As Sarah and I arrived at my car parked in the Lloyd Center parking lot (where I park for every game I go to), I wasn't feeling so good.
"Whats wrong, babe?" she asked. I looked at her, not really sure how to answer that. Three hours ago I felt fine. AT that moment I felt far from. In fact it felt like my stomach was getting rung out like a wet towel.
It was actually more painful then that analogy let on. My stomach didn't just feel queezy, I was in legit pain. I could feel my stomach twist in a fashion that would leave me momentarly debilitated. It seemed to get worse the closer to the car we came. By the time we got to the car, I wanted to carve my stomach out with a fork and knife. Sarah looked concerned. I had had a stomach flu the week prior, but we thought it had gone away ( I know, I know. I'm turning into a real life version of Sick Boy from Van Wilder). She asked what was wrong and I simply replied, "Hun, I'm going to throw up tonight."
Sarah and I went to the Blazer game on Sunday, and thats where we were when my stomach started to act up. I was drinking a beer (any coralation to the fact that I'm on doctors orders not to drink and I was enjoying a beer when my stomach started to hurt? Maybe, but you can't prove it).
It was at this game where I watched my beloved Portland Trail Blazers come out from the opening tip off swinging the perverbial big dick and taking it straight to the Utah Jazz. They had managed a 25 point lead at one point. I was on cloud 9 watching Nic Batum remind us all of his endless potential. However, about the time my stomach started to hurt, the Blazers began to shit the bed.
And I'm not being over dramatic. Throughout the second half we watched a 25 point lead against a division rival vanish. Like John Mayers public percieved purity-GONE! I felt sick. Both theoretically, and legitametly.
(How do you blow a 25 point lead? More importantly, how do you let Carlos Boozer tip on in at the buzzer to send the game into Overtime?! )
Thats actually all I'm going to say about the game. Here I am, a few days later and I'm still upset. And to be quite frank, my health is in no position to get worked up like that.
When we got home, I tried ot make my self throw up. I went into the bathroom and dry heaved for a bit. No luck. Not even that stomach acid stuff that comes when you try too hard. The only thing I achieved was pissing my stomach off. I was hungy, but affraid to eat. I was tired, but affraid to sleep. So I did the next best thing, I drank pepto bismol, ate saltine crackers, drank a lot of water (to really piss my stomach off) and watched The Wire untill my stomach was ready for release ( I learned last week that when you have a stomach flu, if you combine water and saltine, your stomach will want to fight you).
Two hours later it still hadn't come, and I was tired of fighting the Sandman. I put the computer down, and closed my eyes. No more then a half hour later, a blood curdling scream came from downstairs. It was girlfriends baby. But this was not the typical "mom, I want my bottle" cries that we were used to. This was something more terrifying.
Girlfriend went downstairs, and after 15 minutes of her not returning I followed suite. I wanted to see what was causing her to cry like that, and I could feel my stomach negotiate the release of it's contents.
As it turned out the little Princess had thrown up herself, and even getting the vile into her eyes (throw up is mixed with stomach acid, that could NOT have felt good). I walked in the bathroom as Sarah was cleaning her.
"Babe, you might wanna hop out here for a second, I'll watch the babe." I said to her. "It's time to throw up myself."
" Just do it, I'm going to clean her. I'm fine." Thats all I needed to hear. I did an immidiate about face, kneeled and violently threw up a filthy combonation of cracker, pepto bismol, and beer. Wanna know what Pepto and Hef taste like together? Like asshole. Try it if you don't believe me.
Unlike the casual vomiting I experienced the week before (it didn't hurt, it was just queeziness. I'd go to the can, vomit a little bit, come out and make a joke. I was back to work the next day) this was not a good time. There was no joking about it this time. I was throwing up like I was trying a self exercism. Furiously violent whiplash heaves all producing the most toxic of smelling vomit one could imagine. I had both hands gripping onto the bowl and I was throwing up like it was a bit straight out of an early Jim Carry movie.
Then it happened. While I was in the process of shaking loose all my organs, I aparently lost control of abillities I developed as a toddler.
Like control over my bowels. Yes while I was relentlessly evacuating material through my mouth I began to start evacuating more material through my ass. Again, for the first time in probably twenty something years, I was shitting my pants.
15 minutes later, the storm had died down a bit (I ended up throwing up and pissing out of my ass multiple times through the next 20 hours, thank goodness the butt juice from that moment on ended up in the toilet and not my boxers). The damage had been done. I was a wreck and in no mood to move.
As I layed on the bathroom floor it came to me. That night was in itself the perfect metaphor for that nights Blazer game. The night started off awesome, just like Portlands 25 point lead. However the night went on a little too long (trying to make myself throw up, when I should've just tried to sleep it off) just like the Blazers who let the Jazz sneak into overtime. And by the end of the night, like myself, the blazers ended up throwing the game up and shitting all over themselves.
Well done, fuckers.
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