The Vomitorium - Vomit, Barf and Puke.

Home  |   Vomit Pictures  |   Vomit Terms  |   Links  |   The Vomit Shop  |   Email Us

Hi there.

For almost four years now, I've been asking visitors to this site if they've got a story to tell. Now people are asking me, what's my story?

Maybe one day I'll get around to putting more of it on here, but for now here is a listing of some of my personal vomiting experiences.
New ones in green - more to come one day soon...

Stories from the Editor
My First Time.
The Stag Night Spew.
Arnold Schwarzenegger made me vomit.
The Sydney Souvlaki.
The 12 Pot Club.
The Mystery of the Vanishing Vomit.
The Drought Breaker.

Got a story to tell?

Click on the button below to mail it to us here at and who knows, you might get to puke on the web!

The Vomit Anthology

Warning: Read the following at your own risk. We accept no responsibility for you puking over your keyboard or screen.

My First Time.
My first alcohol related vommie was at my brother's 21st party. I was 11 years old. My cousin (who was about 9 at the time) and I were loitering in the vicinity of the keg, when we noticed it was temporarily unattended. We proceeded to pour ourselves a beer each and then sculled. I suffered from the rubber stomach syndrome - it bounced straight back up bringing the remainder of the contents of my stomach with it. My cousin was worse, he had obviously eaten a lot more than I had and chundered a total of 5 times compared to my 2. I have a vivid recollection of my other cousin (aged 13) standing there with tears in his eyes because he laughed so hard at the two of us heaving our guts out on the patio.

It was little embarrassing having to go inside and tell Mum that we had just been sick outside, I said it must have been something we ate.

* * * * * * * Back to the top * * * * * * *

The Stag Night Spew.
I remember going to a friend's stag night. He doesn't drink too often and so it didn't take much for the best man to get him totally wasted before we even got there. We watched a couple of "educational movies" and then decided we should get something to eat before before heading out to see some "live entertainment".

I don't know how we even got into the restaurant, as had to almost carry him to the table. He was looking pretty green around the gills and so we quickly started up a pool to guess what time he would actually puke.

Being a close friend I had a bit of faith in the lad and I took midnight as his ETV (estimated time of vomit). By the time he had a bit of food shovelled into his mouth he started to pick up a bit and it looked like it was going to be a dry run, as he refused all attempts to get any more alcohol into him.
Finally around 11:40 someone gave him a glass of lemonade, which he figured was harmless enough, but after a couple of minutes the bubbles started doing their stuff.

He ran off to the bathroom around 11:45, but it was a false alarm. We were getting bored by this time and started a food fight with the girls on the table next to us, then all of a sudden he let out a big burp and flood of barf came sprawling across the table like hot molten lava - right on midnight, so not only did I have a good laugh, but I made some money too!

* * * * * * * Back to the top * * * * * * *

Arnold Schwarzenegger made me vomit.
Believe it or not it's true. It was a cold rainy Thursday night in Sydney. A few schooners of VB were required to get the blood pumping and raise the body temperature. After about 6 or 8 the decision was made to get some food into our stomachs and stop the head from spinning, but where does a group of sophisticated Melbournites eat when in Sydney? Planet Hollywood of course. After being informed that there was a 50 minute table wait, we were told that we were welcome to wait at the bar. Well after 2 or 3 more schooners, some idiot came up with the bright idea of: "Let's get some shooters!"

Let me tell you a devoid-of-food, beer-lined stomach is not a good resting place for a Black Russian or a B-52, let alone 2 or 3 of each in quick succession. It wasn't too long before we gave up waiting for a table in disgust and bid farewell to Arnie, but by then the damage was done.

By the time we reached our next port of call I had to make a beeline for the big white telephone and thus my 16.5 month vomit-free streak came to an end and it's all Arnie's fault, for the following reasons:

1. If we had of gotten a table and had something to eat, I would have been okay.
2. If they didn't sell shooters at the bar I still would probably been okay.
3. If Arnie and I didn't look so much alike (from the neck down obviously), then I wouldn't have identified with him so much and thus wouldn't have been interested in going there in the first place.
4. If they hadn't of built Planet Hollywood in Sydney I would have gone somewhere else and gotten something to eat and been okay.
5. Just because, okay.

I had a meeting at 11am on the next day and I didn't feel too good at 8:30am when I was in my hotel room, sponging the vomit stains off my pants before I could go to work. The stench was pretty bad, so I sprayed deodorant all over my pants before I left the hotel in an effort to kill the smell of the chunder. I guess after 16.5 vomit-free months I was a bit out of practice, which explains my misfire into the big white telephone and why my pants copped the dribble.

* * * * * * * Back to the top * * * * * * *

The Sydney Souvlaki.
I won a trip to Sydney at our cricket club. I flew out on a Friday night, but I should have known what was in store for me before I left. I had lunch with some friends from the office and we managed to break our all time record by downing 6 pots of beer in a single lunch hour.

I was met at Sydney Airport by a friend who proceeded to take me to the nearest pub for a couple of schooners. We then went back to his place to drop my bags off and headed to his local pub for more beers.

We staggered back to his place sometime after midnight, having stopped off for a souvlaki on the way and sat in the lounge intending to watch the late night movie. Within minutes he had passed out on the lounge chair, so I decided to make myself comfortable on the couch. As soon as I laid down the room started spinning, so I sat up for a while, but I was exhausted and couldn't keep my eyes open. The only trouble was as soon as I closed my eyes the room would start to spin again.

Eventually I decided to face to inevitable. The bathroom was upstairs and the flat had new white/cream carpet, so I made a dash for the kitchen sink and I almost made it. 85% of the chunder landed in the sink about 5% on the cupboard door under the sink, 5% on the kitchen tiles and the 5% ended up down the front of my jumper.

I thought I had a done a pretty good job of cleaning up the mess, so I took off my jumper and hung it on the balcony outside and went back to the couch to pass out. I woke the next morning and couldn't believe the stench. I walked into the kitchen and discovered that I had missed a big chunk of puke on the sink and there was a dribble of vomit on the cupboard door. A million ants had come in, no doubt attracted by the wondrous aroma that filled the room. Furthermore there were chunks of souvlaki (I don't remember there being any carrots in it when I ate it !!!) blocking the plug hole of the sink. I was pretty embarrassed, so I quickly cleaned up the remainder of the mess, including the ants, rinsed my jumper and hung it on the line and was just walking back into the lounge as my mate woke up.

It was at that instant that we both noticed the tiny but tell tale spew stain on the edge of the carpet near the kitchen.

Damn!!! I had almost gotten away with it too. My mate looked at me and then said "I had a bit of a spew during the night, I didn't quite make it to the sink."

It seemed that I had just spent the last half hour cleaning up his chunder.

* * * * * * * Back to the top * * * * * * *

The Mystery of the Vanishing Vomit.
I went straight to the pub after work one Tuesday night and got absolutely spastic. I don't really remember too much about the evening, including how I got home, but I distinctly remember hurling big time, shortly before I passed out.

The alarm woke me next morning to get up for work and I lay in a haze for a few minutes when the memory of me heaving my guts up returned. I tentatively lifted the sheets... thank goodness I hadn't barfed in the bed... next I looked on the floor on both sides of the bed - still no signs of chunder. I sniffed around but that familiar puke scent was not present at all in the bedroom, so I moved on to the bathroom.

Carefully I opened the door and peered inside... it was clean! I began to relax and decided that I had only dreamt that I puked, so I had a shower and got dressed. By now I was running late, so I grabbed my keys and jumped into the car. As I backed out of the driveway I saw it - a big pile of barf on the grass, just inside the gate. Suddenly it all came back to me - I'd caught the train in to work that day and took a taxi home from the pub. As soon as I got into the taxi I knew I had to puke, so I kept my mouth shut all the way. The driver kept looking at me with a worried expression on his face and as soon as he pulled into my driveway I opened the door and let rip with a projectile vomit onto the lawn - Mystery solved!!!

I hope I gave him a tip!

* * * * * * * Back to the top * * * * * * *

The Twelve Pot Club.
After I returned from my "Sydney Souvlaki" trip, we began to ramp up our Friday liquid lunches. Those of us that were present the week before became the founding members of the 6 pot club.
(For those of you unfamiliar with Melbourne, Australia, a "pot" is a 385 ml glass of beer.)
We encouraged others to join, but of course they had to down the 6 pots in one lunch time to pass the initiation test. A few months later I was transferred to the other end of town and the club eventually fizzled out.

After a while I found some like-minded associates at my new office and we started our own little liquid lunch group on a Friday. There were 8 of us in total, but on any given Friday there was usually only 4 or 5 of us at the pub. We did 5 pots three weeks in a row and I told them about the 6 pot club, so the following week we vowed to have 6. That proved to be no problem and after 7 the week after that we arranged for all to be present so that we could go for an 8 pot lunch. Someone pulled out at the last minute, someone else was sick the week after that and then one of the guys went on leave, so we floundered for nearly a month. Then it was announced that I was being transferred again and I was due to leave on the Friday to go back to my old building.

The boys rallied around in true fashion and the word around the office was that we were going for 10 pots - a new world record. The first 6 went down without even touching the sides. What had seemed a big effort only 12 months earlier had only taken 1/2 an hour on this fateful day. We cruised past 8, but by the time we reached the 10 mark, there were only 2 of us still drinking - me and Langy. After we hit ten, we figured "what the hell" and decided to go for the even dozen.

Number 11 went down okay, but Langy decided that he would up the pace and sculled number 12. I got the first half down then hit the wall. As I went to gulp down the second half, it bounced right back up and I spewed into the jug on the table then ran for the bathroom with my hand over my mouth. I sprayed the door and the floor and everything else in sight including my pants and shoes.

Langy and the others that had remained to watch absolutely pissed themselves laughing, but they didn't enjoy taking the jug back to the bar. They told me later that I was barred from the pub for life. We got back to work and the boss took one look at us and sent us home.

I was finally able to go back into that pub a couple of years later after the management changed. I was sure that there were only 3 or 4 people around when I chundered, but plenty of people around these parts seem to like to boast that they were there the day of the 12 pot lunch - or in my case 11 point 5.

* * * * * * * Back to the top * * * * * * *

The Drought Breaker.
After several years as a leading vomiter in the area, I woke up one morning covered in chunder with no money left in my pockets and a whopping great hangover and decided that enough was enough and promptly retired from the sport of alcohol induced barfing. Over the years I had been lauded as a true champion in my field, but the time had come to grow up and grow old gracefully.

I cut back on my drinking and on the rare occasions that I enjoyed an ale or two, I learned to read the signs and just say no to that one last beer that had "this is the one that will make you chunder" written on it. Sure, I enjoyed a good laugh when others engaged in antics that lead to them spewing up great volumes of their insides, but I didn't miss it - not for one minute.

I'd had vomit-free periods before (the record being almost 17 months before it was ended at Planet Hollywood), but when I crossed the 3 year mark, I thought that I had finished for life.

I was wrong.

I was due to be married in February 2002 and when my friends gathered for the inevitable stag night, they plotted my downfall. I began training for the night weeks in advance. I ramped up my alcohol ingestion levels so that I would be able to handle a big night of drinking, but I was doomed from the start.

Kicking off at 5pm was probably a mistake, but some of the guys couldn't stay late, so I had to have a drink with them straight after work. Then just as they were leaving another wave of guys who worked out of town started to arrive and it became a steady stream of beer into my gullet. I was a little worried about the occasional shooter, but I managed to hang in there and by the time we hit the nudie bar around 9pm, I was holding up pretty well.

The crowd began to dwindle as midnight approached and I started to think that I was going to make it home intact. Then it happened. I noticed one of my groomsmen over at the bar having a lengthy discussion with the barmaid. Nothing unusual about that... but then he came over with a strangely coloured concoction in a big glass. It tasted like pineapple juice, but there was underlying kick to it. I drank about half of it and then discreetly dumped it. As soon as he noticed that it was gone he was back over with another one. I had maybe a third of it and then that old feeling came back to me. The others were getting ready to leave, but I knew I wouldn't survive the hour long trip home, so I made a beeline for the bathroom.

I opened the stall and lurched forward, only to find that someone had shat in there without flushing. I didn't know whether to laugh or cry, as in better circumstances the two little bobbing turds may have been quite amusing. However, the stench was horrendous and my fist crunched into the button, sending the turds swirling down the drains on their long journey to Werribee, followed closely by my projectile vomit of pure alcohol. I'd been drinking solidly for 7 hours with nothing to eat and now I was starting to pay the price. I heaved my guts out in there and after about 20 minutes, I managed to stagger back out into the bar.

We gathered the troops and headed outside to get a taxi. I sat in the back and was very quiet for the first 3/4 of the trip home. Then as we turned a corner I couldn't hang on any longer. I told the driver to pull over and luckily for him he did so pretty quickly. I had time to jump out and then hurled all over the nature strip. A nice little surprise for the people in that house when they come outside in the morning, but my mind was on other things.

I wiped the spew off my chin and got back in the taxi. The driver asked me if I was okay probably every 3 blocks. We were only 10 minutes from home and I managed to hang on. As soon as we pulled over I flung him some money and bolted up the stairs to kneel before the porcelain God and pray that he could forgive me for the past 3 years of non-worshipping.

Of course what I hadn't counted on was the reaction of my fiancee. I had hoped that she would be asleep. When I saw the lights come on I expected her to be horrified, but I was too sick to be discreet and continued calling ralph on the big white telephone. I staggered out of the bathroom and waited for a lecture or a tirade of abuse, instead she almost wet herself laughing and began to tease me. I was in no mood for jokes and felt as if I had some form of alcohol poisoning and was sure that I was going to die. I sat on the edge of the bed with my face buried in the wastepaper basket dry reaching. Instead of comforting me in my hour of need she ran off to grab the camera and came back giggling with glee.

We celebrated out first wedding anniversay recently, but my real anniversary was the week before. I think I puked enough that night to last me a life time. Now when I go out for a drink I have a quick look at the pictures she took that night before I leave and I always come home sober.

* * * * * * * Back to the top * * * * * * *

Got a story to tell?

Click on the button below to mail it to us here at and who knows, you might get to puke on the web!

Back to the top

Home  |   Vomit Pictures  |   Vomit Thesaurus  |   Links  |   The Vomit Shop  |   Email Us

(c) 1999-2003 POYT International