As some of you may have noticed, I have no intelligent words as of late! I have a theory on the correlation between that and being an elementary school teacher, but I shall remain silent for the day. Instead, it occurred to me that some of you may not know where the "hurl necklace" stems from. So, without further ado, I bring you the explanatory post saved from my no longer available archives (Thanks, Blogger! I'll get you, my pretty!) Oh yes, and I am thanking the dear sweet lord that it is Friday.
My name is Hurl Necklace, DAMMIT!
HURL! NECKLACE! NOT PEARL! HURL!
For those of you who have no idea what the H-E Double Hockey Sticks I am talking about, let me enlighten you (Grabs you a little too tightly by the shoulders and FORCES you to sit down).
In one of my past lives, I lived on the beautiful island of Saipan, where I ran the Hash. For those of you who don't know what the Hash (insert heavenly music here) is, just click on the link, and it will take you to the hash network. We have commonly been described as the running club with a drinking problem.
After you run the hash for awhile, you get a nickname. Most of them are horribly embarrassing and sexually oriented, like Mr. Happy Pockets, Inflatable Slut, and Enema...you get the picture. These people (and I use that term loosely) are some of my nearest and dearest, and what do they do? They wait for me to embarrass the hell out of myself, and then GIVE me a nickname for it, meaning that my moment will be preserved for all times, and not only that, but that I will be called by it for the rest of my natural (or unnatural) hashing life.
On this particular day, I had partied a bit too hard the night before. What can I say? It was open bar at GIG, it was 70's night, a blast from my past WILL was there, (not a romantic blast! Get your mind out of the gutters!) I had a 7 and 7 in each hand, and was shakin' it to ABBA and other classics on the dance floor "all night long, all night..." (Thank you Lionel Richie). Needless to say, I was HURTING the next day, and very SLOW. Slower than slow. (Did you see that movie with all the Douglas men? You know when the Grandfather was running through the park? Slowly? I was slower than that.)
Yet, being the faithful Hasher that I was, I dragged my liquor breathing, head spinning ass to the Hash that fateful Saturday. That day, the Hash was a b-i-t-c-h (if I whisper it and only spell it out, that doesn't make me an actual POTTY MOUTH, does it?), which is a compliment. The hare had us running through boonies. Up hills down hills, it was hell. What's boonies, Alex? The sticks. Lots of sticks. In 98 percent humidity. In short, it was my own little version of hell(insert flames and such here). At one point, after I dragged my sorry ass through some mud and bushes, I thought I was going to die. All of a sudden the beauty that is Saipan started closing in on me. It was too damn humid. The trees were trying to suffocate me. The runners were trying to trample me. The damn coconut crabs were settling in the flour that was being used to set trail, so I couldn't see anything. Damn crabs. Damn runners. Damn trees. Damn it all. And I was nowhere near the end.
Taking a seat on a random rock in the middle of, oh...I don't know, NOWHERE, I tried to breathe more slowly to put a stop to my urge to VOMIT all of last night's FUN! ONE MORE DANCE! ONE MORE DRINK! I'M YOUNG! I DON'T GET HANGOVERS! all over the place. I couldn't puke here! They'd see! And laugh! So, I sat there, suffering, snivelling to myself, sweaty, pasty, with a smile glued on my face from ear to ear while everyone ran by me.
Satisfied that every last runner had passed me, I stood up, put my hair in a tidy ponytail, because you know, you never can be too careful! Insert shiny toothed smile and a *ping!* here (This is the girl who learned to puke in college without getting the splashes on her shoes so's not to clue in anybody else as to the fact that I had just puked my guts out in the bar! Talent! Right there, folks! My parents and yours too, I bet would be PROUD with a capital PROUD. I had a girl that used to do this with me, but she turned out to be bulimic. Oops. I guess that makes me an enabler.)
Believing that I was in the clear, I let fly. I just vomited until I was dry heaving. Now, I am no acoustics expert, but magically *somehow*, my vomiting echoed throughout the entire jungle of Saipan, and the other runners, yes ladies and gentlemen, my friends, heard me. Hurling my guts out. Did they come back and help? No. Absolutely not. They made fun of me, made me chug another beer, which I eloquently swallowed, lept over the coolers, and immediately recycled - and named me TA DAH! You guessed it, HURL NECKLACE They wanted to call me Chunks, but...well...
SO, to get the true effect of my name, you have to pretend you're hurling when you say it! OH! And if you can fake vomit so well that you can get that vein in the middle of your forehead to pop out, and break some blood vessels in your eyes, then I just might have to take you home to MOMMA.
This was brought to you by D.H.'s amused remark..."Hurl Necklace, Alex? You're going to get a bunch of porn site hits!" Followed by amused husband laughter.
Thought this was more interesting than a PALMOLIVE review. We'll save that for a rainy day, shall we?
Remind me to tell you a funny story later.
I surfed on in from smoochdog and noticed you live in Japan! Are you at Yokota? I lived there for 3 years, 92-95, with my ex-husband, who's a firefighter in the AF. Nice blog :-)
Aren't friends just the greatest? My nickname from college? Woody. Apparently it involved passing out on a couch near the dance floor and a very loose fitting pair of slacks.
My dad and his buddies gave each other nicknames related to their body parts. No, it's not what you think. For example, my dad's friend was called "Feet" because he had big feet, and my dad's nickname was "Nose" because he has a big nose. He did have a friend, though, who they nicknamed "Cheapskate" and I think you can figure out for yourself why.
Once I was at a party at my friend's house, needless to say, I got so rip roaring wasted that ended up hugging the toilet for five hours.
Did my friends give me sympathy? No, they laughed with evil delight as they took pictures.
After all what are friends for except to humiliate you and degrade you?
now i know what HURL means :) i've always wondered
thanks for voting alex, please vote again soon! :)
I ran the Hash, too. Big fun. Except I always heard it described as a drinking club with a running problem.
That was great Alex! Thanks for the laugh. Why do people enjoy others pain so much? We're all sick I tell you!
Unfortunately, my visual of hurl necklace involves both the vomiting part and the misunderstood porn part. Oh, and vote for me too.
Oh, can you please change my link on your blogroll to my blog instead of my regular site? I wondered why I've never seen a visitor from here other than from comments. :-) I'm pushy. I know.