NEWSLETTER

Having run out of human emissions and discharges to deposit in the gross jar, we were left wondering—what could we possibly do with this repulsive pile of sludge? We decided it was time for people to interact with the jar on a more personal level. To that end, we devised a contest: two men in a bare-knuckled “sniff off” to see whose stomach proves stronger.

We received tons of letters concerning our recent racial drinking bout between blacks and whites. The missives came from far and wide, wondering why America’s underrepresented races were excluded from the contest. OK, fine, we said. We’ll get a gay Chinese man and a straight Puerto Rican man to stick their faces in the gross jar. Whoever vomits first, loses.

To warm up the men ate pickles, corn, pudding, platanos, and corned-beef sandwiches, and drank beer. The heterosexual was confident of victory and stuffed his face with no remorse. Both parties were briefed on the contents of the jar (chicken, milk, scabs, blood, a turd, cum, a dead rat, menses, etc) and were instructed to aim their vomit toward the mouth of the jar.

The contenders and several spectators stepped onto Vice’s roof. After four months festering in the sun, the gross jar has morphed into a biological time bomb. A thick, dark brown stew has congealed on the bottom. Floating on top is a lighter, thinner, gray liquid. The jar is uncapped and a dense smell of contamination immediately blankets the roof. Seriously, it was the most disgusting smell we’ve ever been a part of. Kind of like Chinatown in the summer, wet dog, baby shit, and decomposing flesh had a kid.

The gay Chinaman volunteered to mingle with the jar first. He picked it up, sniffed it, and appeared to be 100 percent fine. He even danced gaily around the roof, sure of his victory. His claim is that growing up in Chinatown has prepared him for this sort of challenge. The jar was then passed to the Puerto Rican. He accepted, reluctantly, immediately grimaced, dry-heaved, and began to salivate uncontrollably. The match seemed sewn up already. For several minutes the opponents took turns smelling the jar, but no one could puke. The stench was so bad it closed their throats up. The sniffs became large, gulping mouthfuls of the stench. These gasps resulted in the Puerto Rican depositing minute quantities of bile, snot, and vomit into the jar. The Chinese man was still showing no reaction, prancing happily around while the Puerto Rican kept retching and stumbling like a punch-drunk boxer. This went on for 20 minutes.

A draw was offered since nobody was puking, but the headstrong Puerto Rican was not willing to stop until he lost for certain with an all-out spilling of his innards. He thus began to consume the second half of his sandwich while taking huffs from the jar, which the Chinaman held in a Vanna White pose. The Rican still couldn’t vomit. He put the sandwich down and placed his face in the jar, huffing faster and more violently, while drool and snot poured out of his orifices. Still, no barf. The draw was official.

But the day wasn’t over yet. The Chinaman, curious as to how the rat, shit, chicken, and tampon have settled, began to stir the jar’s contents with a leftover pickle, which he soon replaced with a set of chopsticks. The roof was getting battered tsunami-style with waves of stench exponentially worse the deeper he dug. The effeminate Chinaman’s findings: Every solid ingredient has turned to mush.

We still didn’t want to leave the roof until someone barfed. A “lightning round”-style competition was hastily set up, with the contestants and the remaining spectators hovering over the jar. The Chinaman continued to stir while the supplementary rivals battled for bragging rights. Several minutes and a gallon of bile later, we declared the contest over. Congratulations were exchanged and everyone appeared glad to be leaving the roof. Shockingly, the infallible Chinaman suddenly began to convulse and then let out a satisfying stream of vomit.

This experiment was conducted because the gross jar’s future was uncertain. We were kind of over it. We now know there is still much to learn from it. This month’s additions of stomach lining, vomit, mucous, and corned beef can only continue the marvelous transformations the gross jar is destined to undergo while sitting in New York’s hot summer sun.

VICE STAFF

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