By about two in the afternoon last Sunday, most of what I'd eaten the night before had been transferred violently into my toilet in liquid chunks. The rest had caked into my nostrils and onto my teeth, creating a greenish film, something like a pseudo-enamel made of gastric acid, and bits and pieces of breakfast, lunch, and dinner.

It's too late to matter anymore, but hours after my final pukefest at the john, when I'd regained my sanity and equilibrium, I slowly realized what was at the root of this disaster. First, I concluded, I was moronic enough to order a dish called Bangers and Mash -- it just sounds too funny to NOT be screwy. And second, and more importantly, I proceeded to eat the dish after a friend looked at it and quipped, "Wow, I didn't know they served cock and potatoes here?"

That's not as vulgar as it sounds; the dish actually looked exactly like that: Cock and potatoes. And I ate it anyways. I didn't listen to my friend, nor did I listen to the voice inside me that said, "You'll live to regret this, bucko."

I have no one to blame but me....... and the stupid, fat waitress who recommended I order that dish. But I digress.

Twice in my life now, I've discovered that suffering through 10 hours of food poisoning is the closest thing to death while you still have a pulse. You're breathing, but you have almost no control over your bodily functions. You don't know what to think, what to do, or what you want. You're hungry, but you have no desire to eat. You're thirsty, but your exhaustion overpowers your will to drink. You want to sleep, but you're in too much pain to conk out. You want to lay down, but you need to sit up as soon as you do that. When you sit up, you suddenly need to run to the toilet and throw up. You want to die, but you're still alive. For 10 to 12 hours, you're basically the poison's bitch until you vomit and crap her out of your system.

Which, by the way, is what the Oxford website -- the freakin health plan I'm wasting my money on -- suggested as its solution to food poisoning: "There's no solution, really, you just have to let the poison squeeze your balls for a while before it decides to leave you alone."

Actually, it's real advice was this: "The best thing for you to do is to just allow the food poisoning to run its course."

Um, right. And the best thing for you to do is to kiss my.....

The most maddening thing about Oxford's suggestion is it makes it sound as if food poisoning is a walk in the park. That's just dishonest, man. At least tell me it's gonna suck. Like, this might've been better advice:

"The best thing for you to do is let it run its course. But be warned -- you'll be suicidal for about 10 hours. I'm sorry. That's all we have right now. We're doctors, not miracle workers."

Believe me when I say food poisoning is most definitely not a walk in the park, unless you mean People's Park. A food poisoning yak session is roughly 10 times more painful and violent than your regular yak session.

A regular yak session sounds like this:

"Blehh! (whimper) Blehh!!"

And it's gross, maybe even a little depressing. But it's peaches and cream compared to a food poisoning yak session, which will sound a lot like this:

"ROAAAAAAAAARRRRRRRRRRR!!!!!!!!!! (whimper.... whi...) ROAAAAAAAAAAAAAARRRRRRRRR!!!!!!!!!"

Give or take a few A's and R's, and possibly a complete second whimper, but you get the point. It's like barfing out the seven seas. It's that intense.

And your only recourse? Obviously -- let the food poisoning run its course. (Blah!!) That, and, in your semi-delusional state, reciting these five words: "Help me, please help me."

Uttering those words, while pathetic and humiliating, may actually help some (self-pity always works somehow). And I am not ashamed to admit that, during my 10 hours of hell, I uttered those words..... at least 70 times. Pitifully, while on my hands and knees, by the toilet, grimacing and dying, I uttered the words, "Help me, please help me."

Then Nelson rode by on his bicycle, pointed at me, and said, "HAH HA!"

Man am I glad it's over.