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My dorm freshman year at Drexel was only three floors, but it had a courtyard in the middle where we could smoke. And smoke I did. There was also a little alcove to stand in when it was raining, which was pretty sweet. We didn't have smoking rooms in the dorm, so every morning I would go out to the courtyard for my first cigarette of the day. One rainy Saturday morning/afternoon (whatever, when I woke up), I stood in the alcove smoking a cigarette, and I kept smelling vomit. I looked out across the courtyard (which wasn't that big) in the plant troughs and picnic benches and I couldn't see any. I even looked behind me, but nothing in the corners of the alcove either. I still smelled it. It was probably the worst vomit-related smell I have ever experienced. Since I couldn't find it, I decided to stop caring, flicked my cigarette, and started to walk. I took a few steps and my foot slipped a little, like I had just stepped in dog shit. Being that dogs aren't allowed in the dorm, I was kind of confused. I looked at the bottom of my shoe, pinkish whitey shit all over the bottom. I looked at the ground behind me and there were pinkish footprints leading from the alcove. Also, the rain wasn't washing them away, just making them wet and more disgusting. "What the fuck?" I said out loud because seriously, what the fuck? I look in the alcove where I was standing, and what do I see? The biggest pile of fucking vomit I have ever seen in my life. With, of course, two footprints in the middle of it. My footprints. This vomit couldn't even have human origins, or so I thought. It was about three feet wide, perfectly circular, and rose about two inches (I'm guessing, I wasn't about to break out my ruler) thick in the middle of it. Oh, and IT WAS FUCKING PINK. Pink. Pink, pink, pink. How the hell was it pink, you ask? I have no fucking idea, but it was. It looked like a giant, pink western omelette. It's actually the reason why I can't eat omelettes anymore. I think of the sight and smell of that abomination. I was waiting for it to come to life and eat my soul. Anyway, I asked around for a little bit, some people saw it, but no one would own up to it. Fast forward a week or two. Metal Kid was hanging out in our dorm. Someone happened to mention the vomit I stepped in because it was still there. Metal Kid then said it was his. Apparently, the night before I got it all over my shoes (which I had to throw the fuck out), he was hanging out with some other people in our dorm (side note: people had to get signed in if they were from another dorm. We rarely signed Metal Kid in because once we did, we couldn't get rid of him. He was like the guy on the couch, only more metal. So he would get his boys from the first floor to sign him in and then HANG OUT WITH US. All the time.). Anyway, he was hanging out with those goobers, and he drank an entire half-gallon bottle of Southern Comfort by himself. Then he puked in the alcove. A lot. He thought it was funny. He didn't know why it was pink, though. He said he doesn't remember much from that night, which is understandable. This was not so much as an inconvenience but a curse. A curse on all who dwelled within Myers Hall. That vomit was there for THREE MONTHS before it was finally washed away. Two maintenance guys (Homer Simpson and Gutman) tried to get rid of it after it was there for about a month and a half. They were unsuccessful, albeit they didn't try too hard. They just poured a bucket of bleach on the plague. All that did was spread the vomit out. A lot. Then they gave up. Here's some side-info on Gutman and Homer Simpson, the two biggest fucking retards to hold a non-fast food job ever. Gutman had a Terry Stash and a mullet in progress (a "Terry stash" is a Hulk Hogan stash). He would rollerblade around in circles in the basketball court across the street. Every so often (most likely to try impressing a college girl so he'd finally lose his virginity) he would try rollerblading backwards. Then he'd fall on his ass and we'd all point and laugh. My friend Drea and I used to stay up all night in the lounge watching TV and doing homework, but I mainly did it so I wouldn't sleep through my 9:00 class everyday (consequently making me get to class and sleep through it, but that's another story). Around 5:30 every day, Gutman would stumble in before his shift and pass out on these disgusting orange plastic couches that were in there. They were uncomfortable as hell, but Gutman didn't mind. His gut would hang out, because no mortal T-shirt could possibly contain that mountain of girth, and every time he moved his gut would rub against the plastic and make this disgusting squeak noise. That's Gutman. As for Homer Simpson, he looked like a real-life Homer Simpson and was a lot fucking dumber, if you can believe that. I have no good stories about him alone, though, because you'd never see him unless he was playing grab-ass with Gutman. Here's the stupidest thing they did right in front of me. There were metal lights in the courtyard that came out of the ground and were about three feet tall. The one next to the picnic table that my friends and I declared as ours was crooked and bent in half a little bit. Since it was these two morons' job to fix shit like that, they came out with a screwdriver and stared at it silently for about five minutes, scratching their heads and chins like a monkey at a typewriter. A friend and I were sitting on our picnic bench smoking two feet away while this shameful display of ineptitude was happening. After a pathetic five minutes of pondering, Gutman poked it with his screwdriver. It rocked back and forth a little bit, and then Homer Simpson, hand-on-chin, said, "Hmm... That must get hot." The way he said it was extremely dopey. He sounded like a character from a Bugs Bunny cartoon that would say, "Which way did he go, George, which way did he go." Exactly. Then Gutman grunted and they both walked away. The light remained broken for the rest of the time I was living there. Anyway, sorry for the tangent. Metal Kid's vomit was a curse in that the stench of it filled the alcove, preventing us from going in there until it finally faded away after three months. If it was raining or snowing or really windy and we were trying to smoke a bowl out there, the alcove was like the Forbidden Zone or some shit. It was horrible, and I can still smell it sometimes. |