Food disasters/horror stories

MajorRage

Christmas Eve 2000, after heading to the church and then the local, my all Australian flatmates proceeded to completely destroy me over a drinking game. Then, in some sort of lame effort to bring me back from the trashed, we all had some spicy KFC.
 
Christmas Day was a disaster. I ate one potato, and spent at one point an hour on the bog with a bucket in front of me, with it going badly from both ends. I strained so hard at one point I burst a blood vessel my eye. I had the shakes all over my body from the tensing up. 
 
Biggest hangover ever - check
Food poisoning - check
Spicy food - check
 
Never been so ill.

MajorRage

<blockquote class="ipsBlockquote" data-author="barbarian" data-cid="596729" data-time="1468556954">
<div>
 
Still canâ€™t believe the bar had a wall-less toilet. The humanityâ€¦
</div>
</blockquote>
 
Dunno why you were so bothered. I've shat many a time in a dunny like that, it's much much weirder for the other patrons I assure you.
 
Not sure why but that reminds me of the time the previous nights curry came a rumbling when I was in a dodgy-as-fuck bar in Puerto Galera in the Philippines. Probably 100 people in this bar, of which 80 were working girls, the other 20 fat white foreigners. Luckily the one bog in there was avilable and I locked myself in there and unleashed fury.
 
the place had no window, no a/c and was about 50 degrees and humid. I was stuck there for about 15 minutes whilst I sensed an angry mob was gathering outside. People were smashing on the door, and then when security was threatening to break it down, I finally manged to get a break. Opened the door to about 20 people looking at me. I was 100% soaked to the bone - all sweat, my hair was dripping like I'd been in a shower, and everybody was just looking at me with a "what the fuck" expression.
 
Security was none-impressed, but I hadn't really done anything wrong. After buying a round, they gave me a free t-shirt to change into so alls well that ends well, but I'm fucking glad nobody had a camera.

NTA

Oh, the old brown sauna eh? Hate that.
 
One day, having decided to walk to work (about 7km) as I'd dropped the car off for service, I chucked the backpack on and headed out on what was a cool and overcast day. I had a locker at work with fresh shirts and trousers so was set like a jelly.
 
By the time I cleared the first couple of hilly km, I got an appreciation of just how humid it was (nothing like the tropics, but sticky for this farm boy), and then the clouds got blown away. Fucking rookie mistake not checking the weather beforehand.
 
As I was getting near a local service station my breakfast got tired of waiting around, and rang the cookhouse triangle with a vengeance.
 
Didn't even look at the Indian bloke behind the counter, just raced into the disabled and let fly. No air con or windows in there for sure.
 
The rest of that 5km walk I was walking through a cloud of my own making. It was bad enough that I could still smell it despite a breeze picking up. Best, coldest shower I've ever had once I got to work.

Mokey

Only time I've ever thrown up because of alcohol was night of uni graduation when I went on a bad bender and mixed drinks. A bottle of still wine, bottle of sparkling wine, kahluas, beer, I drank it all. Managed to make it to the house toilet, but decorated the walls and floor. Being a tidy kiwi, I took a roll of loo paper and cleaned up. In the bathroom, someone walked past and said hey, you all right? I was ghost pale, had panda eyes, was shaking and probably did not smell beautiful, but I smiled and said 'fantastic'.
 
Unfortunately the following day I had to move back home from Auckland. Dad bought me a grapefruit Fruju which was manna, but also a lift plus which I didn't touch (sweet fizzy might have killed me or unleashed another demon) The motorway was torture, I spent the entire journey choking back bile, and when finally made it to my parents house, I rolled out onto the driveway and onto the lawn, and stayed there for about half an hour, just trying not to move or breathe.

Cookie

<blockquote class="ipsBlockquote" data-author="Mokey" data-cid="598143" data-time="1468920403">Only time I've ever thrown up because of alcohol was night of uni graduation when I went on a bad bender and mixed drinks. A bottle of still wine, bottle of sparkling wine, kahluas, beer, I drank it all. Managed to make it to the house toilet, but decorated the walls and floor. Being a tidy kiwi, I took a roll of loo paper and cleaned up. In the bathroom, someone walked past and said hey, you all right? I was ghost pale, had panda eyes, was shaking and probably did not smell beautiful, but I smiled and said 'fantastic'. 
 
Unfortunately the following day I had to move back home from Auckland. Dad bought me a grapefruit Fruju which was manna, but also a lift plus which I didn't touch (sweet fizzy might have killed me or unleashed another demon) The motorway was torture, I spent the entire journey choking back bile, and when finally made it to my parents house, I rolled out onto the driveway and onto the lawn, and stayed there for about half an hour, just trying not to move or breathe.</blockquote>
 
But what about the negative effects of alcohol

mariner4life

<blockquote class="ipsBlockquote" data-author="Mokey" data-cid="598143" data-time="1468920403">
<div>
Only time I've ever thrown up because of alcohol was night of uni graduation when I went on a bad bender and mixed drinks. A bottle of still wine, bottle of sparkling wine, kahluas, beer, I drank it all. Managed to make it to the house toilet, but decorated the walls and floor. Being a tidy kiwi, I took a roll of loo paper and cleaned up. In the bathroom, someone walked past and said hey, you all right? I was ghost pale, had panda eyes, was shaking and probably did not smell beautiful, but I smiled and said 'fantastic'.
 
Unfortunately the following day I had to move back home from Auckland. Dad bought me a grapefruit Fruju which was manna, but also a lift plus which I didn't touch (sweet fizzy might have killed me or unleashed another demon) The motorway was torture, I spent the entire journey choking back bile, and when finally made it to my parents house, I rolled out onto the driveway and onto the lawn, and stayed there for about half an hour, just trying not to move or breathe.
</div>
</blockquote>
Having spent years working in hospo, a woman who has only thrown up once from alcohol, despite spending formative years in Hamilton would be a fucking rarity i reckon.
 
 
If we're going to expand this to booze related spew stories, it could get real ugly. I've done myself over a couple of times really fucking badly.

NTA

<blockquote class="ipsBlockquote" data-author="mariner4life" data-cid="598238" data-time="1468969735">
<div>
If we're going to expand this to booze related spew stories, it could get real ugly. I've done myself over a couple of times really fucking badly. 
</div>
</blockquote>
 
More evolve than expand - this is the Fern, after all.
 
I've got a couple of pearlers, but honestly they give me bigger horror flashbacks than the burger incident...

dogmeat

Where to start.......

Hooroo

We went across on the Eurostar for France/AB's and took the 6am version I think. Start with a hippy of something that someone brought aboard and went through drinking in Paris until after the Tua/Lewis fight. I think it was nearly 24 hours on it without a break. (We ate up a storm as well)
 
Eurostar back the next morning after no sleep, I somehow got myself into the baggage compartment so I could lie down and sleep. Woke about an hour later sick as and not understanding where I was or where the door was.
 
Power chucked all over the baggage compartment. Nothing was spared. It was just complete caos!
 
I semi panicked once realising where I was but managed to let myself out without being noticed. Thankfully none us had luggage in there as we only overnighted. I still feel a touch guilty for that.

mariner4life

That's fucking evil

NTA

You still Liked it.

Hooroo

The funny thing about that night was a real light-weight and hangover extraordinaire kept up with me the whole way and was reasonably OK on the way back too.
 
We could never quite work out how that happened

mariner4life

evil can be funny too

Chris B.

<blockquote class="ipsBlockquote" data-author="Mokey" data-cid="598143" data-time="1468920403">
<div>
Only time I've ever thrown up because of alcohol was night of uni graduation when I went on a bad bender and mixed drinks.
</div>
</blockquote>
 
Conversely, the night of my graduation was extremely quiet.
 
The day before was quite interesting though. I was working as a box stacker in an apple packhouse to raise money to take off to the UK and it was my last day of work. The season was almost ended, so (nothing to do with me) the many ladies who worked there agreed that rather than bringing our ordinary lunches we should all bring a plate for "Plate Wednesday".
 
Now, Mike and Gary* found the work extremely boring (can't understand why), and got into the habit of going round to Mike's place to smoke dope at lunchtime, to get themselves through the afternoon. But, on the announcement of Plate Wednesday, Mike really lit up. "I'm going to bring a dope cake" he announced to the stacking team. Yeah right! Only a fucking idiot would bring a dope cake to Plate Wednesday.
 
Well, the great day dawned, and the first unfortunate occurrence was that Billy, the bad bastard who was foreman of the stacking team was away making one of his regular court appearances - I think this one was to do with a restraining order his sister was taking out due to Billy trying to sell her in the pub to some Russian seamen. And Ed was sick. So our team of six clowns was reduced to four. And Mike was proudly displaying his dope cake. It looked like a banana cake to me and I said so.
 
"Nah, nah, mate - it's a dope cake".
 
"Fucking bullshit. Only a fucking idiot would bring a dope cake to Plate Wednesday".
 
But, we were assured as to its authenticity and then morning tea time arrived. "Time for slice of the cake", said Mike, and he proceeded to divide the fucking thing into four. In an extraordinarily rare piece of good judgement (especially at that time), I said, "Well, if it really is a dope cake, I know you guys are dope fiends, so I'd better only have half a slice." However, John - the fourth guy - who was about 18, even wetter behind the ears, and had probably never smoked a joint in his life, helped himself to one of the large quarters. And for the next half hour - I was sent to stack off the long conveyor belt - all was well.
 
Then...I bent down to pick up a box and my arms telescoped to three times their usual length. Woohooo, not so good. I've still got about six hours of work and I'm badly stoned.
 
Mike appears at my shoulder.
 
"Fuck mate, how are ya?"
 
"Not good, Mike - I'm fucking stoned".
 
"Yeah, I know. I think I might have made the cake a bit strong.... John's completely out of it...".
 
We both looked across to where John was holding an apple box in the middle of the floor and walking in small, aimless circles.
 
"....in fact, I think I'd better go and help him".
 
Five minutes later, Mike reappears.
 
"John's fucked", he informs me. "He's been spewing in the toilets. He's had to go home".
 
"What, on his motorbike?", I'm incredulous, paranoid and still showing common sense, but it's too late to do anything about that now. Our team is down to three.
 
[A small technical interlude - when the apple boxes exit the glue machine they come down a short conveyor belt and one person has the job of sorting them onto different conveyors depending on the variety of apples stamped on the box - then they get stacked by grade].
 
Five minutes later, Mike is back. He's looking slightly worried.
 
"Fuck mate, can you see?" he asks me. "We can't read the labels on the boxes".
 
"We better fucking hope so, or we're fucked", I say, not optimistically. They're not clear, but I can do it and it's nearly lunch time by now.
 
We have no part of Plate Wednesday. We sprint to Mike's house and drink as much strong coffee as we can in an hour. Mike and I are slightly better. Gary still can barely speak. The afternoon is a fucking shambles, but we get through it. Towards the end the boss comes out and says to me, "I don't know what's wrong with you guys today, the pallets are a mess, there's all sorts of wrong boxes on the wrong pallets".
 
"Well, we are pretty short-handed", I say lamely.
 
"I know, but even so".
 
"You'd better talk to them, then", I say, selling Mike and Gary down the road. "I've been doing the splitting all afternoon". This is incredibly stupid, because I doubt Gary can yet talk back.
 
That evening, I have to drive to Christchurch with my parents and I'm still digesting the cake. My father keeps pestering me to take a turn at driving and I keep weakly pleading exhaustion from my hard day at the packhouse.
 
I spend most of my graduation day in a state of paranoia. I can't find a newspaper to find out whether John died in a motorbike accident or succumbed to marijuana poisoning. Not, that I'm worried about him, but it's going to spoil my UK trip if I have to stay in Nelson for the court case. 
 
Happily and remarkably he survives to no doubt make great contributions to humanity.
 
* Names have been changed to protect the guilty.

Hooroo

That is just brilliant. Had to shut the door to my office as I was laughing so much. Actually got a tear out of me when I read about the guy with the box doing circles.
 
When I was a student I worked at McD;s and during a break we all went out for a hooter (We were on a close). I was on the grill so I thought "What the hell" and got amongst. Bad move as not 20 mins later one of the girls flipped out and I was told to work front counter. The other dude on front counter was a dope pro from way back so he was handling the jandal and making fun of the situation and I could hear him taking the mickey out of the customers and of course I get the giggles and trying to serve. In the end, I had to leave a customer stranded while I bolted out the back to wet myself laughing.
 
It really was the most fun and exciting shift I ever did. I didn't repeat the episode but the others did every now and then.

Mokey

<blockquote class="ipsBlockquote" data-author="mariner4life" data-cid="598238" data-time="1468969735">
<div>
Having spent years working in hospo, a woman who has only thrown up once from alcohol, despite spending formative years in Hamilton would be a fucking rarity i reckon.
 
 
If we're going to expand this to booze related spew stories, it could get real ugly. I've done myself over a couple of times really fucking badly. 
</div>
</blockquote>
 
Um...I did not spend any of my formative years in Hamilton, just for the record.

mariner4life

ah, that explains much then. as you were

Mokey

That night taught me a valuable lesson about not mixing drinks. I don't think I could even look at wine for about a decade.
 
Nowadays I just stick to vodka and all is well.

JK

<blockquote class="ipsBlockquote" data-author="Chris B." data-cid="598264" data-time="1468976755">
<div> 
"Nah, nah, mate - it's a dope cake".
 
</div>
</blockquote>
 
 
Great story!
 
Actually reminded me of the time we had a couple of Mormons come a door knocking out our flat years back. One of the lads had the Lionel Muffins (that guy from Shortland Street) recipe book and had been working his way through it since receiving it for xmas. Anyway, he'd just whipped up a batch of fine muffins and these guys turned up, super pushy and wanted to come in. So we welcomed them in and offered up a cuppa and a muffin or two.
 
Anyway, they ended up playing playstation (Gran Tourismo) with us for a while before one of the guys fell sleep and started drooling all over the couch. Ushered them out as we had places to go but ended up driving past them down the street about 10mins later and the sleepy guy was now lying on the berm outside some house while the other guy was trying to put the chain back on his bike! We just cracked up.
 
<img src="https://www.artybees.co.nz/sites/default/files/imagecache/product_full/product_covers/53708_Hoffman-Vicki_Lionels-Muffins---Treats-from-Neon-Pacifica.jpg" alt="53708_Hoffman-Vicki_Lionels-Muffins---Tr">

MN5

<blockquote class="ipsBlockquote" data-author="Chris B." data-cid="598264" data-time="1468976755">
<div>
Conversely, the night of my graduation was extremely quiet.
 
The day before was quite interesting though. I was working as a box stacker in an apple packhouse to raise money to take off to the UK and it was my last day of work. The season was almost ended, so (nothing to do with me) the many ladies who worked there agreed that rather than bringing our ordinary lunches we should all bring a plate for "Plate Wednesday".
 
Now, Mike and Gary* found the work extremely boring (can't understand why), and got into the habit of going round to Mike's place to smoke dope at lunchtime, to get themselves through the afternoon. But, on the announcement of Plate Wednesday, Mike really lit up. "I'm going to bring a dope cake" he announced to the stacking team. Yeah right! Only a fucking idiot would bring a dope cake to Plate Wednesday.
 
Well, the great day dawned, and the first unfortunate occurrence was that Billy, the bad bastard who was foreman of the stacking team was away making one of his regular court appearances - I think this one was to do with a restraining order his sister was taking out due to Billy trying to sell her in the pub to some Russian seamen. And Ed was sick. So our team of six clowns was reduced to four. And Mike was proudly displaying his dope cake. It looked like a banana cake to me and I said so.
 
"Nah, nah, mate - it's a dope cake".
 
"Fucking bullshit. Only a fucking idiot would bring a dope cake to Plate Wednesday".
 
But, we were assured as to its authenticity and then morning tea time arrived. "Time for slice of the cake", said Mike, and he proceeded to divide the fucking thing into four. In an extraordinarily rare piece of good judgement (especially at that time), I said, "Well, if it really is a dope cake, I know you guys are dope fiends, so I'd better only have half a slice." However, John - the fourth guy - who was about 18, even wetter behind the ears, and had probably never smoked a joint in his life, helped himself to one of the large quarters. And for the next half hour - I was sent to stack off the long conveyor belt - all was well.
 
Then...I bent down to pick up a box and my arms telescoped to three times their usual length. Woohooo, not so good. I've still got about six hours of work and I'm badly stoned.
 
Mike appears at my shoulder.
 
"Fuck mate, how are ya?"
 
"Not good, Mike - I'm fucking stoned".
 
"Yeah, I know. I think I might have made the cake a bit strong.... John's completely out of it...".
 
We both looked across to where John was holding an apple box in the middle of the floor and walking in small, aimless circles.
 
"....in fact, I think I'd better go and help him".
 
Five minutes later, Mike reappears.
 
"John's fucked", he informs me. "He's been spewing in the toilets. He's had to go home".
 
"What, on his motorbike?", I'm incredulous, paranoid and still showing common sense, but it's too late to do anything about that now. Our team is down to three.
 
[A small technical interlude - when the apple boxes exit the glue machine they come down a short conveyor belt and one person has the job of sorting them onto different conveyors depending on the variety of apples stamped on the box - then they get stacked by grade].
 
Five minutes later, Mike is back. He's looking slightly worried.
 
"Fuck mate, can you see?" he asks me. "We can't read the labels on the boxes".
 
"We better fucking hope so, or we're fucked", I say, not optimistically. They're not clear, but I can do it and it's nearly lunch time by now.
 
We have no part of Plate Wednesday. We sprint to Mike's house and drink as much strong coffee as we can in an hour. Mike and I are slightly better. Gary still can barely speak. The afternoon is a fucking shambles, but we get through it. Towards the end the boss comes out and says to me, "I don't know what's wrong with you guys today, the pallets are a mess, there's all sorts of wrong boxes on the wrong pallets".
 
"Well, we are pretty short-handed", I say lamely.
 
"I know, but even so".
 
"You'd better talk to them, then", I say, selling Mike and Gary down the road. "I've been doing the splitting all afternoon". This is incredibly stupid, because I doubt Gary can yet talk back.
 
That evening, I have to drive to Christchurch with my parents and I'm still digesting the cake. My father keeps pestering me to take a turn at driving and I keep weakly pleading exhaustion from my hard day at the packhouse.
 
I spend most of my graduation day in a state of paranoia. I can't find a newspaper to find out whether John died in a motorbike accident or succumbed to marijuana poisoning. Not, that I'm worried about him, but it's going to spoil my UK trip if I have to stay in Nelson for the court case. 
 
Happily and remarkably he survives to no doubt make great contributions to humanity.
 
* Names have been changed to protect the guilty.
</div>
</blockquote>
 
Fuck me this thread just keeps getting better and better doesn't it ? This story may have beaten them all which is a hell of an effort cos there's been some top yarns here.
 
Talking about shitting and spewing really does beat sports talk......

The Silver Fern

Food disasters/horror stories