Posted on 2014-11-01

Mr. Collins blamed it all on that darned Italian food.

He knew the Bennets could afford to keep a good cook; he just did not know it would be a foreign cook.

It all started when he had first gotten to Longbourne. As befit his position as a clergyman, Mr. Collins had practiced complimenting the food at supper. However, he had not recognized several of the dishes served at Longbourne, which concerned him as it was to be his future home. Each bite was a taste sensation. He had never known tomatoes could taste so delicious and decadent.

But that confounded overuse of garlic did him in. His stomach was at war with his taste buds. He spent the night in gastronomic misery. The following morning, his valet had difficulty tying his breech laces as he was so bloated.

This bloating went on during the entirety of his stay at Longbourne. Everyone seemed to notice. Wherever they went, ladies seemed to giggle behind their fans at him. He saw men pointing and laughing in his direction. By the time of the Netherfield Ball, Mr. Collins had had enough. He was apoplectic with revenge.

His breeches needed alterations and even his shoes felt tight. Although he felt uncomfortable, Mr. Collins felt an obligation to be there to support the Bennet family. After all, he had promised Miss Elizabeth the first dance. That, coupled with his desire for revenge, spurred him on.

Once the dancing started, his flatulence took control. The loud music hid any noises he made, but the smell was overwhelming. Suddenly, his hallux burst forth, causing him to move the wrong way in the dance. Ladies gasped in horror at the size of his behemoth hallux, and several people moved out of the way. A servant tried to discreetly aid him, but Mr. Collins refused any aid. He stuffed it back in and continued dancing, much to Elizabeth's chagrin.

At the conclusion of the first dance, the servants brought out a refreshment: parmesan ice cream, a delicacy suggested to Mrs. Nichols by Longbourne's chef. Mr. Bingley announced, to everyone's surprise, that he was so fond of the stuff that they should have a contest. There was some flurry among the servants as to whether they could accommodate such a request; but a simple inquiry to the butler assured him that yes, indeed, the cooks had made enough that would permit such a contest.

Mrs. Norris immediately stepped forward to volunteer as the judge of the contest.

Mr. Collins immediately knew what his revenge would be. The Bennets had served parmesan ice cream with a strange meat called prosciutto. He had found the delicacy distasteful, so it would be perfect to exact his retribution.

But some preparations were necessary. With all the bustle of the servants, he was able to slip into the kitchen. He consumed three raw eggs, a cup of bacon grease, and a spoonful of lard. These items were difficult to swallow, but he made himself do it.

Mr. Collins slipped back into the party where he took a seat alongside the others who were participating in the contest. There were ten contestants altogether. A dish of parmesan ice cream was set before each participant. To mentally prepare himself, Mr. Collins imagined that the ice cream was really bat guano with a parmesan sauce.

Mrs. Norris pulled a pistol out of her apron pocket, aimed it at the ceiling, and counted down to begin the contest.

"3...2...1..."

Mr. Bingley shouted, "No, Mrs. Norris! A simple verbal command of 'Go!' will suffice!"

But he was too late, and as a result, Mr. Denny, who was in an upstairs bedroom with Lydia, lost his hallux. Lydia could never look at an exposed hallux again without cringing.

The contestants all dove into their dishes of ice cream, their hands secured behind their backs by spare linen strips. Mr. Collins ate heartily, and it was not very long before sounds gurgled from his belly. Soon, everyone could hear the ghastly moans of his entrails. Everyone stared at the source of these loud and scary sounds.

Suddenly, Mr. Collins sat up and let forth a spew of used parmesan ice cream. Everyone was disgusted. John Thorpe, who was seated on his left, yelled, "You barfed on me, dammit!" and then became the admiral of the narrow seas himself. He threw up on Sir William Lucas. Poor Sir William, in his turn, cast up his accounts on his wife's kettle drums. When Maria Lucas saw that, she turned around and flashed her hash at Chamberlayne. Chamberlayne took off his bonnet and heaved into it. Mr. Palmer, unable to contain himself, threw up on Miss Bates. Mrs. Elton tossed her cookies onto Mrs. Norris.

But when the malodorous stench hit the crowd, that's when Mr. Collins' plan really began to work. Ladies vomited on officers. Footmen vomited on maids. The Honorable Miss Carteret vomited into her reticule. Musicians vomited into their instruments. And the Ladies of the Meryton Literary Club vomited all over the Benevolent Order of Hertfordshire Hunters.

And Mr. Collins just sat back and enjoyed what he had created: a complete and total barf-o-rama.