In her current state, Mary Zweibel knew only two things; this was not her bathroom and she had to seriously hurl. She hugged the cold porcelain toilet and moaned “Earl”, while spewing the contents of her stomach through her mouth and into the water, which then splashed back into her face. She coughed. This expulsion revealed two more bits of information. One, she had last eaten pasta; and two, the sickening sweet stench of Red Bull® and whatever else the fuck is in a Vegas Bomb™ forced the disgusting stream out of her face. For those who need to know, the other ingredients are Crown Royal Canadian Whiskey®, Malibu Coconut Rum®, peach schnapps, and a splash of cranberry juice. The thick choking aroma of sugar forced her to vomit again, and then the sight of it made her repeat the violent spasms.
She looked at herself in the mirror. Wow. In short, she was “the” shit show personified, with strands of regurgitated noodles and miscellaneous in her hair. She puked again, this time in the sink. She wiped her mouth with the back of her hand before a thorough all-in spit, meaning she cleared her throat first. While turning on the water, she whispered to herself, “Never again.”
All at once, her memories came rushing back. The Olive Garden® buffet, should have eaten more breadsticks, the Omni Hotel® (this clue was provided by the towels and packets of soap), The Bohemian Rhapsody Experience™, the Queen/Jimi Hendrix tribute band and oh no! Oh my fucking shit!
Upon opening the door, her fears were confirmed and then some. Lying in the king-sized bed, passed out, possibly dead, a diminutive man who looked a lot like Freddie Mercury without that mustache. She cringed and shivered. She quickly gathered her belongings, which were suspiciously scattered all over the room. She skulked out of the room looking forward, only forward.
Her walk of shame was at best, unpleasant.