Parking Tigers, Hidden Dragons

(This post is continued from the previous post.)

Those skilled in the ancient art of Parking Tigers, know that discression is of great importance. A master always vomits alone, for they consider it a sacred ritual, and can hold their own hair back. That’s how skilled they are.

I had mastered the art of spewing in highschool, and was going for my knighthood in College. Chunder royalty indeed! I puked so often, I thought it would be fun to keep a tally. But after passing 20, before the first term was up, I stopped bothering.

After a decade of experience, I can now speak with authority on the topic. I’m an expert! Or a ‘spewspert’, if you will. For example… I’ll never be caught off-guard by an unexpected uprising. And the key is - to pay attention to the early warning signs: The growing twangs of nausea, the intense emotional denial where you think it’s not happening… then your breathing becomes more laboured, and eventually your saliva glands start to water.

Most people stay in denial right up until the moment they find themselves covered in barf, in the back seat of a taxi. Not me! You may deny your impending vomit all you want, but the minute those saliva glands start going off, it’s game over.

Most evenings after drinking, I return home and throw my fingers down my throat, just to save time… and spare myself the hours of nauseating corn hurling the following morning.

I’ve actually spewed from alcohol poisoning at every job I’ve ever had. From dish-pig, to television producer. The worst was when I was slicing ham in an industrial kitchen slicer. I’d have to excused myself to go to the bathroom and vomit, then return to the mesh glove and the ham. Mmmm. I remember when manning phones at an inbound call center, I’d have to hang up on callers so I could log out, and run to the ladies in time.

No friend or relative’s toilet has gone undecorated. Not even Ada’s.

Here’s a handy tip: Always drink lots of water between parking tigers. Because it’s much more enjoyable to spew water than to dry-heave.

On a couple of occasions, I spewed blood. This, coupled with the occasional intense liver pains, has ultimately led me to my current state. (Ordering mocktails and lapping milk from saucers if anyone calls me a pussy).

Currently, my alcohol tolerance is a joke. I can spew after two glasses of wine, or one…on an empty stomach. Last night I went for a cocktail with a friend, and felt nauseated all night.

I used to wish I’d been to rehab, so that I would have a legitimate excuse for being so straight edge. But luckily, with age comes confidence!!! Gaining a greater sense of knowing (and liking) who you are, means you can handle ‘not handling your alcohol’ with grace and charm.

Don’t get me wrong, I fucking love ME when I’m drunk. Who doesn’t. We are all fucking fabulous. But does anybody else think there’s something really wrong with that? Why does the brain waits until it’s had alcohol to feel this good?



Well in America (generally speaking) they don’t binge. If they do, it’s usually on a special occasion. Not just another Friday night. It’s a far cry from the Aussie blotto mentality. And I think I’ve figured out why. In Australia / Brittan, we drink to loose our inhibitions. In America… they don’t have any inhibitions! They already have all the confidence in the world, and are happy to make their intentions clear. Take it from me. Straight guys here approach women sober on the street.

And I say “Cheers to that!” After a decade of the complete opposite, I’m excited to be around people who don’t even notice I’m drinking coke instead of beer.

It does seem a shame to put my skills to waste though. A career’s councilor once said, look at what you’re good at. (Eating!!) and where you’re skills lie (spewing!!!) and that should give you the best indication of your future’s path. It’s good to know if my career in the arts turns to shit, then there’s always Bulemia.