Okay so we all know that, 99.9% of the time, when yer gonna get a THUNDERY, STINKY, SCARY visit from the Lord of Diarrhea and Throw-Up that The Lord screams across the rumbling seas and arrives in the dark of night when things are quiet as can be and the whole shire, if not the entire world, is fast asleep like little fairies in their beds made of fairy delicateness.
And then there is lil' ol' sweaty you, hunched over your crapper, panting and wild-eyed.
Will this hideous madness ever end? you think as you try, fruitlessly to keep your stringy hair out of your scrunched up face.
Why does vomiting make me cry like a soap opera actress? you ask yourself, as you feebly arrange the throw rug under your tender knees in preparation for another violent upchuck.
And it goes on and on and on until you believe that it is possible that you may expire. But you don't. You actually survive and, after a longish period of relative calm, you turn on the television in the middle of a Friday and are bombarded with revolting commercials of neon orangey-yellow creamy sauces being poured over mountains of gargantuan armadillo broccoli alongside lumber piles of penne smothered in lumpy gloop and as you sprint to the bathroom you vow to yourself that as soon as you are able to walk and breathe again you are going to find the nearest Olive Garden in order to organize a picket line.
If it's beige I'll eat it,