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So You've Been Poisoned by Your Greatest Enemy

Where am I?

This is Cracked. You're in one of our probably critically acclaimed advice columns.

How did I get here?

The mechanics of how all this works are poorly explained. Suffice it to say, you are here, and this probably won't end well for you.

I'm feeling really confused right now. And kind of lethargic.

You sound like you're hungry. Try eating something.

I was eating breakfast in bed. I can barely touch it.

Brand X Pictures/Getty Images
Shifty-looking hash brown aside, that looks pretty edible. You must be pretty sick.

That's weird. You know what it sounds like? Like you've been poisoned.

But I don't feel pain, or sick to the stomach.

No, not food poisoning. I mean like proper, cloak-and-dagger poisoning.

Holy shit!

Exactly. Are you, or have you pissed off, a 16th century duke?

Wikimedia Commons
Alas!

What? No!

Well, that's good news at least, in that we won't have to resort to bloodletting or drinking the tincture of milk thistle and stewed cat to cure you. You can go to the hospital.

Can't you help me?

I'm afraid not. The only poison facts I know are really more Poison facts.


Which will be of limited help here, and really, in all other situations as well.

Are you sure you can't help? I'm feeling really weak now.

I don't know. Are you feeling really uncomfortably sexual too?

No.

Yeah, so we're not dealing with exposure to Poison then. So no, I can't help. Why can't you get to the hospital? Or do you not want to go to a hospital? Do you have a gerbil in you?

What? No. There are no hospitals around. I'm at one of those mountain lodges, and the only road up is snowed in.

Christ, where are you? The Shining? Or have you just checked into an Agatha Christie novel for the weekend?

I work for a record label, asshole. It's a junket/team building thing. Are you going to help me or not?

OK. Whatever it is, it doesn't sound like the poisoning is that severe, yet. But it could get worse. We should probably get you to vomit up whatever you ingested. That should buy you some time. Stick some fingers down your throat.

Ra Boe via Wikimedia Commons
Not those two.

AGHJGSHGJ.

Is it working?

AGHJGSHGJ.

I heard you the first time.

Wikimedia Commons
No, not those ones either.

AGHJGS ... It's not working.

OK, so it seems you've got a gag reflex that, while certainly an asset in some human endeavors, is not so helpful here. Do you have any salt?

I don't have any salt here. And I'm ... shit ... I can't move. I'm fucked.

Don't give up on me, you beautiful son of a bitch! OK. Think. We need something that will disgust you, right to your decrepit core. OK. Imagine your parents doing It. It.

Ugh.

Right. And they are doing It, and doing It comprehensively, and then, right at the, uh, summit of their love ...

Jesus.

... they both scream out your name.

BLEAAGHGHHHHGHHHAHAGHAACHAAAACHAAAAAACHHHHHHHHH.

That get it?

What is wrong with you?

Oh, I've got a whole list of these for an unrelated project. So, imagine your grandpa has a tub of expired mayonnaise and a poor sense of personal boundaries ...

Photos.com/Getty Images
Yeah. Imagine.

No. That's fine, thanks. So am I safe now?

Not at all. We've maybe bought you some time, but a lot of the poison has been absorbed by your body already. If you can't get to a hospital, we really need to find you the antidote for this.

How?

We're going to need to figure out who poisoned you. If anyone's going to have the antidote, it will be them.

Really? Why would they have the antidote?

Best practice, really. Any time you deal with a poison, it's always wise to have a supply of the antidote on hand. OK then. At this mountain retreat, are any of the other guests really shifty looking? A footman with an unplaceable accent, or a mysterious British officer using a knife to pick his teeth?

I haven't seen any cartoon spies around here, no.

Hmmmm. OK. You're there with work people? Have you stolen any big clients lately? Or slept with anyone's spouse? Or slept with a client's big spouse?

Wikimedia Commons
Yes. Finally, an appropriate combination of fingers.

Uhhhhhh. Ooooooh.

A-ha! Who was it?

In the hot tub last night. I was drinking. There was a lady there. Ladies.

Plural? Go on, son!

Thanks. And, well, one thing led to another ...

And you ended up mutually yelling out your parents' names?

BLEAAGHGHHHHGHHHAHAGHAACHAAAACHAAAAAACHHHHHHHHH.

Sorry about that. Well, there you go. Who were these ladies? Co-workers?

They were the wives and girlfriends of one of our clien- Oh shit.

What? Who was it? Who's the client?

Poison.

HAHAHAHHHA AHAH AHHAH HAH HA HHAHAHAHHA!


HAHAHAHHHA AHAH AHHAH HAH HA HHAHAHAHHA!

Fuck you.

And where was Poison during all these hot tub shenanigans?

In bed.

This was well past their bedtime, I take it.

Oh shit. They're like our biggest ... well ... mediumest client. I could lose my job over this.

Also, they poisoned you for accidentally cuckolding them.

I don't think Poison poisoned me.

Of course they did! They've been in a band called Poison for 30 years! You know how many gag gifts they've gotten? Fake novelty bottles with skull and crossbones on them, full of whiskey. Coffee table books on Amazonian toxins. Roll after roll of Mr. Yuck stickers to put on their cocaine baggies. They are probably all sorts of well-read on the subject of poison. I bet they've got suitcases full of crazy crap.

They do have a lot of suitcases. They said they were for Bret Michaels' bandannas, but how many bandannas could he need?

CharleyGallay/GettyImagesEntertainment
Michaels, seen here in one of his "dressier" bandannas.

See? In those suitcases lies your salvation. What you need to do is bust into their suite and confront them. Can you get out of bed yet?

I can, yeah. Not moving too quick though. I ... hey!

What?

My room didn't have a set of doors there. This is a suite! This isn't my room at all.

So where are you? Open the doors.

-the sound of the doors opening-

It's Poison's suite.

Are they there?

Yeah, they're all in the sitting area.

What are they doing?

Reading the newspaper. Jesus, there are a lot of bandannas here. Bret Michaels just asked if I enjoyed breakfast.

Do it now! Accuse them of Poisoning you.

They're all just laughing at me.

Vomit on them!

What?

You are in the next room as your grandpa begins seducing your long-dead childhood pet. Grandpa has trouble with volume control, so it is easy to hear through the walls, the pillow, your skull. He begins spreading mayonnaise over himself. Over everything.

BLEAAGHGHHHHGHHHAHAGHAACHAAAACHAAAAAACHHHHHHHHH.

Did it work? Did you barf all over Poison?

I did, yes. They don't seem that upset.

Slaven Vlasic/Getty Images Entertainment
This is real bush league as far as Bret Michaels is concerned.

Claim there's worse to come if they don't give you the antidote! Say you are sorry for accidentally bedding every one of their wives and girlfriends, but that nothing justifies taking a man's life!

They seem pretty upset about that.

Well, yeah, it can be upsetting having your moral failings pointed out to you.

No, I mean the cuckolding bit. They look like they didn't know about that.

But they were trying to poison you ... wait.

What?

You were hungover when you woke up, right? Headache?

Yeah.

You take any aspirin? Ibuprofen?

Yeah, a couple. Well. A couple and one. And then one more.

And you didn't notice this wasn't your room.

Oh shit.

You stumbled, half-blind, into a bathroom that wasn't your own, and accidentally gobbled a handful of pills, didn't you?

Oh shit!

Well, there you go. You "poisoned" yourself on someone else's muscle relaxer or blood pressure medicine or something.


Because nothing says rock and roll like "low-sodium diet."

So what do I do?

Congratulations! You're no longer poisoned! Should you require any further guidance, please consult our guide, "So You're About to Get Your Ass Kicked by a Glam Metal Band Whom You've Cuckolded and Also Vomited On."



Chris Bucholz is a Cracked columnist and has vomited on Quiet Riot and Ratt, but never Poison. Join him on Facebook or Twitter to discuss this matter further.

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