Barf Blast Read online

  Copyright © 2019 by Susan Berran

  First published in 2015 by Big Sky Publishing Pty Ltd, New South Wales, Australia

  First Racehorse for Young Readers Edition 2019

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any manner without the express written consent of the publisher, except in the case of brief excerpts in critical reviews or articles. All inquiries should be addressed to Racehorse for Young Readers, 307 West 36th Street, 11th Floor, New York, NY 10018.

  Racehorse for Young Readers books may be purchased in bulk at special discounts for sales promotion, corporate gifts, fund-raising, or educational purposes. Special editions can also be created to specifications. For details, contact the Special Sales Department, Racehorse for Young Readers, 307 West 36th Street, 11th Floor, New York, NY 10018 or [email protected].

  Racehorse for Young Readers ™ is a pending trademark of Skyhorse Publishing, Inc.®, a Delaware corporation.

  Visit our website at www.skyhorsepublishing.com.

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  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data is available on file.

  Cover design and typesetting by Think Productions

  Cover and interior illustrations by Pat Kan

  Print ISBN: 978-1-63158-335-3

  Ebook ISBN: 978-1-63158-338-4

  Printed in Canada

  WARNING

  Ok, so hopefully you’re ready for some more yucky, disgusting, gut-wrenching stories, but this is the last time I’m going to warn you—it gets reeeally, reeeally gross in there. So if you have a weak stomach, close the book, put your hands over your eyes, and run away screaming now . . .

  If you are brave enough to read on, you might want to grab a bucket just in case!

  Mel . . . always xx

  CONTENTS

  You Can Chuck “Up,” But Can You Chuck “Down”?

  When Your Nose “Runs” Where Does It Go?

  The Streaker

  The Tinsy-Winsy, Itty-Bitty Story of Sir Reginald Bernard Pusbucket XVIII (the zit)

  I want you to think about this for a second . . . Where were you the last time that you barfed, chucked, chundered, spewed, threw-up, up-chucked, puked, vomited, or just plain old got really, really sick? Were you sitting on the toilet after eating a bunch of totally gross, grey, snot-like oysters, or on a boat swaying up and down, up and down, up and down, uuup and dow—bluuurrrrrr!

  What did it look like? Was it full of chunky chewed-up veggies and stringy meaty bits? Or was it smooth and soupy and runny? Or maybe it was a little bit of everything all mixed in together?

  How did it smell? Like last night’s curry made with extra spice? This morning’s eggs and bacon? Or an awesome fragrant mixture of all the meals you ate over the last three days, all mushed together to create an unbelievably gross stench that knocks you out colder than a charging rhinoceros?

  Worst of all, how did it taste as it sped from your stomach, raced up your throat, shot past your cheeks, and flowed across your tongue like oatmeal before landing on the carpet—as every one of the 10,000 teeny, tiny taste buds that cover your tongue’s surface were coated with the disgusting mixture, before it finally exploded like a massive cannon blast from your mouth? Thank goodness your taste buds get replaced every two weeks!

  And finally, where did it land? Did it slam into the tiny bucket that your mom gave you—you know, the one so small that the spew shoots up the sides and right back at you. Or did it splash onto the floor like a massive tidal wave at the beach?

  Or maybe your vomit was like the “sprinkler,” exploding in every direction as you twist and turn trying to figure out which way to run. You know when you thrust your hands across your mouth, desperately trying to hold it in, until a huge pressure forces it between your fingers, propelling it across the room, over the furniture, up the walls, and onto the ceiling, where you’ll still be finding dried, yellowy spots of vomit for weeks.

  Maybe you made one final, desperate bid to stop the disaster by pressing your hand even harder across your mouth, sending the final flow spraying from your nostrils like a fireman’s hose.

  But for most people, throwing up is very simple and quick—go to the toilet, kneel, hug the bowl, chuck-up, flush, rinse out your mouth, and you’re done. But hang on, did they chuck-up or did they just chuck-DOWN?

  Why is it that every time someone talks about vomiting they say you threw up or chucked-UP? It’s really weird. I just don’t get it!

  Why? Because you definitely chucked-IN! In the toilet, in the bucket, in the kitchen sink.

  Or you chucked-OVER! Over the walls, over the room, over anybody standing within three feet of you.

  Or you chucked-ON! On the floor, on the furniture, on yourself!

  Eewwww!

  Of course, if you did the “sprinkler” and your spew hit the ceiling, well then tah dahhh, congratulations, you hit the jackpot and you most definitely chucked-UP!

  So you see, we can chuck all over the place, not just UP.

  Now I have an idea. After you’ve finished reading this book, I want you to bug your parents with this annoying little question: If you can chuck-UP, can you chuck-DOWN? Let’s see how smart they are.

  And by the way, the last time you chucked . . . did you chuck-up or did you chuck-down?

  The last time I barfed all over the place like a supersonic tidal-wave was after I’d eaten some weird sort of food at a creepy little restaurant.

  The whole family had decided to go out for Mom’s “special” birthday dinner. Every single one of my aunties, uncles, and cousins came along for the “big event.”

  We were supposed to be eating at a fancy-shmancy restaurant that my Uncle Roy said was, “Owned and operated by a young, fun, couple who create incredibly delicious international food. The restaurant is situated in the heart of a lovely family area, at the end of a quaint street with a wonderful children’s play area inside . . . blah, blah, blah.”

  Well that’s what he droned on about for at least half an hour. (We found out afterwards that Uncle Roy had last visited the restaurant something like seventy years ago!)

  After Mom spent three hours trying on dresses, shoes, jewelery, and changing her hairstyle a dozen times, she was finally ready to leave. So I zipped to my room, chucked on some jeans and a top while Mom was in the bathroom, and off we went.

  By the time we finally arrived at the restaurant, the rest of the family were waiting impatiently by their cars. The street was barely lit as most of the street lights were smashed and hanging loosely by a wire, banging around in the breeze.

  As we stepped from the car to greet everyone, we noticed that this “lovely family area” looked more like the “land of graffiti” and was surrounded by half-demolished buildings. It also smelled as if the entire city had its sewage being pumped directly into the street.

  Allowing Uncle Roy to take the lead, we all quietly followed along down a narrow, dark little alleyway crowded with overflowing garbage bins. We had to step around the piles of crap lying outside the front entrance of every doorway we passed. Scrawny, cross-eyed cats that looked like they’d stuck their tongue in an electric power socket, and their tail in a blender, were scratching amongst the rubbish. Lots of very large, grey rats darted from bin to bin.

  We finally arrived at the very end of the alleyway; a dull “open” sign above the ancient wooden doorway flickered every time a bug exploded in the electric death-trap “bug-zapper” hanging right beside it. Everyone was shooting weird looks back and forth to each other and then across to Uncle Roy, as if to say, “Are you sure we’re in the right place? Is this really the ‘amazing’ restaurant we’d been promised?” But the glasses he was wearing were either totally covered with dirt, or he was looking through a time mach
ine, as he was all smiles and pretty excited—almost skipping along in anticipation, as the rest of us became more and more worried about what might be lurking behind the restaurant door.

  As we nervously entered the “restaurant,” a small, rusty bell scraped across the top of the door, and made a sound like a key being scratched down the side of a car, to announce our arrival.

  We stood inside the entrance, quickly scanning the room.

  “Wow, that’s a nice big aquarium with lots of fi . . . .” Aunty June trailed off as she realized the fish had a life vest of mold covering their upside-down, bobbing bodies.

  “Look at the wonderful artwork covering the far wall,” Aunty Denise said.

  “Nope, that’s cobwebs,” Uncle Leon remarked casually.

  “I love the mood lighting,” she cooed.

  “Dirty lights,” Uncle Leon shot back.

  “The plants look nice and healthy.”

  “Plastic!”

  “Nice soft carpet.”

  “Mold growing on the tiles!”

  Aunty Denise gave up looking for things to like, but Uncle Roy was still smiling like he’d just won the lottery. “It hasn’t changed a bit,” he announced loudly and proudly.

  What!? Was he blind? We made a tight little family huddle, as if to keep us safe, when suddenly, without warning, stepping out from the shadows, our waitress emerged.

  She looked like some sort of veeeery wrinkly Oompah Loompah!—a little old lady who must have been at least a hundred years old, hunched over and twisted like some sort of human pretzel.

  Although her eyes were barely open, she seemed to be staring at the bunch of plastic plants in the corner behind us. “This way,” she mumbled. I thought to myself, if someone sneezes, she’s going to blow away. But she continued shuffling along, moaning and groaning with every step, as she hobbled towards our table.

  It took an hour to get from the front door to our seats—well fifteen minutes at least, but it sure felt like an hour! We took a step . . . and waited. Another step . . . and waited. Another step . . . and waited. Another step . . . and waited. Another step . . . and wait . . . OMG move!!!

  There were only four other tables in the place and the only other customers were a young couple sitting in the far corner. It was pretty obvious our table was the one set for twelve people, so why couldn’t she just point to it!?

  By the time we finally got to sit down, I was totally starving! I’d even skipped lunch just so I could pig-out on dinner. But while the others were looking at the menu, I was looking through the open door that led to the kitchen. It looked like our waitress’s husband was the chef and he looked twice as old as her! I could see his very long, grey, wiry nostril hairs glinting under the light, fluttering around his nose with every breath.

  He was sitting on a small, wooden stool in front of the stove with one bare foot resting up on a box in front of him. He didn’t seem to notice us sitting in the restaurant as he continued intently reaching forward and clipping his cracked, yellow toenails. I could hear tiny dings and splashes every time a toenail flicked up, shot off the range-hood and landed in a cooking pot on the stovetop.

  Eeeeewww!

  The old man finally, slowly, pulled a fluffy sock over his foot, thrusting two toes straight through the holes in the material. He started to shuffle about the kitchen while poking and prodding his long, bony fingers into his ears, wiggling them about and—thoop—pulling out big globs of yellowy, green ear-wax. He wiped the wax across the front of his apron, which was already covered with what looked like a lifetime of earwax, and started poking those same fingers into every single pot and pan on the stove. He then shoved them back in his mouth, creating a bridge of mouth slime stretching from his finger back to his mouth and back into the pot. Nooooo!

  “Ah, Mom,” I tried to get Mom’s attention—but of course she was way too busy talking to everyone to listen to me.

  I continued to watch as the chef started preparing the meals for the young couple. He tossed a slab of meat onto the bench and started searching about the drawers for utensils. His nose was running like a tap. Every now and then he lifted his apron up to his face, blew his nose, and swiped his arm across the top of his mouth to wipe the extra snot away with his bare, hairy arm.

  “Umm, Mom,” I tried again, but still no response.

  Now the old guy was slapping the meat with his bare hands because he obviously couldn’t find the cooking utensils and was scratching his head in between slaps. He was scratching so hard and fast I thought his hair was going to suddenly burst into flames. I could actually see the hair and dandruff raining down onto to the steaks like his own special selection of secret herbs and spices. Maybe I should tell Uncle Roy exactly what was in some of those “amazing flavors” he raved about!

  “Hey Mom, you might want to see—”

  “Don’t interrupt!” Mom shot back, now starting to look annoyed with me.

  Meanwhile, the little old Oompah Loompah waitress had finally shuffled over to deliver our drinks on a tray. But she’d taken so long, and was shaking so much, that the glasses were already half empty, the bubbles gone, and the tray was a swimming pool by the time she reached us. She then spilled the other half when she lifted the glasses off the tray and placed them down in front of us.

  As she slowly began to shuffle away again everyone was yakking and laughing so loudly that they didn’t notice there was now only about three mouthfuls left of their drink. Now, Uncle Roy was calling out for another round of drinks! Really!?

  I was still anxiously watching the chef, who was now getting ready to chop up the vegetables. He’d lined up a bunch of carrots, corn, and some other weird green veggies . . . although I wasn’t sure if they were actually green or were just moldy. He took out his top false teeth, placed them on top of the vegetables, held them there with one hand and started whacking down on top of them with the other—wham wham wham wham wham! It was as if he was using a stapler to put a heap of paperwork together. There were veggie chunks flying in every direction—bouncing off the walls, dropping from the ceiling, and rebounding all over the kitchen!

  “Hey Mom, I reeeally think you’ll want to see—”

  “I’ve told you, I’m talking!” Mom spat back at me.

  The old man finished “chopping” the veggies, which were now mostly all over the filthy floor, and popped his teeth back into his mouth. He slowly bent down and used a dustpan and brush to pick up the chunks of food from the floor before tossing them into the cooking pot.

  “Mom! I reeeeeeeeeally think you need to see—”

  “If you interrupt me one more time!” she screeched. “Why don’t you go and play in the children’s corner?”

  Ummm, because I’m not four! And I was pretty sure the “children’s corner” was actually the toilet cleaner’s corner because it was three square feet with a tiny seat, a mop, and bucket . . . Hey, so that’s where the cooking utensils were—in the mop bucket!

  Ok, fine, Mom, I tried! So while everyone else decided what they were going to eat, I sat back and continued to watch the chef as he scratched his head, picked his ears, scratched his butt, picked his nose, scratched his armpits, picked his fingernails, and did heaps of other gross, disgusting stuff. There was no way, no way on Earth, that I was going to eat anything that he’d made or touched!

  Just then the little old lady came shuffling back with her pen and paper, ready to take everyone’s order. As she wrote the orders down, I quickly took another look at the menu. I was looking for something, anything, that was out of a packet and could be shoved in the microwave so that I knew the old guy wouldn’t be touching it. But of course there was nothing. It was all totally weird, icky, strange sounding food that I’d never heard of before.

  “Try the oysters in snail sauce,” Mom said.

  “Or the snails in oyster sauce?” the old waitress suggested, as I sat cringing lower and lower in my seat.

  This was a nightmare. I was totally starving, but every time I looked ac
ross to the kitchen, the chef was picking something new on his body and scratching another bit with his other hand. I was sooo going to spew . . .

  “I’m not hungry,” I lied. I kind of figured that my stomach could wait a little while longer because I knew there was birthday cake after dinner. I was sure the cake would come from a cake shop so I would just pig out on that!

  I watched as everyone chowed down on their gross earwax covered steaks, false teeth mashed veggies, and food spiced with dandruff. Uncle Roy seemed to purposely wait until he had a mouthful of food before starting each conversation and was spitting tiny chunks of food and phlegm across the table. I sat there quietly trying not barf.

  The dinner seemed to take forever and my stomach was rumbling louder than a volcano about to erupt by the time everyone had finished their meals.

  A few minutes later, the little old woman appeared at the kitchen door, holding Mom’s birthday cake. Finally! With the candles flickering in the dull light it looked incredible. It was huge. I couldn’t wait!

  Everyone sang “Happy Birthday” as the waitress hobbled towards the table with the cake. She was sooo slow! We sang “Happy Birthday” again as she kept shuffling and the candles continued to burn. We sang it two more times, and then everyone gave up and went back to talking for what seemed like five minutes.

  By the time the waitress finally made it to our table the candles were puddles of wax on top of the cake and there were only two tiny flames barely flickering for Mom to blow out. But I didn’t care. I was starving! And the best part was that everyone else was totally stuffed full of their disgusting dinner so I was the only one who wanted cake. Awesome!

  I ate a huge piece, then a second even bigger piece . . . and a third . . . and a small fourth piece just to finish off. I must have eaten at least three quarters of the cake all by myself! I eventually sat back in my seat, content and completely full. I was barely able to stand when it was finally time to head home.

  And as we left the restaurant, Mom and the others thanked the little old lady and her husband for such a wonderful and memorable evening, and especially for making the birthday cake themselves! Nooooo!!