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Well, I can't let the guys get a head of the girls in this. I wasn't going to tell this story. I swear I wasn't. I get kinda disgusted thinking about it. For reference there are no rotting legs or rotten egg references in this one.

So, this happened like two weeks ago. It was time for me to drink and have a good time. No biggie, right? I mean, I had just gotten back from New Orleans, drank more than I thought was humanly possible and was fine. So, I was running late, still hadn't eaten dinner. I really didn't have time to cook anything. I decided to stop and get a cheese coney.

Now, I have learned that cheese coney's are only around here, so let me explain them. You take a little hot-dog, slap it on a nice steamed bun, inside the bun is chili, on top of the chili is cheese. You can add onions, which I did, and mustard. That is a cheese coney. God, those things are great. I quickly scarfed down three cheese coneys (they aren't full size hot-dogs so no oinking from the audience) loaded with onions.

I go hang out at a bar with a couple friends. Have just a beer, I'm driving after all. We decide to head back to my place and drink there. We figure mass DVD movies, fold out couch, cable and three bottles of absolute and a twelve pack of beer. We're good for the night. We get back to my place, everyone scrambles for drinks and cards. Movies get put in and I'm handed my first drink.

Now, we all know that vodka is not supposed to smell. Unless there is too much in the drink. Me, in my stupidity decided I was a studly woman. Absolute Red Label, so what. I can take it. And take it I did. I think my downfall was switching to Citron part way through the night. I knew I was in trouble when I vlurped.

For those that don't know what a vlurp is. It's a chunky burp. Yes, that's right a chunky burp. I'm sitting there playing cards and out of no where comes a vlurp. Flying out of my mouth comes a little piece of ground beef. Nummy. I muttered some drunk version of excuse me and hit every wall on the way to bed. I figured I had caught myself almost in time. I might be able to salvage the evening with not a harf to be had. Boy, was a wrong.

I'm laying in bed, feeling slightly ill. OK, I lied. I was feeling way ill. For some odd reason (me being drunk) I thought I could out run the harf that was to come. My drunk mind rationalized if I went to sleep (read passed out there) I would make it and someday be able to eat cheese coney's again. Alas, it was not to be.

I was laying on my bed when suddenly my mouth filled with an overabundance of spit. I had sudden visions of going out like Hendrix and being found the next morning in a pool of my own harf. I struggled to get out of bed. Goosebumps broke out on my body. I broke out in a cold sweat. Fuck, I wasn't going to make it to the bathroom. There was no way in hell. I stumbled across the room and threw open my closet door. Why the closet? Because the floor is tile and even drunk I did not want to be scrubbing coneys off the carpet.

I plopped down a cooler that I store in my closet. I'm weaving from side to side. My arms come to rest on my knees. I suddenly can't hold my head up. My mouth opens and what spewed forth could only be described as partially digested cheese, chili with a bit of hot dog throw in for good measure. I heard the splat as it hit the tile, my stomach cramped, the sweat broke out on my forehead once more. My mouth opened and out came more of the horrible coney from hell. Only this time I had tilted my head too far forward. So, not only was I spewing chili from my mouth, I was blowing little round chunks of ground beef out of my nose.

This continued for what seemed like an eternity. Harf, blow ground beef out of my nose, harf, pull a piece of what looked like cheese off the side of my nose, harf, gag, plop goes a piece of hot-dog. I must say, I really need to chew my food better.

So, now I'm in a small enclosed room. I can't just flush the vile mess. I couldn't make it to the bathroom, remember? So, there on my floor is a small lake of partially digested coney's. I feel a bit better. I've purged my system of most of the alcohol that was in there. Evidence of that is the liquid puddles. The room is really starting to get to me now. Harfing through the nose has a way of cleaning out your sinuses after all. I knew I had to clean this up. There was no way I could sleep with the smell that was wafting up from this mess.

So, up I stood. I didn't want to step in it of course, I couldn't go around it, it spanned past the door. So, I decided I was going to step over it and go snag a towel. What happened next folks? Come on, all together now...

My heel hit some of the still warm harf. Liquid is slippery. Liquid mixed with partially digested chili, cheese, hot-dogs is even worse. There was nothing for me to grab onto. It was over in a matter of seconds. Out comes the foot from under me, followed by the traitorous leg. Next thing I know there is a splash, food fly's everywhere and I am on my ass in a pool of puke. There was nothing I could do. I could feel it soaking through my underwear (I didn't realize until that moment that I had shed my pants at some point) Let me tell you, there is nothing like feeling the warmth of your own harf as it soaks through your underwear and warms your ass cheeks.

I got up, rather slowly. My pride and my ass hurting. I staggered my way to the shower and quickly soaped up and rinsed off. I knew there was no way I could face the lake of harf after that. I went back to my room, tossed the towel on as much of the mess as it would cover, closed the closet door and went to bed.

That was a mistake folks. I woke up with the hangover to end all hangovers. Not only was I hung over and harfing again. I had to chisel up the mess off my bathroom floor. Nothing like dried harf and food bits to make your morning that much more pleasant.

I won't be eating cheese coneys for a long time to come. But ya'll enjoy your chili now, ya hear!


credit given to original author if known

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