On several, occasions, I have demonstrated to humanity that alcohol and science do not mix.  Generally, I have constrained myself to demonstrating this using science of the participatory variety, but, in this story, I discover how to take things to a whole new level.  A lower level.

The Chicago Public Science Fair has a rich tradition in its 59 years in existence.  Each year, the fair brings out the best young science minds Chicago has to offer.  Having seen this for myself, I can now safely say the following: God help us.

Allow me to elaborate: the event is exactly what you would expect from a school system that averages 10 murders a month in recent years, more likely to wow you with comedic value than individual brilliance.  This is what I assumed when I signed up to be a judge this year. 

As an added treat, the main course comes with an appetizer, which began the night before as I drank whiskey and watched unpredictable foreign action movies with my friends.  As you might recall from some of my other, more cautionary tales, my tolerance for the drink is dangerously low.  My total for the night was a mere four shots of Scottish whiskey, hardly an amount worth mentioning unless your name is Noah Walton. 

Five AM the next morning and I’m awoken by a pain in my stomach.  A quick trip to the bathroom confirms two things.  First, my liver is as weak as ever.  Second, four drinks is enough to make me violently ill.  Seriously.  Seven AM rolls around and it’s time to get up.  Amazingly, I’m still feeling a little nauseous.  Mike Honcho, my cat, is capering about, whining desperately for me to feed him.  I move to oblige him, spooning a homogenous paste the can’s label identifies as “Giblet Feast” into his dish.  As the microwave heated the cat food, I kept my distance, hoping my stomach would settle by the time the science fair started.  After all, this was only a four-drink hangover; how strong could it be?

Fighting my stomach, I wove down the length of the hallway connecting the kitchen and my room, where I stooped to set the food dish down.  Mike, who had been weaving in and out between my feet the entire time, hovered, visibly quivering with excitement as I completed our morning ritual. 

As the porcelain dish clacked down on upon the hardwood, Mike darted in for the kill.  Still stooped over, I lowered my guard against the encroaching nausea the tiniest bit.  Immediately, the reek of overprocessed poultry offended my still-delicate palate, triggering my gag reflex.  I vomited a mouthful of my stomach’s contents directly onto the cat’s head.  I recall seeing a bit of something green stuck to one of Mike’s ears as he cocked his head curiously.  Looks like basil, I thought, triggering another explosion that completely coated my poor pet and his food dish. 

I’ll give Mike credit for not chucking himself at this point.  I assumed my actions would cascade, triggering the first-ever synchronized cat/human barf.  Nor did Mike bolt, as a less greedy cat would have.  Apparently unperturbed at being soaked in gastrointestinal juices, he darted to his bowl and took a single massive chomp of his horribly besmirched food.  Finding the flavor of my stomach acid not to his liking, Mike looked up at me, his eyes communicating the horrifying awareness of what he’d just done.  Mike opened his mouth and released the longest, most strained yowls in the history of the species, a Wilhelm scream for cats.

After audibly releasing his frustrations, Mike regained his legs, and took me on a merry chase through the house, where he managed to soil a number of pieces of furniture before I was able to dunk him into the shower.  Leaving an angry still-damp cat to finish destroying my room, I stumbled out the door to meet my girlfriend, late but still committed to judging the hell out of this science fair.  As we made the short drive to the Museum of Science and Industry, the adrenaline of the morning’s activities began to wear off.  I began to feel ill again.  My beloved eyed me warily from the driver’s seat as my condition worsened.  In the lobby of the museum, it rather suddenly became clear that another round of eructation was in order.  I dashed into the large public restroom, already crawling with judges and patrons at this early hour. 

Even in my preoccupied state, I made sure to head for the handicap stall at the end of the row.  Noah loves the handicap stall.  What’s not to like?  The extra extra-high toilet?  The copious elbow room?  The lack of a neighbor two feet from you?  Practically speaking, it’s like having the end unit in an apartment complex.  Even as I knelt before the porcelain throne, I used the courtesy railing to stabilize my heaving torso as I violently abused the apparatus.  Between blagghs, a light tap on the door interrupted my misery.  “Everything OK in there?” inquired a cultured British accent.  I responded with a groan as another wave of sickness jerked me around like a marionette.  Seriously, it was just four drinks.

As with so many things in life, my latest bout of sickness met with both good and bad results.  On the plus side, the third time seemed to be the charm; my stomach felt better already, and my head was beginning to clear slightly.  On the minus, I had made a complete mess of the bathroom.  Little puddles of last night’s dinner now added a decorative flair to the drab 1950s décor of the bathroom. 

As if being “that guy” who throws up in public wasn’t bad enough, things got worse when I met my good Samaritan.  Immediately, I saw why my would-be rescuer had waited: the charming British accent belonged to a sixtysomething man wearing a seersucker suit and a matching wheelchair.  He was waiting for me to leave the only handicap stall in the entire bathroom. 

His presence presented something of an ethical quandary.  The toilet this man was about to use had been absolutely destroyed by yours truly.  Sure, I had made a haphazard attempt to clean it, but let’s be honest – a messed up public toilet is, in everyone’s estimation, someone else’s problem.  Therein lay the dilemma: I estimated a 0.0023% chance this chap could hover over the bowl, leaving him few options other than plop down on the soiled bowl left in my vomitous wake.  It presented an interesting etiquette situation: should I do an about-face and clean up further?  Warn him off?  Try to wait him out?  Offer to prop him up while he peed in the sink?

No.  All of those options would require eye contact, an act I was unprepared to undertake at this particular moment.  Like a deferential dog, I slunk past until clear of the stalls, at which point I made a pointed dash for the door.  I won’t swear to it, but I think I heard a cultured patrician voice cry out “Egads!” as I made my flight from responsibility.

On the heels on what college kids call a “puking rally,” I found my way upstairs with my girlfriend to judge, whereupon the pain that had left my gut found a new home behind my temples, as I was force-fed a vast quantity of stupidity by the voices of our future.  Before you dig in, I’d like to remind you of two facts.  First, each kid present won not only their school science fair, but a regional fair as well.  These were the all-stars.  Second, every photo you are about to see is real.  With that, I give you the ten worst posters of the day:

#10: The Munchies

 

On the surface, this was a respectable project.  Beneath the glossy veneer was a horrifying glimpse into this kid’s home life.  Check out these images from the poster:

Clearly, this kid is a huge stoner.  In the top left photo, look at all the drug weighing paraphernalia he’s got: weigh scale, baggies.  Add in the crack-rock cooking station top right, and you’ve got the ingredients for a do-it-yourself drug ring.  The biggest clues come in the lower two photos, where the kid starts rocking the tye-dye crap (and adds a primitive bong in the lower-left photo).  Note the big shit-eating grin he sports in all four photos, along with the vacant bloodshot eyes and the unwashed dredlocks-in-training.  Seriously, who gets that excited over lunch meat?  Got the munchies do ya?

#9 Tie: Posters Best Interpreted Sexually

#8: The award for overly optimistic project.

#7: Tie: Worst Title Pun.  This was an EXTREMELY competitive category.

#6: Catchiest title that failed to deliver on hype.

#5: Vaguest Poster

If the science fair was about bullshit existential philosophy, this would be the champion.

#4: Grossest Poster

The real treat was the experiment: The kid made himself gassy by eating beans and broccoli, then had his parents/friends rate his flatulence under the effect of various antacids, some of which were unmercifully ineffective.

#3: “Kid who obviously had no parental involvement” award.

This was a strong candidate to win worst overall, until I saw the kid presenting it.  Let me tell you, he’s getting every last bit out of his natural abilities. 

#2: The WTF? title award. 

I read the poster and still had no idea what this was about.

#1: Proof someone has to win.

For sheer awfulness.  This kid had the balls to list his under the “engineering” category. This was so bad, it was lucky I’d already thrown up, and I told him so.