Vox Vomitus

Vox Vomitus
by Ronald Matthew Kelly
Copyright 2007


“Bwaaaugh!”

This is as close as I can come to rendering into English the sound of my alcoholic retching.

As I lean against my car, in the dimly lit parking lot of my favorite honky-tonk, my stomach heaving, I think to my self:

“Well Ronald, here you are at nearly one thirty in the morning, having once again closed the bar. Once again you have abused your body to its’ limits. Far too much alcohol. Way too many cigarettes. Not nearly enough sleep. Why do you punish yourself in this fashion? What have you to show for your efforts, but high blood pressure and low self-esteem? You’ve wasted another precious day and its’ companion night, spent as if mere pennies from the never-empty pockets of an oil tycoon. What is to become of you? What is the world to think of you?”

My questions are asked in vain, as I answer myself not. Or were they rhetorical? Who can say?

Of course, were the day and the night actually pennies in the pocket of an oil tycoon, he would never miss them. Hell, if they were pennies in my pocket, I would never miss them, and I’m betting that you, my Gentle Reader, would likewise never miss them, were they but small copper coins. Like pennies in a wishing well. Or from heaven.

But the days and nights of our lives are not pennies, though we might treat them as such. Most of us spend them as if they were of no consequence, or occurred in never ending abundance. The supply of our days and nights is not infinite: we would do well to treat them as if their value was. Sadly, however, I suspect that most of us do just the opposite.

Pennies in a wishing well. Pennies from heaven.

As I have gotten older, but sadly, not much wiser, I have come to realize that each day that I have left upon this earth has more value than any number of pennies, in fact, infinitely greater value than even an ingot of pure silver, or even gold bullion. Does this mean I spend them wiser? Sadly, this is not so. All I have gained is the knowledge of all the time I’ve wasted, all the time I’m likely to waste in the future, and the ease with which I accomplish my wasting.

But what does this have to do with the story at hand? It has nothing to do with the story at hand. The truly wise have already discarded this story, for they see it for what it is: a tremendous waste of time. It’s just my way of wasting time, while appearing to look busy. If you were in the room with me as I wrote these few paragraphs, you would say to yourself,

“Look at him there, busily typing away at his computer. See the look of such intense concentration he has upon his face. I can’t wait to read what he has written. I’m sure it will be a work of great importance. Or, if it is not an important work, then surely it will have great entertainment value.”

The clever among you have already figured that this will not be a great work. But even the clever among you may be entertained, if stories of drunken debauchery are what you crave. Most especially if stories of drunken debauchery are what you crave. Either way, it is my fervent hope that you will stay with me, and read on.

Bwaaaugh! (More retching)

I’m alone with my thoughts as I lean against my vehicle, the appropriately named “Van of Doom”, while simultaneously discarding the night’s intake of booze.

But I am not alone in reality. Johnny Wraith is my faithful companion tonight, as he is on many such occasions. He is Sancho to my Don Quixote, Tonto to my Lone Ranger, Bud Abbott to my Lou Costello. We are brothers in blood, sometimes brothers in arms.

But what we are now, mostly, are the bastards sons of the unholy union of cheap booze and unquenchable thirst. Throw in a carton of unfiltered Pall Mall cigarettes and you’ve got one really bitchin’ ménage-a-trois!

Bwaaaaaauuuugh!

A truly gargantuan puddle of multi-hued vomit appears at my feet, splashing up onto the driver’s door panel of the Van of Doom. It appears to me, in my alcoholic fuzz, that all the colors of the rainbow are represented here. Is this a reaffirmation of God’s promise to never flood the Earth again? No. It is but a simple reminder of all the Jello Shooters I had consumed this past evening. Over-indulgence has its’ painful consequences.

“Johnny?”

I get no response.

“Johnny?”

Again no response is forthcoming. I am confused. I see him standing right next to me. He’s looking right at me! Why is my faithful Sancho not responding to my inquiry? Can he not hear me? Has my faithful companion through countless nights of unspeakable debauchery been struck deaf from an overdose of booze and over-loud honky-tonk music? Or merely stunned by the sheer magnitude of vile liquid exiting my cakehole?

It is then that I consider that perhaps our communication failure is not his fault. Rewinding my internal tape recorder, I review its’ contents. The problem is revealed. It is not that he did not hear me speak; surely he had. However, he could not know that the sounds coming out of my mouth were intended to represent human speech.

What had been formed by my mouth and lips as “Johnny?” had come out of my mouth and proceeded to my ears as…

“BwJohauuuughnny?”

Vox Vomitus… The Voice of Vomit.

The information in my speech had been hijacked by the contents of my mouth. It’s rude to talk with your mouth full. Especially when it’s full of recycled Jello and booze. I remember my manners, but forget my circumstances. Swallowing, I re-recycle the already recycled. What the hell, I paid for it. Maybe this time it will stay down.

It does. A miracle indeed!

I clear my throat, and try again.

“Johnny?”

“Yes, Ronald?”

“Once again, having spent my night consuming mass quantities of alcohol, smoking cigarettes unnumbered, and performing eloquent renditions of “Just a Gigolo”, “Trashy Women” and my personal anthem, “Friends in Low Places”, I must conclude that in the past twenty-four hours, indeed possibly my entire life, I have not accomplished anything of great meaning, and have not added one jot or tittle to the sum of all human knowledge and wisdom, with the possible exception of proving by the most rigorous scientific means that a spoon is superior to a knife for extracting the last bit of peanut butter from a jar. Surely this is evidence that I am indeed the degenerate’s degenerate.”

“What say yooooouuuuaaaagh…”

I retch, punctuating my question. A bit of Jello Shooter splashes onto the cuff of Johnny’s trousers. He looks at me with affection. Or is it disgust? Generally, the two emotions are interchangeable on his face.

“Well of course, having not met all the degenerates that have ever lived in the gutter, dying by drowning in a puddle of their own vomit, I cannot absolutely confirm your assertion. However, I can state without fear of contradiction, that of all the degenerates that I have met, and I have met quite a few, too many to count or hope to name, you are the most degenerate. I am confident, too, that on the great day when the Honor Roll of All-time Degeneracy is finally collated and published, you will appear no lower on the list than Honorable Mention.”

This is why I love Johnny. In my moments of vanity, he always manages to bring me back to Earth, by reminding me that it is likely that others may have surpassed me in my achievement…

“But you’re young yet. I still have hope, that if you stay the course, you’ll claim the Gold Medal. That’s certainly an accomplishment worth striving for, Ronald! Not to mention the whole peanut butter and spoon thing. Good call on that one, by the way.”

…while still helping me believe my goals are attainable. My heart swells with brotherly love, for Johnny is my true blood brother.

“So what shall we do now, Johnny?”

“What do we always do when we find ourselves in similar circumstances, Ronald?”

“Jack-in-theBox it is. Saddle up. Let’s ride.”

“Just a moment, Ronald. I sense some unfinished business. Do you see those guys over there?”

“You mean those mullet-headed rednecks standing next to the turd brown Camaro?”

“The very ones.”

“What about them?”

“Well, just a few minutes ago, while you were barfing, they were imitating you. Every time you heaved, they heaved… by the way, that last splash… the one that looked like a Jello rainbow? That was totally awesome! I truly admire the talent it takes to make such a puke painting. It reminded me of God’s promise to never again flood the earth. I must commend you for the purity of your artistic vision.”

After such fulsome praise, I had not the heart to tell Johnny that the Jello rainbow, though impressive in scope, was merely an accidental by-product of my alcoholic overindulgence. I was not in control of the design. Anyway, who am I to burst the bubble of his admiration? Besides, I’m a total attention whore. His words were gold in the purse of my pride.

“Why, thank you, Johnny. You know I always strive for excellence.”

You cannot imagine the effort it took to deliver this last line with absolutely no trace of guile on my face. The price we pay for vanity.

“I know you do, Ronald. It’s just one of the many reasons I hold you in such high esteem, low as you may esteem yourself.”

Ouch… busted.

“Now where was I? Oh, yes, now I remember. Those two douche-bags were imitating you in your distress. They were mocking you. If there is something I cannot abide, it is someone mocking my friend. That’s my job. I cannot have my position usurped by these two poseurs. I must take action!”

(By the way, there may be those among you who may doubt that our speech patterns were such an incongruous mixture of bathroom and boardroom. Allow me to assure you that I have accurately recorded our conversation with high fidelity. Strange as it seems, even to me while reading these my own words, we always spoke in such a fashion. Pendantic assholes that we are.)

Johnny turned from me, and took a step towards the Turdmobile and its’ owners.

I called after him.

“Oh, Johnny, let it go. What do you expect of mullet-heads? I didn’t see or hear them. I was not offended. Besides, I’m hungry, and the Box is waiting for us. I hear a loaded Jumbo Jack calling my name. Saddle up, trooper. Get in the van. Let it go. Dinner awaits us, my faithful Sancho!”

Johnny paused, turning back to me.

“Just a minute, Ronald. It doesn’t matter that you weren’t offended. An offense against my friend is an offense against me. To mock you is to mock me. To poke at the dignity of the person of my blood brother is to poke at the dignity of my person, and you know how I feel about people poking me. I must avenge my friend, for in avenging you, I will have avenged myself. I must have their blood on my hands, and my boot on their necks!”

Johnny began to turn back to his task at hand. Pausing again, he said,

“But do me a favor, will you? Warm up the Van of Doom. We may have to make a quick exit. No doubt the police will be interested in my handiwork, and I have no desire to discuss my motives or methods with them.”

With that, he saluted me, in the style of a Roman legionnaire, turned away, and resumed his march to battle. I heard him begin to recite Genghis Kahn’s famous farewell speech to his troops…

“The greatest joy is Victory! To conquer one’s enemies…”

Fishing my keys out of my pocket, I opened the door to the Van of Doom, sat in the well worn driver’s seat, and fired up the engine. While it idled, I watched Johnny on his Quest.

Sorry for the pun. I couldn’t help it. You know how it is…