Except when filling out tax forms, people don't go to resorts to work. They go to enjoy themselves, and one of the little pleasures they enjoy is alcohol. When you have tequila laden margaritas, German beers, French wines, Kentucky bourbon and Russian vodka all in close proximity to each other and every menu features a few designer drinks to sample, well why not?

Of course the conquest of manhattans, the massacre of martinis, terrorizing tonics, cracking down on cognac one often aquires a buzz. Consider the case of one young man who has spent the entire day demonstrating his manly prowess in the face of liquour. Yet suddenly that moment of awareness all drinkers recognize comes to him, the moment when you realize it's time to go to bed and right now!

Many of us have faced such moments and they are not fatal if the toilet is close at hand. But this is a resort, and roller coasters are efficient blenders. So our protagonist waits in line for the bus that will bear him home, swaying gently. In fact, he keeps close to the trash barrel just in case, for the large and varied brew in his belly is approaching a critical mass. The bus driver understands his plight, and suggests he just get it over with, for he knows he'll feel better once he's finished bowing to the Porcelain God.

But our tourist is a manly man and he can "handle it." He climbs aboard the bus, swaying gently. But that little extra trip of equilibrium is all it takes, the camel's back is now broken and what went down must now come up. Lo and he let's forth a mighty spew, grits gunning outward in a mighty stream. He nails the driver and the whole front stairs. Now everyone can see what he had for dinner. Looks like corn, mmmm.

But people have a strange trait in that when one of us vomits, everyone else feels like it. This rolf-reflex probably served our hunter-gatherer ancestors well in face of some newly discovered poison berries. But this is America and in the new millenium the berries are all good. Soon other passengers came to share our heroes distress and fought to avoid contributing to the colorful, stinky mess puddling at the front door. Only the kid in the back has recently downed a full squadron of kamikazes and his stomach wasn't all that well to begin with. Out comes his vomitus, and more passengers are nailed.

Now the game's afoot and everyone must join in. The nice lady who mixed sushi and sake in mild excess joins into the honorable Fraternity of Grits Gunners. Beer and Brats from the neo-Bavaria shot forward like an ME-262. And then everyone is lost, as 46 passengers all join together in turning their humble tour bus into a Roman vomitorium.

A friendly bus driver told us this story as we waited behind a broken bus. We were talking and he said they keep the busses a bit cool to help the drunks. But on that night cool did not work, as he was the first recipient of a mass vomit. The resort directors sent medical people and a fresh bus or three to help evacuate the victims. I laughed as he described it and he said that's what his wife did when she heard the story. Then he handed her the plastic bag full of his soiled uniform he told her, "Laugh now, but you get to wash these."

The windows were opened before the bag.

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