Trigger warning: The above headline already kinda spoilered it, but if you have a hard time dealing with explicit written depictions of emesis by humans, you are excused from reading this week's helping of the Mr. Wrong Column, so please go ahead and turn the page, maybe read a restaurant review or the sex column or something, as long as they don't have any triggers in 'em, of course. Consult your local listings. Thank you.
So I'm at the ballgame, minding my own business, watching Your Baltimore Orioles play some other team, I don’t even remember which team it was, because I was there for Floppy Hat Night, which is one of the better giveaways the Orioles have, given away by Your Baltimore Orioles in cooperation with Miller Lite, and if you didn’t get one, tough shit, you gotta line up early for Floppy Hat, man, they only give out 20,000 of ‘em! Also: Some people take a Sharpie and color in the MILLER LITE part.
Like I was saying, I’m enjoying some baseball, the O’s playing against the Tampa Bay Rays (I Googled it, in my mind), and it’s not a Spoiler Alert to tell you the Orioles prevailed in this contest, but for me, it was a bitter victory, and I mean this in the most nauseating olfactory sense, because I’m sitting in Section 96, Row 9 at Oriole Park at Camden Yards—the location of some of my fave seats because when you sit in that section, your back is to the giant electronic scoreboard, which is annoying and a distraction to watching baseball and drinking beer—and I notice this guy sitting in the section next to me, and he is leaning way down, in the curious manner of unfortunate wretches who are high on Heroin, something many of us here in Baltimore, America have seen out on the street, people standing, stooping, leaning—almost impossibly, gravity-defying, even—forward yet never falling over, and this guy was doing a seated version of that, and suddenly I notice an incredible stench, as this gentleman is emitting a thick, chunky stream of vomit down between his shoes, gouts of puke splashing onto the backs of the seats in front of him, and probably the backs of the lower legs of the people seated in those seats, this guy was an endless geyser of barf, man, it seemed like it was never gonna stop, it was like on the Internet when you are viewing an “animated .gif” file, set on an endless loop, and the name of the file is guyatosgamepuking.gif, and his companions were laughing about it, like it was no big deal, but the way this guy was hurling, he shoulda been escorted outta the stadium, I mean, I’m no Doctor or anything, but check out what I found on the Wikipedia:
Alkaline tide! Not funny, man. I'm gonna postulate this individual had recently enjoyed mass quantities of alco-beverage, and, I'd wager, additionally, a sizable portion of the stadium nachos, because what he unloaded on the cement looked like a giant pile of chips and salsa, or possibly several masticated Polock Johnny's sausages with "The Works," which is a ripoff, seriously, it's like an extra buck, just get a regular Polock Johnny's and then go over to the condiments station and do a pile of relish and ketchup, because that's what the "The Works" part tastes like—but it'll probably be awhile before I do that again because of a current powerful mental association with the effluent of Vomit Guy—and then, when people started getting up and moving away—and this emptied out two rows—I was gripped with a sense of Impending Doom I was gonna get caught in the middle of a Tsunami of Sympathetic Regurgitation as waves of vom smell washed over the unfortunates who were holding fast, attempting to enjoy Our National Pastime in spite of the noxious fumes and rising gorges.
