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Puking is a sport. I first mastered the sport of puking when my friends Jon and Sheldon dared me to drink a pitcher of powdered milk. We were in fourth grade and the milk we drank during our school lunches was like the gulps of mucous that get stuck in your throat and have to be swallowed down, only larger. After drinking the milk, I went to the soccer field during recess, and immediately puked out the whole pitcher onto the field. I watched as the pigeons came by and ate all the puke. From there, I went into a long illustrious career of puking that spanned from fourth grade into my college years. Puking at cross country and track meets, puking when I ate spicy foods, puking when I ate too much ice cream, puking because of drinking or the spins, or plain old puking for puking's sake. The bottom line is filled with my signature in bits of puke. The Great Puke of 2001 was a very enjoyable puke. All the parents from my middle school were watching the sporting events as part of parents' weekend. I was in the lead at a race around all the football, soccer and field hockey fields, and just coming to the end of the course above where the varsity boys' soccer team played. I puked my guts out in the last few yards of the race, covering my shirt and shoes with pasta, all the parents looking on. Later that year, I put in my Olympian work in Italy. My family and I were at a restaurant in the middle of Rome, and I was sucking down a banana split sundae, my favorite kind. I wanted to leave early and go back to the hotel. Fighting threw the throngs of tourists, I got nervous and completely lost. My stomach ached and I knew what was coming: puke central. I made my way into a narrow alley of about 5 or 6 feet. All alone in the monstrous city, I let out a puke that echoed through Rome's 7 hills. The Track and Field Series spanning from 2002 until 2004 was another good one. Every practice in which my team ran intervals, I would keel over by the side of the track, puking in my spot near the football posts. My teammates learned to stay away from that area of the field. The Spins Trilogy at the Arts Haus in 2006 were undeniable classics. Why I kept convincing myself mixing weed and alcohol was a good idea after the first puke is beyond me. The disaster areas were contained to the Arts Haus' bathroom and two of my friend Bobby's chairs. The third, particularly heinous one, the one which had the most fanfare as the end of the trilogy, was described by many as "projectile vomiting." Lots of collataral damage occurred. Needless to say, I did not clean any of the puke from the Spins' Trilogy . And unlike the Bulls' first 3-peat, they were left to stand on their own merits. Of course, there was lots of other puking at the Arts Haus, mostly alcohol-related, especially any time I played King's Cup. King's Cup is a game where the loser has to drink an assortment of beers, liquors and other drink contraptions from a full red cup. One time my friend Sanjay refused, and I ended up drinking the last cup for him, then going immediately into the Arts Haus' sink and puking it up. It created a nice ambience with all the decorations the artists had going. These days, I am far passed my puking prime. Really, I am in my Arnold Palmer years, taking a few victory laps after such a fine career. That doesn't mean the puking is over, no, not by a long shot. I still get out their on
the greens every once in awhile, though I have never hit a hole-in-one. Those toilet seats are just too tricky.