On Being A Throw Up Ninja

First of all, what constitutes being considered a ninja? What does it take to be reigned with a title so supreme? Before we make hasty assumptions and generalizations, let's dive right into the formal definition of what constitutes ninja status.

The ninja, otherwise known as a shinobi, was a covert agent of feudal Japan specializing in unorthodox arts of war. The functions of the ninja included espionage, sabotage, infiltration and assassination, as well as open combat in certain situations. A skilled individual indeed. This likely requires a rapist wit and supreme physical condition. If we're making comparisons on my account, so far so good.

Military historian Hanawa Hokinoichi writes of the ninja: "They travelled in disguise to other territories to judge the situation of the enemy, they would inveigle their way into the midst of the enemy to discover gaps, and enter enemy castles to set them on fire, and carried out assassinations, arriving in secret."

Ninja skills. This is what I would look like as a ninja, though instead of scaling a wall using only the strength of my upper body, I'd be puking at a party. Same same but different:

Well now that we've refreshed our memories, I'm going to juxtapose the art of espionage and the art of partying too hard. I'm no stranger to vomiting after a good night of party. Puke happens. We've all been there...You're feeling good, you mix things you shouldn't and then your head magically transforms into a full powered nozzle. Before you know it, carne asada chips are shooting out of every orifice in your face in projectile fashion, before a crowd of onlookers who are pointing and sneering. Awww :'(

But this can all be avoided. No, not the vomiting. Why would I advise total use of discretion? That's boring! There's a way to still go hard and cut the humiliation out of the drugs/drinking/eating induced puke pyramid scheme, but this becomes possible only in learning how to vomit discreetly, i.e., being a "throw up ninja."

I'm comfortable pegging myself a throw up ninja, because I've managed to puke in front of a crowd without getting caught, twice. Not only did I secretly puke my guts out, but I managed to rage on, immediately thereafter. How did I accomplish such a feat, you ask? Listen and learn.

The first time it happened was my 27th birthday. My friends were nice enough to throw me a surprise party, complete with a piñata and a DJ. They knew how much I loved piñata's and got me a lovely Mexicanized Mickey Mouse number. I never really got over the childhood wonderment that came along with beating the crap out of a paper maché shaped into a cartoon character. I honestly still can't think of a better way to ring in your 27th year of life.

In conjunction with the piñata bashing, my friends also thought it would be a great idea if I drank 13 shots of tequila, as a precursor. At the time it was a pretty good idea, except for the part where I was to single-handedly take on a piñata big enough for a party of 10 children. Not only was I drunk and blindfolded, but I was armed with a whiffle ball bat. My friend Gustavo was on the balcony, in charge of suspending the piñata over me on a nylon rope. He thought dropping it directly on my head was the funniest thing, and he did so repeatedly despite my pleas. To make matters worse, no one helped at all with giving me any sort of direction. So for 20 minutes, I swung my blindly at Mickey, catching air all the while. After reaching the point of exhaustion and tedium, I asked for something stronger than a whiffle ball bat. One of the hosts then brings me the handle to their mop. This however, still didn't work. Eventually the piñata was simply lowered to the ground where I beat it like Ike beat Tina. When the piñata finally broke open, the candy inside was dumped to the ground for everyone to savagely claw at. I had sweat on my upper lip when it was all over.

Then I got really drunk. I was peer pressured into drinking a blender 1/3 full of coffee liqueur. Under more sober circumstances, one would usually ignore fellow party goers requests for you to polish off 16 ounces of blended Kahlua as a follow up to several rounds of tequila shots, but I just decided to go balls deep that day. Everyone watched and chanted while I pounded the entire blended concoction in one sitting. It was a really bad idea.

The next few hours were fun. I danced and god knows what else. I was told there was some wrestling on the floor with one of the hosts. Soon enough I was lying on a bed in someone's room when a cake was brought in, all lit up with candles. Everyone sang me "Happy Birthday" and I made a wish, happily blew out the candles, none of which I remember. And they all had cake. This is about when I start to come to, because I distinctly remember smelling the cake and becoming nauseous at the sight of others eating it. I knew I was going to vomit. Yep. This was happening.

I was in a room full of people eating. I knew I had to make a quick decision. I could jet it to the bathroom, leaping over bodies, praying I'd make it there on time. Yet I sensed the alarm and panic that ensued when running to vomit would only exacerbate the urgency I had to vomit. Then I would probably end up vomiting in my own mouth and holding it mid jog, only causing me to lose my shit and spray puke everywhere in attempting to flee. Trying to throw up in the traditional sense (in a toilet) would've made me a target for ridicule. I decided I would just throw up right then and there and hope for the best.

I gingerly turned my head away, shielded my mouth with my hand and quietly emptied the contents of my large intestine onto Ronald Rizzo's bed spread. It felt great! Too bad I'd eaten Persian kabob earlier that evening because in conjunction with the tequila and Kahlua it smelled...not so great.

Everyone carried on with their cake eating and chatting while I silently finished vomiting all over the bed. My retching was totally on mute, because no one saw me do it. Problem was, I couldn't address the problem with everyone sitting there, as this went against the whole idea of puking on the bed as opposed to running to the toilet. With zen-like patience, I waited until just about everyone left the room. When the majority of the people were gone, I tapped my friend Cristina on the shoulder and motioned for her to come closer. In a whisper, I told her what I did. At the time I remember feeling pretty smug; something comparable to when a two year old has a shitty grin plastered on their face after they've taken an enormous crap in their pants, like it's some sort of accomplishment.

But it really was. Cristina was genuinely surprised, maybe even impressed. People didn't believe I'd puked at first because I was so slick about it. Then little doubt existed when I showed them my art work, in hoisting myself right up off the bed. I was lying on top of it you see.

So as to cover the puddle of fetid smelling upchuck, I just lied directly on it, casually propping myself on one elbow, resting my head in my hand. In everyones mind, I was having a great time, yes...

Cristina commented on how she'd thought she'd smelled something putrid and I was immediately sent to the bathroom to clean myself up. My friends were real sports about the whole thing. They took care of cleaning up the mess I'd left. Unfortunately the DJ got the shit end of the stick, because Cristina saw his Banana Republic cashmere sweater lying there and used it to wipe my barf off the bedspread. I still feel pretty bad about that one. Especially since I later remedied the situation by washing it in hot water, thereby shrinking it to unwearable proportions, before I gave it back to him.

Though I felt a twinge guilty when I went back to the apartment the next day and saw Ronald's mattress sitting in the sun, I actually couldn't have picked a better bed to puke on. I later learned that Ronald Rizzo is a brazen, womanizing jerk, as he repeatedly broke my best friend's heart with his cheating ways a couple years later. I subconsciously called it! If I was going to shit on anyone that night, it would have to be Ronald. Let's remind ourselves of the job of the ninja, shall we?

"They travelled in disguise to other territories to judge the situation of the enemy, they would inveigle their way into the midst of the enemy to discover gaps, and enter enemy castles to set them on fire, and carried out assassinations, arriving in secret."

So I arrived at the party disguised as the unassuming birthday girl, where I later inveigled my way onto Ronald's bed and desecrated his sleeping space with my unholy vomit. I was fighting crime even, like Time Cop. Not too shabby, throw up ninja.

My latest throw up ninja venture took place at Blue Ribbon Brasserie in Soho. I had just given my two week notice at The Mercer Kitchen, the most awful pseudo upscale corporate restaurant in history, and I decided to take myself out to Blue Ribbon to celebrate. I saddled up to the bar and immediately ordered some Salt-and-Pepper Shrimp and a vodka tonic. I felt fancy.

Upon finishing my appetizer I was on such a high, I decided to keep the party going. Perusing the entree section of the menu, I still had a hankering for more food despite the fact that I'd eaten pizza earlier. My ultimate decision became clear after I looked over at the guy next to me who was having the Duck Club, one of Blue Ribbon's classic "go to's." It looked damn fine. I decided I'd order one, since my good friend Pat raved so much about it. A couple more vodka tonics and my sandwich arrives. It was pretty substantial, but believe me when I say I had no problem devouring it. That shit was delicious! It was so savory and sweet, like smokey duck meat roasted in an apple wood fire oven. Mmmm. Happily munching away at my delicious Duck Club, I decided this was the best date I'd ever been on. I was having a old great time.

By this point I was so out of touch with reality that I started hallucinating. My brain tricked itself into thinking I still needed more. I'd had enough to eat by now, this was clear. So why did I decide to order a banana split for dessert and proceed to eat the entire thing, all by myself? I'll tell you why. Because I'm a throw up ninja.

If you don't know what the banana split at Blue Ribbon looks like, it's pretty big, especially for one person:

I'll tell you what, I didn't share. Those two spoons are just for show.

I was finishing up the entire banana split, much to the surprise and horror of the bar staff, when my friend Pat joined me for a drink and a quick bite. He'd also just gotten off work and I informed him of giving my two week notice at The Mercer. Though disappointed, he understood my plight. Pat then decided on a half dozen malpeque's and our trusty shucker Marco got to preparing them. By this point I began to understand that something was terribly wrong. As a cause of the amount of food I'd consumed, a jabbing pain in my stomach had just about kicked in. The pain was rather dynamite.  There would be hell to pay.

As I'm working through all this in my mind, Pat's oysters arrive and he begins to feast. Being the generous fellow that he is, Pat offers me one. I opted against it. It had never been so clear that I would vomit, very shortly.

I decided to stay calm and excuse myself to the restroom without saying a word. I grabbed my linen napkin from atop the bar and began to make my way through the crowded dining room toward the back of the restaurant where the bathrooms were stationed. Unfortunately the banana split had already began to make it's way up my throat by that point. No problem. I merely held my linen napkin to my lips and gingerly vomited into the napkin, shielding everything from plain view. That's how a true lady does it. In her day, if Jackie Kennedy had to puke at the Governors Ball, I bet she'd do the same thing. Tried and true.

Upon reaching the restroom, both stalls were occupied. Curses! I sat in a chair, took a deep breath and started to recite my mantra, which has proven to be a life saver when I'm nervous or panicked: "Poooower. [Deep breath] Powerrrrr. [Deep breath] Pooowerrrr." To be repeated 10x's.

Finally someone leaves one of the stalls. I smile at them as I go in, lock the door behind me, swiftly step over to the toilet, lean in and watch an entire banana and some whip cream leave my mouth.

I cannot tell you how freeing that was. What a relief! I felt peachy keen and was ready to party again. I gave my mouth a rinse-a-roo and stepped back out to the bar to join Pat for a fabulous time. No one would've even guessed I'd just thrown up. I'll be honest though, I did think about eating more since I'd made additional room in my stomach, but I figured that would be wrong.

These are the ways of the elusive ninja. No, not everyone can be a throw up ninja. Only sick demented folks like myself. Live long and prosper, throw up ninjas. Cheers!