Listen Here, Pukey Pants...

We've all been there.  It's a good night...  The beers are flowin', the drinks are endless, the shots keep comin'.  You don't even know what time it is because you are just enjoying the sweet sounds of Lil' Jon at the bar. "Shots shots shots shots shots shots."  (Because who knows the rest of the words besides the chorus.)

Then it hits you.  Barf.

Let's talk about your options.  You can find a garbage can.  You can run to the bathroom.  And, most likely you have bushes outside.  We'll call this a plethora of options.  A PLETHORA.


But, where do you upchuck?  ON the bar.


It's not just that you've expelled the contents of your stomach on my bar, you think you can hide it. You can wipe it off, blame it on the guy next to you, and try to convince me that it's not really vomit, but we all know it's you.


How?


It's this magical sixth sense I have.  It's my super power.  I can read your mind, but only when it comes to drunk hurling.  It's something right out of an M. Night. Shamalan movie.  (Plot twist!)

Listen here, Mr. Pukey Eyes, YOU HAVE PUKEY EYES.  Plus, that crunk juice you insisted upon having (since Lil Jon was so convincing, via the jukebox) has been recycled from your stomach to dribbling down your chin.


Now, here is where things get messy.  Literally and figuratively.  You puke, you clean.  I am not your maid, your mother, or a janitor, so get your barf off my bar.


You want to go Mt. Vesuvius on my time?  You better pull a serious Cinderella and learn to summon all the forest creatures to make things spotless because all the help you get from me will be a bucket and a sponge (and probably a kick in the butt to help you out the door) sans sympathy.  I'm not cleaning that up, but you better believe I'm going back to middle school rules.


Whoever spews it, shampoos it.