Blaming it on the dog

I was about halfway through my Thanksgiving dinner with the family at my sister's house when I had to excuse myself to wait in the bathroom to throw up. It was the same old routine, only this time I wasn't so sure what was to blame (my best guess was the sausage in the stuffing my older brother had slaved over; he blamed the Coors Light, but I dismissed that as beer snobbery). To make matters worse, it was a long wait. As I was sweating it out, up and down on my knees over the bowl, I thought for a moment the feeling might pass. If I was alone, back at "The Box" (my new nickname for my apartment), I would have stuck my finger down my throat and have been done with it, but because the bathroom was practically next to the kitchen table where my young niece and nephew were eagerly resisting all attempts to coax them into eating the turkey ("It's like chicken!"), I felt it was my duty to avoid puking at all costs. I had heard stories of my niece and nephew getting sick and how the healthy observer had, naturally, gotten a big laugh at the other's expense. I was afraid I was about to become a family legend: "Remember the Thanksgiving when Uncle Mike puked his brains out!"

Earlier, my brand new brother-in-law had regaled everyone with an amusing story (speaking of amusing, a couple days later my younger brother called to ask what our new brother-in-law's last name was; my father and I didn't have a clue). One morning, earlier in the week, my new brother-in-law had observed "drug dealers" trying to break into cars in the parking lot of the development where my sister lives. He called the police. After he described what he had seen over the phone, the police officer replied, "What do you want us to do about it?" "Oh, I'm sorry, I must have dialed the wrong number," my new brother-in-law responded, not missing a beat, "In that case, I'd like to order a large pizza with pepperoni." I had to admit, that was a pretty good zinger. It was so good the police officer put him on hold until another officer got on the line (presumably one more capable of handling zingers from a guy formerly from Jersey City). He didn't fare much better. My new brother-in-law laid into him with another series of zingers when he didn't get the response he was expecting. I told him I loved the zingers, but the zinger overkill might have ultimately worked against him in the end. Generally, cops aren't known for their sense of humor, especially when you're asking them to do something for you. As it turns out, the cops didn't show up until 25 minutes later, long after the drug dealers had moved on.

Anyway, where was I? Oh yeah, sweating it out over the bowl. Things were getting so hot in the tiny bathroom, I thought some fresh air might help bring me around. Since the bathroom was just off to the side of the front door, I thought I could discreetly slip outside without anyone noticing. Wouldn't you know it, just as I stepped outside I coughed up a mouthful of my Thanksgiving dinner and deposited it on the walkway leading to my sister's front door. If that wasn't bad enough, owing to the buttery mashed potatoes I had consumed, the puke was unnaturally luminescent. Anyone stepping outside would have noticed it. What to do? Thinking fast, I grabbed a handful of dirt from my sister's garden and buried it. I had already prepared an explanation in my mind in case I got caught in the act: "Some dog came by and puked on the sidewalk. I was just burying it." Thankfully, I was spared that final humiliation.