mother load right by the front door.

The piles of brown barf were likely only a sign of things to come. As sure as the sun had risen, this would be another day in paradise for Kiki. I looked at the dogs who tucked their stumpy tales between their legs. Bastards, I said shooting them looks that could kill. I touched their noses to make sure nothing was amiss, and of course, nothing was. It was as if they had puked just because they could do. Perhaps they were taking lessons from their master.

“Something is wrong with the dog. I think he has a hairball or something caught in his throat,” My mother Kuku gave her diagnosis. I had no idea that she had been studying for her degree in veterinary medicine in her spare time, but wonders never ceased. She disappeared back into the bedroom with the baby before I could make a smart aleck remark.

As the day rolled on uneventfully, I realized that maybe pessimism had gotten the best of me. From my office, I could hear J-Fed and one of his sidekicks shooting the crap in the garage. Somewhere in the distance the baby cooed while being entertained by Kuku. So far, so good… until I heard a rumbling. A cough. A sneeze, and some Godawful noise that sounded like a close encounter of the third kind had just descended upon Basketcaseville.

And it was all downhill from there. As I rushed to the front room, I found myself staring in the face of hell. It was by far the biggest pile of vomit I’d ever seen in my life. Icky, watery, brownish barf. But what made it extraordinary is that intertwined were fluorescent green chunks that reminded me of something radioactive. As I got down on both knees to perform the unsavory act of detoxing my house, I cursed the name of every man that had ever done me wrong. While doing so, I pondered what the mysterious green goblets could be…

Apparently, I was no longer alone as I had been joined by the three stooges: Kuku, J-Fed and J-Fed’s faithful sidekick.

“Ooooooooooh,” Kuku squealed while shielding her eyes. Sigh Kuku. While the sight may make you nauseous, it's not going to blind you.

“Nice…” exclaimed J-Fed’s sidekick.

“Bleck,” J-Fed gagged violently.

Together, the three of them couldn’t put together one sensible thought, that thought being that maybe, just maybe, one of them could help me out. Before I even had the chance to ask for assistance, they had all scrambled out like field mice being chased by a fat, hungry cat, leaving me to contend with the nuclear nuggets.

As I did my best not to come completely unglued, I realized that a) I was truly alone in this world, b) everyone sucks ass, and c) the dog had eaten the bar of Irish Spring I couldn’t find when I was showering this morning.

About 10 minutes later, the walking pile of puke strolled in with a fresh roll of paper towels, grinning like the cat that ate the canary.

“Oh Kiki. I was just coming to help you clean up the mess. I guess better late than never right?” J-Fed said ever so proudly.

Ugh. Somebody wanted to vomit alright, and this time it wasn’t the soap-consuming canines.