Vomit on the Freeway (And Why it's Kobe Bryant's Fault)

Let me just state right now, I effing HATE the Lakers. I was born in Sacramento and although I am not obligated to be a Kings fan, I have been raised to loathe those sell-out bastards and everything they stand for. I knew this would be a problem when I moved to their stomping grounds. What I did not count on was the fact that whenever they're in town (or the Clippers for that matter), they completely clog up the 10 freeway, turning my 15-30 minute commute into over an hour. On top of that mess, a Friday night rush hour commute in Los Angeles is already a colosseum-sized bitch.

Fuck the Lakers, man. Especially since they just beat the Kings.

Today, for a number of reasons, I developed a migraine. One I couldn't shake despite several rounds of tylenol, tums, and a dose of the big guns, exedrin (which is like crack to my caffeine-sensitive body. But dammit, if it doesn't work like a charm. Usually.) The migraine took its course and before I knew it, I was puking at work. Classy lady. My boss must have had a moment of clairvoyance because the second after I exited the bathroom, she called down from three floors above to see how I was feeling. I got to go home about ten minutes early, but still had to make the dastardly trek to my car in the far-off parking garage. My stomach was still disagreeing with me (it felt like the gastrointestinal equivalent of a Glenn Beck vs. Jon Stewart smackdown).

I prayed for decent traffic on the 10, so I could drive the ten miles home in relative haste. No such fucking luck. Goddamn Lakers. But tonight was bad even for Laker traffic. Five miles an hour, I swear to god. I tried to sing along to the radio, but that failed to distract me from my misery. So I called home (hoping to get some sympathy from my Mom). My Dad answered, and I told him about my current predicament. He just laughed. I didn't blame him. Finally I just asked him, "Do you think I could just stick my head out the window and let 'er rip?" To which he replied, "Go for it."

So I hung up the phone, because this was going to happen with or without my consent. I was stuck going less than ten miles an hour, with no time to merge off the freeway. So I indeed poked my head out the window and with little provocation, there was my half-digested salad and French toast lunch back for a visit from beyond the grave. I was still driving, mind you. (I am nothing if not the Queen of Multi-Tasking). Luckily I didn't veer too far out of my lane and for the first time that night I was grateful we were going so slow. I don't know if the other cars saw it happen. But I'm pretty sure one or two noticed the streak of vomit down the side of Stan's door.

I'd post a picture, but I'm pretty sure

that description is enough to make you feel queasy too.

The worst part was I didn't make it all the way out the window and basically slimed my entire sleeve and the interior of the door as well. And we were still going 5. miles. an hour, with 8 miles left to go. So I had to sit in my poor Stan, covered in regurgitated spinach (that smelled like rotten ranch dressing, just so you have the full sensory effect), for another 40 minutes at least. I called my dad back just to give him an update on the Situation, and we both had a good laugh. I was in pain, but I could still recognize how hilarious this all was. I had to drop the phone, ninja-style when I spotted a cop though. The last thing I needed after throwing up all over myself like some rookie sorority girl was a ticket for talking on my cell phone.

Finally I arrived at Crenshaw and parked. I immediately dashed into the house for some lemon-fresh Mr. Clean and paper towels. I pray that you will never have to know what it's like to scrape off stomach butter from your beloved car of seven years, whose more like a best friend than an automobile. So now I'm home, and thanks for asking, I feel remarkably better now that I've purged (in the most disgusting/amusing way possible).

This mother-fucker.

I'm thinking about suing the Lakers though for the cost of thoroughly detailing and washing my car. No, I think just make Mother-Effing Kobe clean Stan himself with his own goddamn golden toothbrush. They need to relocate the Staples Center to somewhere not directly on my way home, so I don't have to deal with their crap, especially when I'm feeling under the weather.