I'd Forgotten About Ralph

I vomited Saturday night.

It’d been years since I had been treated to the body-racking trauma and I’d forgotten its gruesome details. A Tabasco-laced midnight snack, which had been unrefrigerated for a couple hours, got the party started. A slimy sweat, accompanied by fifteen minutes of nausea, immediately set in.

Blood may not have sprung from my ears, but I know for certain that vile fluids shot out of every other orifice. Fortunately, it was over quickly. Perhaps the biggest indignity was clearing the small food particles that had entered my nasal passages during the violent uprising.

Today, only my throat remains sore. I sound like gravel-voiced Michael Garozzo pitching his restaurant. I may not be up for a feast in the place "where chicken speidini began" for another day or two.