Puke Stories

Everybody has at least one one puke story, right? Share them in this thread. Also, go ahead & throw in any unique synonyms for puke that come to mind. Seeing this post above the favorite cookies post made me think of “tossing your cookies…”

Here’s mine:

You know on the schoolbus how there’s that box-like heater under one of the back seats? One time in elementary school a kid yarfed on that thing in the wintertime. That was one of the worst smells of all time. We had a way to go to get to the school too.

Oh, and for the record: I haven’t thrown up since Aug. 27, 1990. Bow to me.

9 thoughts on “Puke Stories

  1. Hi, my name’s Seth. I haven’t thrown up since… Sunday at about 5:30 am.

    As for killer puke stories, imagine having orthodontic surgery and having your jaw wired shut for 8 weeks. At the beginning of those 8 weeks (say in the first 24 hours, post-op) think about getting nauseous from the anaesthetic on the car ride home from the hospital. Now picture vomitting into your mouth, but being unable to spit out the puke b/c of said “wires” keeping your trap shut.

    Now remember, you can’t inhale.

    If you can make it through this exercise without suffocating or dislocating your newly severed jawbone, you’re doing pretty well! Worst… puke… ever!!

  2. First one:
    Car ride with the family, my two sisters and I in the back seat. We stop to get some food at some sort of highway oasis, and the food we got was a bit disgusting. (I can’t remember what it was, or even where; I was but a wee lad). Ellen, my older sister, upchucks into the back seat getting it all over the back of the car. Jess, my twin, starts freaking out and in the resulting chaos catches a whiff of the previously released fury of fast food, and then ralphs all over herself. I think that was the fastest I had ever gotten out of a car.

    Second one:
    At my elementary school we had to sit in the balcony of the gym whenever it rained/snowed before school started. We always went to mass on Tuesdays, and this was a rainy Tuesday. I’m minding my business, talking with friends, etc, when someone says, “Hey, there’s Atom.” I turn to look, and as soon as I do I am bombarded with chunks and thick liquid. All I remember is a fountain of nasty coming down towards me and getting all over my pants and my coat. That was bad. What’s worse is that my teacher refused to let me go home and I had to sit through mass and the rest of the school day with puke covered pants. Atom got to go home.

    Third one:
    Most people have a good alcohol-related puke story. Mine is pretty tame, but was still a bit embarassing. Senior year prom and I didn’t go to prom, but had a party afterwards anyway. Rum and Coke all night gave me the bright idea to do rounds of shots with all the people at the table. Some of the girls refused so I took double shots. Anyway, at one point we ran out of whatever we were doing shots of, so I stole some ancient peppermint schnappes from my parents liquor cabinet, and carried on with the festivities. Party winds down, I return to my room, and pass out most triumphantly. I wake up in the morning to find that I had sat up in the middle of the night, puked all over myself and the wall, and then fell back asleep. Parents just laughed that I had drank the schnappes that they had refused to drink for so many years.

  3. 1. After eating at the ol’ Bryn Mawr, that really fancy place between Millersport and Granville. I’ve never been able to figure out if there was really something funky about that chicken with that gross sauce, or if it was psychosomatic because I wasn’t at a point in my life where I appreciated fancy food.
    2. Walking into the high school cafeteria. I ruined one of my favorite t-shirts. It’s said that the cafeteria staff cleaned it up and then used the rag to wipe off tables without washing it.
    3. Before Tom’s college graduation. I had ruined his high school graduation by not wearing a tie.

  4. barf
    yawn in technicolor
    to ralph
    luqid burp
    blowing Chunks
    praying to the porcelin god

    So many stories, but nothing to beat the ones already stated.


    It was Thanksgiving, and I was 12 years old. The extended family was small enough at the time that we could all fit at one giant table that stretched the length of my aunts living room, and so we took our turns passing the stuffing, cranberry sauce and vegetable trays.

    One of myy younger cousins, Jason, seemed to be quite the fan of the black olives, and he had an entire plate full of them. He was probably about eight years old and his eyes were much larger then his stomach. About halfway through his third helping of the briney treat his face turned a particularly odd shade of green. It was more of a chartreuse, but a very pale chartreuse. Then the wretching began. He was able to get his mouth over the plate when the Greek Fountain began to spew forth.

    It was this viscous white, gravy with chunks of black olives immersed. It looked very much like a sauce served at some snooty French venue.

    We kids scattered to the four corners of the house. I took refuge in a “foxhole” behind a large Laz-E-Boy with Nick, my closest cousin, while his brother tore through the kitchen in his socks, but it was too late. His delicate digestive track rebeled and out came his meager peanut butter and graham cracker dinner, the only thing he ever eats. The world grew numb, bleary, and distant as Nick and I clung to each other in horror. Nick was crying out “What is this puke city?!” but it seemed to far off to be him. At was like being in the beach landing of Saving Private Ryan.

    Of course now we can’t get through a Holiday meal without someone bringing it up (pun not intended).


    The second event was much more tame. For dinner one night my mom made fried catfish. It was my first experience with it, and it seemed all right. I also consumed my body weight in orange Jell-O(TM) for dessert. At the time, my father had been painting our basement and some of the fumes crept into my bedroom and made me nauseous in my sleep. I woke up with that “jumping-jack stomach” feeling and quickly ran to the bathroom. Thankfully my father had been the last one to use it, and the seat was up on the toilet. I remember standing in the doorway and projectile vomiting across the bathroom into the toilet with a swish that would have made Michael Jordan envious. I think I was too proud to flush it. I have no idea why I didn’t just turn and use the bath tub.

    Mom never made catfish again, if I remember correctly.

  5. I yacked in 7th grade biology class, right in front of everybody. I was sitting right next to Bill. Humiliating. Bill was a good friend, though, and helped me clean up and get my stuff to go home.

    About four Saturdays ago I had projectile vomiting the likes I hadn’t seen since the 7th grade. It was no fun.

  6. I yacked in 7th grade biology class, right in front of everybody. I was sitting right next to Bill.

    I’d forgotten about that. It was a game day, if I remember, b/c we were dressed up. I believe you’d had corn flakes…

  7. Back in ’92 (or so), i was at the millersport sweet corn festival, riding the pirate ship ride, and the dude behind me puked all over my back . i had to go have Judy Azeltine hose me down at the athletic boosters booth, so basically i had to go around the festival without a shirt to wear. It was one of my favorite, green boston celtic shirts too.

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