It happens without warning. We’re in the basement behind the furnaces or on a crime scene and some organic substance has just broken or spilled or stated its intentions. Suddenly, we’re left staring at a fat guy on the beach or something partially digested.
“That is so gross!” we yell, holding our noses or looking at a suppurating boil, or staring into a bucket filled with a fine slurry or gelatinous mass.
“Disgusting!” someone we know or don’t know hollers from right beside us or from far away, confirming that this spectacle of, say, a noxious cloud or a chum processing machine or a naked fat lady or a pimple on your buddy Ron’s back is, indeed, gross.
“Yeah, sick!” someone else yells, choking and/or dry-heaving as something puddles or backs up or falls out of the vacuum cleaner, or blood and/or urine emerges from a life-form that may or may not be human, or a vile odor spreads into the kitchen from something eviscerated, burned or deflated.
“Holy mama! It’s coming back to life!” yet another person screams, which generally means an entity assumed to be dead or dying is now regaining consciousness.
At this point we should turn and run like hell, because whatever it is that was previously grossing us out is now going to kill us. I suggest running “chopper style,” like we did in fourth grade.