A Life Less Scary
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"The interesting and varied life of Scary Duck, Genius, French Cabaret Chantoose and small bets placed."
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What's the most ill you've ever been?
I've been fairly lucky with my health in that I've never found myself in
hospital for anything more serious than a dental operation and, of course, to
allow a complete stranger to plunge a blunt fruit knife into my groin until the
jizz supply dried up. A 'vasectomy' they call this. 'Havin' a laugh', I would
counter. I only went in to have my wanker's cramp seen to.
No, I have never been horribly, life threateningly ill, not even following a
couple of gallons of heavy ale and chasers which resulted in a New Year of
sweating, puking, crapping and weeing all at once for three days solid.
Self-inflicted doesn't really count.
Not that the self-inflicted excuse gets me off the hook for the worst I have
ever felt in my life, ever.
It was this bad: terrible. Really, really terrible. I bet you've had worse,
though.
I remember it well. I had been to some bloody awful first division football
match in which Reading had been roundly thrashed by Ipswich Town, and on the way
back to the railway station I had decided on something to eat that would lift my
dampened spirits. It was a Big Mac and large fries from a certain fast food
chain that rhymes with FuckingAwfulCrapDonalds. I wolfed it all down on the 1742
to Twyford, and within an hour of stepping through my front door, I was bent
double with pain and begging for death.
"Frep!" went my bottom, a portent of the horrors to come.
"Frep!" it went again.
"FreeeeEEEeeEEEEeep!" Oh.
I believe we burned the trousers in the garden in the end, just to make sure.
Although we should have just nuked 'em from orbit.
Before long I was simultaneously crapping through the eye of a needle and
bowking rich brown vomit, firstly into a bucket, and once that was brimming with
something terrible, into the hand basin. Anything that I ate or drank rapidly
came out again, only converted to some sort of green mush containing dead mice
and body parts.
I may have eaten rhubarb and sausages at some stage because I remember both
featuring heavily.
This only seemed to encourage the cycle of awfulness, but God, I needed to put
something back in before I died.
My mother, ever the attentive nurse, came up trumps with a diarlyte, a drink
designed - and I quote - "to replace lost liquids and minerals in those
suffering from the effects of diahoerra."
It tasted like seawater, and it probably was.
"Yaaaaaaaaaaarch!"
This lasted for three days, after which only dust came out. On the bright side,
I had lost well over a stone in weight, and despite a rather pasty complexion
and an unnatural body odour, I must say I was looking pretty bloody buff.
"Never again", I said to myself, and I vowed that I would never, ever step
inside a FuckingAwfulCrapDonalds ever again.
I switched to Burger King, and was bowking rich, brown vomit again within a
week.
That is the most ill I have ever been. I don't know I'm born.
While this story is based on actual events in the life of Scaryduck, certain identities and venues may have been changed to protect the innocent.
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