Melancholy Vomit

So, a novel of mine begins (OK, shamefully) with my hero, Rhodes, vomiting in an alley in Morocco. Suggestive of his life's travails, supposedly. But he manages to boil it down to the question of either booze or Moroccan food.

Whereas, me, me I'm talking about, I look at certain members of Congress, as well as the majority of the shuffling hominids around me, and the nameless and searing torrent just doesn't stop. My very soul seems to strain for more insulting fluids, additional gobbets of indignation, to hurl at the world! I feel this alley is fiendishly constructed with No Exit...