Vomit or Vomick?
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I punched Condoleeza Rice in the stomach until she puked. Thatís comedy. I did it all for comedy. It wasnít some kind of anti-feminist thing. It wasnít some kind of a racial thing, or even a power thing. I mean, I certainly donít agree with her politics, etc, but the reason why I threw my fists repeatedly into her belly was for the sheer comic value of seeing her vomit.
My grandma used to ask me, "Do you feel like you need to vomick?" when she could tell I was "feeling bad at my stomach," or so she used to say. She couldnít pronounce the t at the end to sound like a t. She wasnít foreign. She was Southern.
When I saw that Dr. Rice was coming to speak in my town about how Mississippians could best serve the international community, I knew I had to see her. I decided that a perfect opportunity to see how true she was to her Southern roots was at hand! Would she vomick, or would she merely vomit?
Sheís a smart lady, granted. I mean, hell, she started college at 15! She had a masterís degree at 21 from Notre Dame. Had all that education expectorated the southern ness from her system? Her degrees were obtained in political science, not grammar, so the Alabama girlís roots could possibly stay true to the vomick, or so I hoped.
So, she came and talked and all that went without a hitch. Most of the people who came to see her didnít know what in the world she was talking about anyway. They came to see a black woman with real power: a goal that seemed remarkable and almost unbelievable to many of the audience members in my little town. That she was talking about the third world status of the southern United States and how it was actually (supposedly) empowering and not stifling did not mean anything. Her doublespeak gushed forth. Amazing! I was waiting to make her spew more than her political falsehoods. She was going to get punched in the gut, hard!
After the little talk, she was scheduled to go to an evening dinner party at the mayorís house. I obtained an invitation by sending the mayor a gift voucher for an entrťe of Tampei Lobster at the local Chinese restaurant. (Tampei Lobster was the code for a visit to the back room for a little oral massage from a nineteen-year old Asian boy. The mayor was into that, and I knew it.) I planned this business out a week in advance! I needed to know about the vomick! I needed to laugh!
The dinner party was less like an actual dinner party, and more like an appetizer party. Oh well. I was sure that Dr. Rice would eat enough to give a good show later. So, about an hour after everyone had arrived and had eaten enough appetizers to be polite, the mingling was well under way. I knew that Condoleeza was going to head out soon. I squeezed my way into her little appetizer-mingling party clique and waited for my chance to throw in a comment and a few punches.
She started reminiscing about the South, and so I asked her how she talked when she grew up, did she ever have a little southern drawl, or anything like that. She said no, not really. So, then I asked her, what it was called when she felt nauseous and had to retch.
"You mean vomick?" Damn! She said it! I gave her a quick one-two-three, right-left-right to the gut. She hurled all over the place. I didnít realize how much stuff could be in the belly of a small woman! She puked all over the place. I started laughing and so did everyone else! It was hilarious. It was even kind of funny when the Secret Service guys came over to me and beat the shit out of me until I puked too. Condoleeza started laughing and we all lived happily ever after.
Donnie Boman is seriously weird.