It's Personal: You Decide... Not Feeling So Well

One of these stories is true. The other isn't. Can you guess which happened to me?

A friend of ours worked for a magazine, one of those local periodicals that waxes poetic about all things Seattle. A common by-product of his employment with the magazine was a plethora of certificates to local establishments, not to mention invitations to food and wine tastings. He invited Joseph and me to one of the latter. A nice little spot near the Fremont bridge. They served seafood that night. I remember only because I had the taste stuck to the roof of my mouth for what seemed to be days following the 'incident'. Ah yes, the incident. It had to do with wine tasting. I started with a white of some kind. Perhaps a Pinot Grigio, one of my favorites. And then I followed with another white. I think a Riesling. A Pinot Gris. A Merlot. A Syrah. And then a Cabernet Sauvignon that reminded me of the old man. So, I kept drinking it. Having a grand old time. Until the room started going wobbly. It was worse than the effect of any hard alcohol I'd ever imbibed. It hit like a freight train. I told Joseph I was ready to go. And so we packed ourselves into our friend's car. A Toyota, I seem to remember. We almost made it. Back to our apartment, that is. Or maybe we didn't. I don't really recall. What I do recollect is getting terribly ill in the car. What was most remarkable was my ability to catch nearly all of the 'whoopsed cookies' in the jacket I held on my lap, thus saving the car of said friends from a vomitous experience.

It was around this time of the year. Joseph and I made our annual trek to the Puyallup Fair, a local fair many times the size of the North Haven Fair (contextualization for those in Connecticut). At the fair, we saw gourds and sheep and booths with rigid basketball hoops. In addition, there was food, glorious food. A hamburger the size of a frisbee, a treat I tried but didn't finish. There were cow chips - huge cookies - and corn dogs and cones of delicious ice cream. Let's just say I splurged a tad. Okay, more than a tad. We walked around a while after gorging ourselves, convincing ourselves that a healthy trot would work off the billions of calories we had ingested. We played a few games, saw a few more gourds, and mooed at cows. But we couldn't avoid the inevitable. Joseph was becoming impatient. It was time for the rides. Thinking we had sufficiently cleared our stomachs, we headed for the 'easier' rides first. The water floo. The Scrambler and the Spyder. A number of other whirly rides, to boot. And none caused any issues. We tried our luck with the rickety roller coaster. And then with that weird ride that sucks you to the wall while the floor drops out from under you. Still no sign of an issue. Free and clear, we thought. We thought. Then we decided to go on the Pirate Ship. You know, that ship that swings like a pendulum. Until it gets enough momentum to make a full rotation. I was okay after the first full rotation. But on the way up in the midst of the second rotation, I witnessed a phenomenon I hope never to witness again. I watched as a reformed conglomerate of cow chips, hamburger, ice cream, French fries, and other assorted fried foods ascended into the air. It came to its apex and fell in a kind of gelatinous blob on the floor of the ride, splattering the shoes of all within a five-foot radius. Completely embarrassed, I exited stage left as quickly as I was able. And headed to the next ride...