The Meaning of Life
At the risk of immediately losing credibility with all the film buffs who could probably make convincing cases for The Exorcist, I declare Monty Python's The Meaning of Life my personal favorite upchuck experience detailed here. Calling it the best movie might be a reach: After the financial successes of Monty Python and the Holy Grail and Life of Brian, the quintessential comedy troupe returned to sketch format for Meaning, forgoing a cohesive narrative in favor of loosely connected, concentrated blasts of surreality.
In the sloppiest of that lot, a glutton of planetary proportions dubbed Mr. Creosote (Terry Jones) waddles into a fancy restaurant, then power-chunders all over the floor, the menu, and a lady summoned by an extremely accommodating waiter (John Cleese) to mop up the sick. Following this display, Creosote inhales enough food and drink to feed a midsize New England suburb for a week, and to cap off this atrocity, the waiter serves Creosote a thin mint. Like most people who eat a thin mint, Creosote explodes, decorating the entire establishment with his entrails and their ample, chunky contents. None of this goes over well with Creosote's fellow patrons, needless to say.