Let's face it: we've all been there. The Technicolor Yawn. Yodelling down the Porcelain Telephone. Doing a Jackson Pollock. We've all felt the cold touch of the toilet seat on our feverish, sweat-soaked faces, and breathed out a riot of interesting highlights from our last day's meals. Whatever your poison: weed, booze (or more likely both), or simply because of a dodgy sausage, or cheap sushi, we've all experienced a whitey before... but perhaps not one quite as bad as the one BB Smith experienced...Three shots of frozen Russian vodka later I was still partaking in smoking the rotating, weed filled, cone. First I sensed it in my chest, an awful burning sensation. As I tried to rub away the feeling, saliva began to fill at the back of my throat. I spat it into Colin’s kitchen sink, making sure that I ran the tap afterward to chase away the gloopy liquid from my sight. Stan pointed out that I was looking a whiter shade of pale, ‘super white’ if I am to quote him correctly. Not good ...READ 'NIGHT OF THE SUPER WHITEY' NOW!
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