Classic literature at its "finest."

From Don Quixote, Part One, Chapter Eighteen, as translated by Edith Grossman:

"...But do not go now, for I have need of your assistance; come here and see how many molars and teeth I have lost, because it seems to me I do not have a single one left in my mouth."

Sancho came so close that his eyes were almost in his master's mouth; by this time the balm had taken effect in Don Quixote's stomach, and just as Sancho looked into his mouth, he threw up, more vigorously than if he were firing a musket, everything he had inside, and all of it hit the compassionate squire in the face.

"Mother of God!" said Sancho. "What's happened? Surely this poor sinner is mortally wounded, for he's vomiting blood from his mouth."

But looking a little more closely, he realized by the color, taste, and smell that it was not blood but the balm from the cruet, which he had seen him drink, and he was so disgusted by this that his stomach turned over and he vomited his innards all over his master, and the two of them were left as splendid as pearls.

I can feel the intellectual benefits of the fine literature taking root in my brain as we speak!