July 31, 2002

Today is the day to say goodbye and hello.

Well, I continue my unofficial Disgust Week here at Zulkey.com, but it's sort of a conundrum because I have to continue my serial story, and it's already about a pretty repellant character. However, I have tried to make it even grosser than usual, and even made a point to include some of my least favorite words in the story. So, enjoy. Or, not.

Also, please send in your Disgusting Stories. I have already gotten some doozies, but I can feel that there are more out there. Wouldn't you be proud to say that you, whoever you are, once had the Most Disgusting Story (there will be no voting but I sort of hope that there is one that is far and away the worst) on Zulkey.com? Just send me the most disgusting story you know that happened to you, or somebody you know, or describe to me what repels you or disgusts you and why. It's fun!

Oh, and let me just say, I realize that I have been less than consistent with the naming of the characters in this story. But I just assume that you know what I'm talking about anyway. When you think about it, it's a compliment; you're so smart!

13

George was nauseated by the prospect of having to talk to the people in his life who he currently blamed for stealing his inspiration. Literally, nauseated.

Now, any normal person really would try just to get over it, at the very least ignore the annoying success of their loved ones and try to focus on their own improvement.

But we're talking about George Foreman here, and, as I've said, he's never shown any prospect for real maturity or personal betterment. Plus, as much as he hated to admit it. Lillibet's suggestion that he meet with his 'friends' and family had a certain point to it. At the very least, he could see for himself whether their inspiration coinciding with his writer's block was just an unhappy coincidence or whether there was indeed something more mysterious afoot.

George was down on his luck that day. Lillibet stuck him with the bill, and as he put down his credit card, it began to pour rain outside. The poor waitress whom he had so tormented was not so shy as to ignore the fact that George was, indeed, a world-famous author, so before he left the restaurant, she blabbed to the entire staff that THE George Foreman was dining at their establishment. So George had to sign autographs, which he hated. Especially when people got greedy with their autographs, he became even more impatient.

One unfortunate busboy made the mistake of asking George to personalize his autograph for him.

"Could you sign it, 'To Gretchen, Good luck with all your-"

At that point George tore up the piece of paper and stormed outside.

And then-what a coincidence!-it began to storm.

George could have caught the bus home, but he was a binger when it came to self-pity, and took a sick pleasure in trudging home in the rain, perversely hoping that he'd be struck by lightning, purposefully trudging close to the street so he could miserably get hit by splashes from passing buses. He had over $200 in cash, quickly getting soaked, in his pants pocket with which he could take a cab but if George had nobody around to make miserable, he'd make himself miserable. A filthy pair of pantyhose wrapped itself around his leg and clung to him for at least five blocks and George marveled at what a good sulk he was getting into.

By the time George got home he was so wet that his hair plastered to his head, revealing miniature bald spots that a more careful man could have prevented, and he couldn't tell the difference between his own bodily fluids and the rain so snot ran down his face. He stepped into the house, blew his nose on his shirt, took off his sopping clothes and left them in the foyer, and put on his ugliest sweatsuit.

He walked to his study and opened his address book to Professor Geflen's number. George stared at it, picked up the phone, swallowed, and put it back down again. He would have to build himself up to calling Geflen and asking for an appointment.

George opened up a bottle of red wine and ordered an extra-large pizza. He also went to his stash.

George wasn't a huge proponent of drugs and certainly never used them to help his writing, but almost on principle he did everything that was bad for him, so George, as he ate his pizza, finished his wine, opened another, took hits off several joints as he also finished a pack of cigarettes.

He is a disgusting person, ladies and gentlemen. This may sound like fun but if you were to see it, you'd be horrified at what a spectacle of pouting depravity it was.

Finally, after several hours of pouring various substances into his mouth, George staggered back over to his office and stared, thickly, at his phone book. He swayed, considering how to call Geflen, when he realized, with glee, that he couldn't; he had to vomit.

George lurched to his bathroom and threw up noisily and not quite with perfect aim into the toilet. The chunks of food from the day was tinged purple from the wine. It was the kind of vomit that would make other people, even those with strong stomachs, want to vomit as well.

George lay back on his cool tiling and stared at his ceiling. As he started to doze off, a tiny piece of digested onion ring crusted at the corner of his mouth, he smiled to himself, knowing that at least he put off calling his loved ones for one day.