eBook
Available on Compatible NOOK devices, the free NOOK App and in My Digital Library.
Related collections and offers
Overview
Product Details
| ISBN-13: | 9781466882768 |
|---|---|
| Publisher: | St. Martin's Publishing Group |
| Publication date: | 10/07/2014 |
| Sold by: | Macmillan |
| Format: | eBook |
| Pages: | 96 |
| File size: | 2 MB |
About the Author
Elissa Stein is the author of Chunks.
Elissa Stein’s publishing projects include NYC adventures with kids, interactive thank you notes, and visual histories of iconic pop culture—two of which were featured in Entertainment Weekly’s Must Have list. In addition to writing, she runs her own graphic design business. She lives in the West Village with her husband Jon and their children, Izzy and Jack. She is the coauthor of such titles as Awfully Wedded, Tales from the Prom, and Chunks: A Barfology.
Kevin Leslie is the co-author of Chunks: a Barfology.
Read an Excerpt
Chunks
A Barfology
By Elissa Stein, Kevin Leslie, Jon Lichtenstein
St. Martin's Press
Copyright © 1997 Elissa Stein and Kevin LeslieAll rights reserved.
ISBN: 978-1-4668-8276-8
CHAPTER 1
Chunks Thesaurus, Part I
antiperistalsis
barf
bark at the ants
blow cheese
blow chunks
blow din-din
blow doughnuts
blow foam
blow groceries
blow lunch
boak
bog
boot
bow down before the porcelain god
brack
bring it up for a vote
bring up
call dinosaurs
call for huey
catch it on the rebound
chew your fries some more
chuck
chuck a pizza
chunder
chuck a dummy
chunk chowder
clean house
decorate pavement
deliver a street pizza
disgorge
dry heaves
dump
earl
egestion
Introduction
It was just another idea at a three o'clock coffee break. It started out as Barf-o-rama. The Barf Book. A collection of vomit stories. Just another idea. But the name Chunks appeared and suddenly it became real. We saw the possibilities.
We put together a questionnaire and handed a few out.
Within half an hour we got one of the funniest, vilest, most embarrassing stories we've ever heard. And they kept coming. It seemed as if everyone wanted to share their most intimate moments of regurgitation.
People called, faxed, and e-mailed us at home and at work. Friends and acquaintances, who had friends and acquaintances, all wanted to submit stories.
We designed a comp, wrote a proposal, got an agent. The pieces fell into place. It was synchronicity. This was a book waiting to happen.
Who knew that this little offbeat project would hit a nerve. We repulsed, reviled, offended, and disgusted just about every major publisher in NYC. But, fortunately, someone shared our vision: That humor can be found in the most unlikely places. That embarrassment is universal. That we all vomit.
Welcome to Chunks.
Lis and Kev
graham
Disco Daddies
(car trunk)
It was just another normal Friday night in Denver until my friend Jon showed up at my door. He was dressed in full disco regalia: platform shoes, bell-bottoms, polyester shirt with superlong collars and cool shades. Tonight was the night to pay tribute to John Travolta. I bobbed my head up and down in agreement and launched a search through my closet for an appropriate outfit. While I pieced one together, Jon called more friends and told them to meet us in half an hour at my place dressed in disco riot gear.
I found my quintessential seventies garb: green bellbottoms, a cheezy patterned, long-collared, silver-ring zip-front polyester shirt, platform shoes, assorted chains, a medallion, and my prized Afro wig. Looking in the mirror, I was ready to take on the world, or rent Saturday Night Fever. As I strolled back into the living room, Jon had a bottle of vodka on the table; his cheeks were bright red, the sign he had already had a few. I sat down, cracked open a beer, and we awaited the rest of the crew.
By the time five more people showed up dressed to the teeth in truly ugly seventies attire, Jon was well beyond tipsy. A few minutes later, and with help from his friends, the bottle was empty. Jon was polluted. Mike, the sober driver for the evening, announced it was time to get moving. We all piled into his Honda Accord. There was no more room inside for Jon, so he hopped in the trunk. First stop? Burger King drive-thru.
There was a line of cars waiting to order as we pulled up. Mike popped in his Rockin' in the 70's CD and was playing it so loud I thought my eardrums would explode. As the line slowly moved, an old couple pulled up behind us. Mike shouted that they were pointing at us with a horrified look on their faces. Then it happened. A two-second break between songs was filled with a muffled thumping noise. Mike turned the stereo down only to hear Jon screaming from the trunk, "I'm going to puke, open the trunk NOW!" I opened my door immediately so I wouldn't miss the show. Sure enough, as I climbed out of the car, the trunk opened and Jon proceeded to barf his dinner all over the hood of the old people's car. When he was finished, he crouched back down and closed the trunk. I heard the woman scream and the man threaten to call the police. I didn't really blame the guy. If some disco freak popped out of a trunk and blew chunks all over the hood of my car, I'd be hopping mad.
Needless to say, we got our food and sped away to the safety of downtown Denver.
brian
Yams
(thanksgiving dinner)
It was the first Thanksgiving at my grandmother's house. I was ten years old, finally old enough to sit at the formal oak dining table big enough to seat my entire twenty-four-person family. The table was decked out with Grandma's best linen, china, and "the family silver."
I remember being embarrassed by nearly every one of my "unknown relatives," who thought it was "so cute" that I was now "sitting with the grown-ups." After we sat down and gave thanks for the bountiful blessing, Grandpa started the electric carving knife, which officially began the festivities.
As each platter was passed, my mom put a portion of food on my plate; mashed potatoes, string beans, cranberry sauce, some turkey, and Grandma's famous candied yams.
I took one look at the yams and said, "Pass," but she dropped a couple of medium-sized yams on my plate saying, "You have to try a little bit of everything," and set the yam-laden plate in front of me. I sat there looking at the glazed, jaundiced-colored lump of yam. The sweet-sickening yam smell made me turn toward Aunt Sophie, who was, at that moment, packing a yam into her mouth, and taking in a copious amount of lipstick with it. My mom gently put her hand on my shoulder, leaned over and whispered in my ear, "At least let Grandma see you taste her yams, so you won't hurt her feelings."
I looked at the yam, then at my mom, and said, "Trust me on this one, it'll make me sick."
Narrowing her eyes and pursing her lips, she whispered, "Taste the damn yam."
I picked up my fork and stabbed a piece of yam and brought it to my lips. By now, twenty-three sets of eyes were watching, especially Grandma, who sat motionless, waiting for my approval. I held my breath, put the yam in my mouth, squished it down with my tongue, swallowed hard, and quickly washed it down with milk.
The relatives gave a few grunts of relief, joy, and approval, then continued eating. My mom turned back to her plate, unfolded her napkin and said, "That wasn't so bad, now was it?" I attempted to respond, but gagged and vomited back up the milk and the yam with cranberry sauce all over my plate and in the platter of yams.
I spent the rest of the evening lying on Grandma's bed with a wet rag on my forehead. Although nobody ever tried to feed me yams again, the legend of Grandma's famous yams has grown considerably.
chuck
Turtle Wax
(el dorado)
I was a freshman in college and spent a late night doing vodka shots and beer chasers with a group of heavy-drinking upperclassmen.
The next morning, my roommate dragged me out of bed for class, (I hadn't yet learned that they were only technically mandatory). With a massive hangover, a throbbing headache, and an unsettled stomach, I got into the passenger seat of his classic red El Dorado, which he loved to polish and kept in great condition.
My head was pounding. The thought of sitting through history made me suddenly nauseous, but I managed to roll down the window in time to puke all the way to the student parking lot.
Feeling better, I managed to get through the day. That night, my roommate and I laughed at the memory of me trailing my guts out the window. He congratulated me for not spoiling his leather upholstery.
He wasn't so kind the next morning when he noticed the runny, splotchy, pink stains streaming down the outside of the passenger side door where my acid vomit had eaten through his new red car finish.
butch
HOT SPOT
(china club)
I've known my buddy Dave since we were eight years old. He's the type of guy who keeps in touch with everybody he's ever met. Two summers ago he decided to throw a blowout reunion party at the China Club, a nightclub in Manhattan, and sent invitations to all our friends and past acquaintances.
The morning of the party we got nervous about seeing our old girlfriends and classmates again, so we headed out to Central Park to play basketball and kill time. It was ninety-five degrees, sticky, hot, and humid, and we both forgot to bring water or money, so we had to hold off on rehydrating or eating until we got back to Dave's. All he had in his apartment was a bag of Cheez Doodles, some chocolate fudge Pop-Tarts, and a bottle of cheap vodka.
Starving and dehydrated, we finished off the vodka, straight with a little ice, polished off the Cheez Doodles, and scarfed the Pop-Tarts. Suddenly, it was 7:30 P.M., and we had to fly. The party was starting at eight.
We were wasted even before we left Dave's house. In the cab, we got even messier, laughing and getting psyched for a great night meeting old friends. The hilarity continued. Barely capable of balancing on the backseat, we rolled on the floor, smashing into the front seat divider and side windows every time the cabby turned the corner or hit the brakes.
We pulled up to the China Club, and, as I struggled out of the cab, the realization hit that the world outside had completely changed. I was unable to form comprehensible sentences or balance on two feet. Stumbling down the stairs of the club and through the narrow entrance, I tripped over a bench right inside the doorway. I sat, telling myself that if I stayed totally still, everything would stop spinning and I would sober up. A few friends noticed my unease and attempted to drag me to the bathroom.
It was too late. I keeled over and discharged salty orange-fudgy Pop-Tart crunchy vomit across the entire vestibule as everyone I ever knew in my entire life paraded by me, one by one, tracking my mess into the party.
I really don't recall much of the party beyond that tiny vestibule or who was there that night, but the most frequently asked question I get from old acquaintances is not whether I'm married or how's the job, but "Been to the China Club lately?"
Danielle
HOT DOG SPEW REVIEW
(papa d's)
Back in college, an evening out at the bar often took the place of dinner. That July night was no different: I had skipped dinner in favor of going out, and by midnight, I was really drunk and really hungry. And for some odd reason, I was craving a hot dog.
Only on the drunkest occasions did my friends and I visit Papa D's, possibly the slimiest hot dog hut in the city. After enough liquor, we were willing to forget about a wiener's mysterious ingredient list, and just dig the salty meaty goodness of a dog with all the trimmings.
Lining up at the greasy little counter, I ordered up a jumbo with everything — ketchup, mustard, relish, onions, peppers, and cheese — and a side of fries. My sister, who was visiting for the weekend, gave me a weird look and sort of slurred, "I thought you hated onions." I assured her that I had come to love onions, almost boasting of my newly expanded collegiate palate.
Once at home, I gulped down my dog and fries in record speed, feeling instantly sated and really, really tired. Then a burning sensation started to creep across my chest, tightening with each breath I took. I could taste bile in the back of my throat, and the now-unpleasant taste of onions.
Groaning, I ran to the bathroom and stuck my head over the toilet, waiting for the relief that only the reappearance of my jumbo special with fries could bring. I retched, but only a thin trickle of sour, onion-flavored spittle escaped my lips. Oh, the onions. I knew from experience that only a thorough purge could rid me of this heartburn agony.
Needing relief, I grabbed my toothbrush. A vigorous brushing of the back of my tongue effectively induced the much-needed release. I spewed for what seemed like hours, and it was a painful, chunky hurl that plopped into the commode with big, hollow splashes. In my drunken eagerness, I had eaten so fast that I hadn't really chewed very well; I peered into the bowl, and I saw a few fries floating around completely intact. After my puke-fest, I got back into bed and I felt much better. My heartburn was gone, but I couldn't get rid of the nasty postpuke burning in my throat and my nose. I kept hacking, clearing my throat, but I couldn't get rid of the taste and the burn. As I blew my nose, an intense pain shot through my head and my eyes began to water. I looked down at the Kleenex, and there among the folds of used tissue was the twisted end of my jumbo dog, about an inch or so long, looking just like it did when it peeked from the sides of its sesame-seed bun. I screamed, and my roommates ran in. I showed them the evidence and they just stared, speechless, unable to verbalize what had happened — I had blown a huge piece of Oscar Meyer wiener through my nose. My sister just looked at me and said, "Sick."
darryl
The Blues
(G.W.B.)
I was on a break from college and hanging with some friends from home. On our big night out we piled into my friend Brad's van and cruised to New York City for a night of heavy reminiscing, beer, and the blues. Our favorite local band, Papa Chubby, was playing in a West Village club and the drinks were flowing. By 3 a.m. we were pretty soused, except Brad, the designated driver.
As we staggered out of the bar, I was slow to yell "shotgun" and got stuck sitting in the backseat, squished in the middle.
We had to go through a really dangerous part of town to get to the George Washington Bridge and the suburbs of New Jersey. Brad was driving really fast, trying to make all the green lights so we wouldn't have to stop until we got out of the city. He was flying over potholes, and all the bouncing in the backseat did me in. I told Brad to stop the van so I could get out and puke.
He refused, saying, "Are you kidding? Do you know where we are?"
Actually, I didn't, my eyes were fixed on my lap where I was trying to control the spins and my saliva flow. Brad shouted at me to hold on until we crossed the bridge and got to the jersey side.
We drove onto the bridge and everyone breathed a sigh of relief except me. I couldn't hold it any longer. I pulled my shirt over my face, catching about a quart of liquid spew in my T-shirt, which I cradled between my arms. The guys went nuts, yelling and screaming for Brad to stop the van, which he did, in the left lane of the George Washington Bridge. Fortunately, there was very little traffic.
Vomit was seeping quickly through my shirt and dripping onto my legs. I jumped out of the van, ran across two lanes, and flung the strained chunks over the side.
It wasn't enough. Stinking, sticky, and wretched, I stripped off my shirt, jacket, and pants and threw them over the side of the bridge and ran back across the two lanes of traffic in my underwear, ignoring the fall temperature and the stares of people driving by.
If that wasn't bad enough, my mother was waiting up for me when I got home.
eddie
Excuse Me
(barf bag)
It was the last day of an amazing vacation in Aruba with my girlfriend, Allison. We decided to totally indulge ourselves, hanging around the pool and getting the most of our all-inclusive vacation.
This started at the "all you can eat" buffet breakfast. I made multiple trips to the omelette station, the waffles and whipped cream bar, the carving section, the bagel buffet, the edible fruit displays, and the pastry tables. Then we went directly to the pool bar for some after-breakfast tropical drinks. We spent the next four hours sunning, floating, slurping, and burping under a blazing sun and ninety-plus-degree temperature.
Around three-thirty, we dragged ourselves away from the pool for last-minute frantic packing. Apprehensive about airline cuisine, we called the concierge, who had several selections from the local Pizza Hut delivered to our room.
We barely made it onto the plane in time. I fell into the window seat with a growing realization that the last-minute run through the airport, the stress of almost missing our plane, the ninety-plus heat, the Pizza Hut, the tropical drinks, pool snacks, and the eight-course breakfast were perhaps not the best way to prepare myself for the long flight back to New York.
There was no air-conditioning in the cabin as we waited for clearance to take off. The temperature on the tarmac was 110 degrees. Feeling absolutely polluted, I slumped over and fell asleep.
(Continues...)
Excerpted from Chunks by Elissa Stein, Kevin Leslie, Jon Lichtenstein. Copyright © 1997 Elissa Stein and Kevin Leslie. Excerpted by permission of St. Martin's Press.
All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
Excerpts are provided by Dial-A-Book Inc. solely for the personal use of visitors to this web site.
Table of Contents
Contents
Title Page,Copyright Notice,
Dedication,
Epigraph,
Chunks Thesaurus, Part I,
Introduction,
Graham: Disco Daddies,
Brian: Yams,
Chuck: Turtle Wax,
Butch: Hot Spot,
Danielle: Hot Dog Spew Review,
Darryl: The Blues,
Eddie: Excuse Me,
Chunks Thesaurus, Part II,
Elise: Sweet Shot,
Peter: I Didn't Even Like Apples,
Lis: 2 End Bend,
Gail: Pompoms,
Gail: The Playtex 18-Hour Girdle,
George: Dinner,
George: Cherry Lee,
Glennster: Machismo,
Ian: Enlightenment,
James: Strawberry Laces,
Jon: Europass,
Jedd: Chug-A-Keg,
Jim: A Close Shave,
John: Tinkerbell,
Chunks Thesaurus, Part III,
Josh: Screw Your Roommate,
K-Man: First Impressions,
Krigel: First Time,
Leche: Quarters,
Linda: Roommates,
Lis: Vector Spew,
Madame X: Body Heat,
Scott: Reverse Diarrhea,
Stephanie: Panama,
Ted: Purple Haze,
Willy: Tilt-A-Whirl,
Chunks Thesaurus, Part IV,
Jon: Bug Juice,
Elise: Hostage Situation,
Thanks,
About the Authors,
Copyright,