Tag Archives: Funny Stories

New York Liaison: A Tale of Love and Projectile Vomiting in the Big Apple – Part IV

New York Liaison: A Tale of Love and Projectile Voliting in New York City

It took the remaining 5 days of our time in New York City to recover from our illness, but we managed to have a wonderful time and will remember it for the rest of our lives. I’m almost grateful for those long nights of trial and pain, because they were an incredible milestone in our relationship. They brought my wife and I closer together than ever before, and showed us just how thoroughly we can rely upon one another.

To this day, we have no idea what made us so sick; maybe it was food poisoning from that prosciutto pizza in Little Italy, or maybe we caught a stomach flu from that same hostel guest who boiled his potatoes inside the teapot. We welcome your diagnoses, dear readers, and we thank you for reading our story.

Here are a few of the pictures my wife took during our trip. I think they’re awesome, and I hope you do too.

Click here to read New York Liaison: A Tale of Love and Projectile Vomiting in the Big Apple – Part IV
Click here to read New York Liaison: A Tale of Love and Projectile Vomiting in the Big Apple – Part III
Click here to read New York Liaison: A Tale of Love and Projectile Vomiting in the Big Apple – Part II
Click here to read New York Liaison: A Tale of Love and Projectile Vomiting in the Big Apple – Part I

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New York Liaison: A Tale of Love and Projectile Vomiting in the Big Apple – Part III

New York Liaison: A Tale of Love and Projectile Voliting in New York City

Central Park in winter, 2010

Nausea and freezing temperatures in Central Park

After sleeping most of the day, we finally ventured back into Manhattan, where we visited Central Park, took dozens of pictures and ate dinner at an Irish Pub on the Upper West Side — and by “ate dinner,” I mean my wife had exactly 3 bites of broccoli cheese soup and one sip of beer. (The only thing she could stomach was a near-lethal dose of Imodium). This may seem like a lot of activity given my wife’s weakened state, but trust me when I say this woman is tough. Tough as balls. Big, swinging, cast-iron, German balls. She had a great time that day, and except for the sunken cheeks and dark bags under her eyes, you’d never guess she spent the previous night filling our toilet bowl full of wet cheese and trichinosis.

Our bed, after that incredible first night. Oh God.

My wife feels queasy just looking at this picture.

We returned to our hostel room and tried to watch Shrek Forever After on my laptop, but fell promptly to sleep because Shrek sucks. When we woke from our nap, it had been roughly 24 hours since our meal in Little Italy, and that was when I felt the first tugs of sickness in my stomach. I was soon nauseous, bloated and weak, yet foolishly optimistic about my chances of escaping the nightmare to which my wife had so spectacularly succumbed. Still, we took the L Train back into Manhattan and met one of my old art school buddies at a little dive bar in the Lower East Side.

The bar was small, dark and the jukebox played nothing but death metal. To be fair, everything sounded like death metal to me; I was deathly pale, my abdomen was full of gas and I had a headache. My physical state was declining so rapidly I was unable to finish my beer (this has never happened to me before in my entire life). At one point, my wife took a picture of my friend and I hunched over the bar, and a desperate mantra began cycling through my mind while I waited for the flash — “Ohgodhurryup, ohgodhurryup, ohgodhurryup…” The moment that flash went off, I jumped off of my barstool, sprinted to the men’s room and projectile vomited so violently I hurt my back. Now, I’ve seen the photograph my wife took just before I hurled, and if I hadn’t been there in person, I would have sworn that picture was taken of my good good college friend sitting beside Milkface the Dying Oregonian.

The Wife and I excused ourselves for the evening and headed back to Brooklyn, and it was there, in the shared bathroom of our hostel, where I found religion. I am not a religious man — never have been — but that night I prayed to God. I prayed real good. Every 30 minutes, in fact, while peering deep into that porcelain void, I begged God to make it stop. But God did not answer my prayers. Instead, he decided I should start throwing up while loading my shorts at the same time. And just like my wife, I was purging my ungrateful soul out of both ends. I soiled 4 pairs of boxer shorts that night, which I angrily stuffed into the bathroom garbage can. (My wife actually went so far as to wash her panties and keep them, and she even tried to wash mine the next day, but they’d already been taken elsewhere by the cleaners.) I took 3 showers that night, brushed my teeth 4 times and changed into every last set of clothing I’d packed. Sometimes, a second or two after emerging clean and hopeful from a shower, I would vomit and spray diarrhea down my legs, sigh, and return to the shower once more. I don’t know what crime I committed in my past life to deserve this torment, but it must have been spectacular.

Toward the early hours of the morning, after I’d long since graduated to dry heaves so vicious they burst the blood vessels in my eyes, I somehow, mercifully, fell asleep. I rested for 45 minutes before jerking wide awake, instantly aware of the fact that I’d just shat the bed. I waddled to the bathroom and cleaned myself up while my wife removed the soiled sheets, cleaned the bedspread and covered it with clean towels. I returned to our room a broken man: pale, weak, shivering and ashamed. I was about as appealing as a bag full of smashed assholes. But my wife gathered me up in her arms and laid me down. She spooned me and held a warm water bottle to my stomach. She was amazing, and she proved to me for the millionth time why she is the love of my life.

Click here to read New York Liaison: A Tale of Love and Projectile Vomiting in the Big Apple – Part IV
Click here to read New York Liaison: A Tale of Love and Projectile Vomiting in the Big Apple – Part III
Click here to read New York Liaison: A Tale of Love and Projectile Vomiting in the Big Apple – Part II
Click here to read New York Liaison: A Tale of Love and Projectile Vomiting in the Big Apple – Part I

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Denglish 47: My German Wife Shops for American Baby Gifts

The Wife and I have a lot of friends, and they’re all having babies. All of them. So we’ve obviously learned a thing or two about buying baby gifts and shopping for baby showers. (I like to imagine “baby showers” as these David Lynchian nightmares in which absurdly pregnant women are bombarded by steaming-hot infants.) In advance of a particular baby shower in the summer of 2011, we went to a children’s clothing boutique in Portland, Oregon, at the Uptown Shopping Center on West Burnside called Mimi & Marc. There, we found a tiny outfit apparently intended for a newborn:

THE WIFE: “Look how small it is. Definitely for a fresh baby.”

Click here to learn more about the term “Denglish.”

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Denglish 46: The German To-Do List for Complete Retards

Now, I’ll be real honest with you — this post doesn’t pertain to Denglish in any way. There are no mistranslations or German idioms lacking cultural context. This is just one blind swing in the endless series of haymakers which comprise my German wife’s sense of humor.

THE WIFE: “Why would a grown man need a to-do list? Am I your mother? No! So here is your list for today…

To-Do List for Complete Retards:

  1. Please eat something.
  2. Please clean the dishes afterward.
  3. Don’t forget to breathe.”

Click here to learn more about the term “Denglish.”

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Denglish 45: A German Remedy for My American Cold

On a Sunday afternoon in 2010, The Wife and I were having one of our 3-hour marathon video conversations over Skype. I mentioned I wasn’t feeling well, and described my symptoms as a general sense of fatigue, minor headaches and a congested sort of burning sensation in both of my nasal passages.

THE WIFE: “If I were there, I would hug you and kiss your fire sinuses away.”

Click here to learn more about the term “Denglish.”

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Denglish 44: The German Goes Nuts For Deez Nutz

Initially, The Wife and I conducted our relationship long-distance, which obviously meant we had no physical contact with one another. If you’ve ever known the heartwrenching torture that is a long-distance relationship, you also know a little something about longing. My wife would often articulate her feelings of longing thusly:

THE WIFE: “I can’t wait to hug you and hold you in my arms again! Also, I am horny as a crazy person.”

Click here to learn more about the term “Denglish.”

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Denglish 43: The German’s Got Sunshine On A Cloudy Day

As I’ve said before, my wife has a way of relating feelings like love and happiness in ways so adorable you could just kick a puppy. Kick it right out an open window. But she took things to another level last fall when, speaking to me over the phone from Germany, she described the weather outside her apartment:

THE WIFE: “It looks rainy as fuck… but it’s definitely sunny inside me, so who cares?”

Click here to learn more about the term “Denglish.”

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Denglish 42: The German Sizes Up Daniel Radcliffe

As my wife and I watched Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows – Part II, I made a comment about Daniel Radcliffe’s remarkably slight, 5’6″ build:

ME: “My God that Harry Potter is small.”

THE WIFE: “In German we say, ‘Er ist eine halbe Portion,’ which means, “He is a half portion.’ “

Click here to learn more about the term “Denglish.”

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Denglish 41: My German Wife Requires Garlic to Make It Tasty

Sometime last year, The Wife and I were discussing our shopping list over the phone. We were planning to make a casserole and our list was nearly complete, but I asked if there were any additional items we might need. She responded thusly:

THE WIFE: “Oh, we do need garlic. We make it nasty with stink!”

Click here to learn more about the term “Denglish.”

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Denglish 40: Our First German-American Pizza War

The Wife and I love making pizza together. We each choose a side of the dough, then select our own ingredients and arrange them however we like. But make no mistake — this is a violent competition to see who can make the better-tasting half. Seriously. People have been injured.

For our very first pizza, my wife chose to make some kind of hideous spinach and mushroom disaster (just kidding — it was actually really good, but don’t tell her I said that). For my side, I chose Greek olives, feta and red onions, and even my wife had to admit the ingredients sounded awesome:

THE WIFE: “Greek Salad Pizza? Oooo, I sneak up on your side.”

Click here to learn more about the term “Denglish.”

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