So the other night, I was out and about, and was riding the subway back to my place. And as usual, LA public transit never failed to let its freak flag fly.

So I get off at my subway stop, and as I’m heading up the stairs from the platform, I heard the sound of liquid spilling and hitting the ground. When I got to the top of the stairs, a puddle of yellowish liquid corroborated my auditory observation. “Oh,” I thought to myself, “someone has spilled their lemonade. That’s kind of gross. I’ll step around it.”

Then I heard the spilling sound again. Not ten steps ahead of me festered another yellow pool. Perhaps some sort of leak from the ceiling?

Rounding the corner, once more the sound of liquid familiarizing itself with tile flooded the corridor. This time, though, the source revealed itself — the yellow beverage was issuing forth with nonchalant effort from the mouth of a nearby subway passenger. The remarkable thing about all this is that this Paragon of Puke never slowed his walk; he just kept on trucking as amber fluids made an exodus from his gullet. This man vomited no less than ten times (I counted), three of them on the escalator. He was singularly unfazed both by his alarmingly routine cleansing, and the half-dozen subway passengers who were exclaiming, “Dude! Come on!”

As I exited the station, I saw this remarkable man continue his amble down the street. In the direction of the cheapest bars in the neighborhood.

Godspeed, Mr. Sloppy Drunk. Godspeed.