Naughty children
When my kids were younger (one boy one girl) they fought like cats and dogs. I told them "if you don't stop being horrible to each other Santa is going to leave you coal in your stocking" the miserable little shits laughed! Right!... so I happened to have a small bag of coal in a crawlspace under the dining room so I went and got about 6 nice pieces. Dirty as hell as you can imagine so I washed them in the sink with dish soap after the kids had gone to bed and dried them nicely and put 3 pieces in each stocking with a note to the effect of if their behaviour hadn't improved by next Christmas this is all they would get.

Chrimbo morning rolls around and the kids are up on the hunt.. they get their stockings down and empty them out and find the note and the coal pieces along with some odds and sods. Now you'd think after a note from Santa and some coal samples they'd calm down a bit.. no not my kids.. one of them said "My piece looks like a gun!" and ran around shooting with it, the other kid wanted that... they were fighting over bits of coal!!!

We put the coal pieces on the mantle and they sit there to this day as a reminder of the fact that not even a gift of coal can calm down naughty children.

The eldest is off to college next year.
(Lurkaloid awarded wanking black belt on, Wed 25 Dec 2013, 0:44, 2 replies)

Merry Xmas
































Cunts
(McChinaman banned, Tue 24 Dec 2013, 21:25, Reply)

Thanks Resident Loon, just remembered (decided to tell) this heart warming Christmas story.
I must have been about 3 perhaps 3 and an half and to be honest I knew about Santa (The GPO used to have recorded messages you could ring to absolutely prove his existence) but not really very much about Christmas I cannot even remember being excited about Christmas. However, this year would not change that at all.

Some ungodly hour I was awake, but nothing special as I was always an early riser but on this occasion the rest of my family were also awake and were actually downstairs before me.

They said, "You know Santa delivered presents last night?"
I said, "Yes, I can see my bulging sack (probably didn't say that)"
"Well" my father says, "he has left you a message"
"WHHAAAAAAAA!" I cry.
"IN the kitchen," says Mama

Into the kitchen and my brother points at the kitchen roll holder. On the kitchen roll is written a message.

Dear Miserablist bastard (not my real name which is Nob Fartbelm)
I could not get your present into your sack as it is too big. I had to leave it outside in the sandpit. I hope you enjoy this special gift. Yours etc. etc. Seasons greeting, Father Christmas.

Wow, you can imagine my excitement. Outside I go and there in the sandpit is the biggest Tonka toy (possibly not the biggest) that anyone had ever seen. It was a Dumper Truck. Words cannot describe my happiness and that I still believe in Father Christmas to this day but accept that I am always naughty and that is why I never get cards or presents, not even from mother.
( d.r._and_quinch when will you be famous?, Tue 24 Dec 2013, 17:36, 5 replies)

Pranking the kids
It was better than twenty years ago, back when my sons were about four and three respectively. They were typical small kids, constantly squabbling and hitting each other and being generally evil little shits to one another most of the time. (Today they are pretty close and rarely argue, fortunately.) The usual Santa threats were trotted out as most parents do, including the fake calls to Santa telling him to skip our house this year. ("Nooooooooo!")

One of the recurring jokes was that Santa wasn't going to put toys and such in their stockings, but would fill them with reindeer poop. ("Nooooooooo!")

So the night before, once I knew that they were asleep ("Santa's gonna go right past us if you keep getting out of bed!" "Nooooooooo!") we put the usual things in the stocking and set out the presents. And then I did a brilliant thing: I poured some chocolate covered raisins in each stocking.

The boys raced down the stairs in the morning, and as I'm making coffee my oldest pulls out a chocolate covered raisin. "Dad? What's this?"

"Reindeer poop, of course."

"EEEEWWWWW!"

I chuckled to myself as the coffee brewed and I got out the cinnamon rolls. I was just getting my first cup of coffee when he bursts into the kitchen with a look of panic. "Dad! Dad! Come quick!"

"What's wrong?"

"Alex is eating reindeer poop!"

I managed to speak around the giggles as I explained the joke. He pelted me with raisins.

The following year the joke was that it would be broccoli and underwear. I stuffed their (clean) underwear into the stockings the night before, and the next morning had them thrown at me.

I can only imagine what they'll do to their kids.
( The Resident Loon Not a demographic. Do not measure., Tue 24 Dec 2013, 17:07, 6 replies)

I was a bit of a shit when I was younger
and me and my sister were always causing trouble together. Including Christmas Eve 1991 when we blocked the bathroom sink, turned both taps on and then promptly left and went downstairs. A few hours later there's this big damp patch in the kitchen above where the fridge was and it has visibly started to bow. Cue the water breaking through and going everywhere and even getting as far as the electricity meter and then out goes everything. Of course with it being Christmas, trying to get someone out to fix it was next to impossible. Cue Christmas day opening presents in the dark with candles everywhere and no Christmas dinner, we relied on neighbours to bring us food whilst my entire family, and even my bitch sister, giving me evils the whole week after.

Still, I got the bike I asked for so it wasn't all bad.
(Paddy2, Tue 24 Dec 2013, 15:23, 1 reply)

Christmas, same old question - uppers or downers maybe something from the hallicinogens. A little
bit of crack in my pipe. A little bit of leaf for my bong. A little bit of E for my gum. A little bit of salvia in the sun. Honda Accord.

MASSIVE DRUGS

Peace out
( d.r._and_quinch when will you be famous?, Mon 23 Dec 2013, 20:45, 13 replies)

This Christmas is set to be quite good. My social calendar is just amazing.
So, very popular. Then two weeks in Cancun in January.

Bought my mum the baby doll nightie - so she's up for it.
( d.r._and_quinch when will you be famous?, Mon 23 Dec 2013, 18:13, 3 replies)

I like ham

(DarkLite swallowed my entire undercarriage, Mon 23 Dec 2013, 18:11, 5 replies)

alright

(dozers, do fuck off ur a nob m8, Mon 23 Dec 2013, 15:40, 5 replies)

Evil Grandma
My granny was a pretty bitter old woman who generally took a strong dislike to most things, especially people.

I have to admit I was amused by her trying to poison pigeons, keeping a large stash of cash under her mattress, and her telling her kind and helpful neighbour that he was nosey and to go away.

For both convenience and cost, I used to park my car in her resident's only space in the town where I worked, and she lived. It was a mutually beneficial arrangement - I got free parking, she got to speak to another human being who didn't care that she was a hate filled monster. I even took lunch with her once per week - we were buddies!

Anyway, long story short, the rest of my family sent a naff Jesus in a manger card, and a cheap bottle of booze at Christmas (the safe option as she liked a tipple and was not fond of...well anything really.)

Because I knew my place as the special grandson, I trotted off to the shops feeling all lovely inside, and purchased her a beautiful broach with diamonds and sapphires - she was an old girl but she dressed well! I done good, and this touching, personal (and expensive) gift would reach the cold caverns of her icy heart, and cement my place as favourite grandchild (and top place in the Will).

However, I underestimated her icy meanness, and failed to understand the depths to which she resented being alive. The gift rather backfired.

On picking her up in my car, to taxi her off to the parents for Christmas Day dinner, I was promptly and in no uncertain terms bollocked for being late - the fact I had a 2 hours detour to run this service was of no consequence. Despite having a large cosy house in which to wait, she stood outside for an hour in the snow to prove her point.

I was sure that she can't have opened the fantastic gift I had left wrapped for her, she wouldn't have spoken to me like the other vile humans!

"Did you get your little present from Santa, Grandma?" I dared to ask

" I did...and it's a damn horrible ugly thing, how the damn hell do you you expect me to put that on with hands like these..." shows twisty gnarly fingers like twigs, with talons for nails... "It's neither use nor ornament, I'm fed up of people giving me things I don't want and didn't ask for...."

She continued on a bit, but my brain filtered her tirade of complete ungrateful and insensitive evil, and I started to feel a bit dizzy. For a fraction of a second (well, maybe about 10 full seconds) my gaze fixed on a post at the side of the road, and I wondered if I released her seatbelt and drove into the post, if it would kill her, or make her stronger.

On arrival at my parents gaff, despite her being crippled up and barely able to shuffle along since I can remember, she unfastened her safety belt with her gnarly twig fingers, jumped out of the range rover, and marched into my parents house. It was a Christmas fucking miracle.

I cried, no one spoke at the dinner, she was taken home by my dad who was given the piece of jewellery to send back to me, and never bought her another present.

She's is in a nursing home now, stroking a stuffed bunny rabbit that she calls Flopsy.

I kept the broach as a reminder of the woman I used to know.

Merry Christmas.
(jairzinhor, Mon 23 Dec 2013, 13:56, 18 replies)

Christmas period.
My wife just started one, thoroughly fucking up my plans for a white Christmas. Mind you, its not as bad as the honeymoon period. That really put a damper on the whole thing.
( Peej, Mon 23 Dec 2013, 11:30, 16 replies)

As troublesome teenagers we took it in turns to ruin christmas.
Usually an over indulgence of festive spirit on xmas eve would do the trick and at least one of us would spend all day in our rooms, occasionally vomiting loudly enough to be heard by the remaining diners. Once, my brother got arrested too for some harmless high jinks - which put him ahead on points for quite a while.
A wonderfully stony silence would be maintained by mum while the rest of us tried to suppress a gag reflex brought on by the same, (if somewhat lesser symptoms) and the smell of the roast.
Grandad woke up the whole street being a Lancaster bomber on the way back from the pub, then pissed in the sink and missed a bit. Quite a bit.
Happy days.
( Infidel , shit and wrong, Mon 23 Dec 2013, 0:03, Reply)

(Eukanuba, Sun 22 Dec 2013, 21:29, 14 replies)

I got a rather disturbing Xmas card the other day,
from fuck knows who.
Addressed to (christian name)Leafy. It had a key in and a poem.
Find your key,
Keep it in a special place,
Around your neck,
Or in a tiny space,
Enjoy the break and festive cheer,,
This key will unlock doors next year!
From "Digging Deep", with a picture of a heart and a spade.
Edit, also it had a first class stamp on, but hadn't been franked, whoever it was who delivered it, possibly did it by hand, and he managed to get through the security lodge. I think I may have an official stalker :(
Creepy man, creepy.
(Pookie Bear had some very shiny foez, Sun 22 Dec 2013, 17:15, 11 replies)

lol i empty'd my sack in ur mums chimney

( Amorous Badger NAKED BEA ARTHUR PHOTOS 4U, Sun 22 Dec 2013, 15:46, 3 replies)

Spanking
My colleague Jason knew I was into foreign films. One day in the summer, he sad "Bob, here's a film that would interest you - Siamese twins and spanking in 19th Century Russia."

Well, I had a look on imdb, and it was a proper film that had won some awards. Now, I have this online "holding area" where I park films that are worthy of later perusal. And I added this one to it. That holding area was my Amazon wish list.

Fast forward to Christmas Day. "Happy Christmas, Bob!" said my mum. "Here's your spanking DVD!"
I'd forgotten about the damn thing.
For the rest of the day, and the following day, it was a case of "What's on TV? Let's watch Bob's spanking DVD instead!"

For the perverts amongst you, it's called "Of Freaks and Men".

It took me another year or so to pluck up the courage to watch it... together with the wife... and after twenty minutes of feeling queasy, I pressed Eject.

In the end I flogged it to some degenerate on eBay.

There's a moral to this story. I just can't quite find it.
(Bob the Builder killed Captain Alex, Sun 22 Dec 2013, 15:34, 7 replies)

One of the pikey houses up the top of the village
left a big blow-moulded plastic Santa up on their front wall after Christmas 2001.

He stayed there until Christmas 2004, by which time three summers (including the record-breaking bastard hot one of 2003) had bleached every bit of his red coat so that he was completely white.

That's class.
(rogerzilla, Sun 22 Dec 2013, 13:23, 2 replies)

My first ever 'bad' Christmas day.
My sister in law doesn't really like our side of the family. She is somewhat of a controlling person and seems to feel uncomfortable without the same sense of power over us that she does with her own parents/siblings. It's particularly odd, as my parents are very amiable people and get along with anyone (including my and my sister's partners), including catering to my SiLs whims.

Last Christmas day, seething that my brother insisted they spend Christmas with us, she concluded rather out-of-the-blue that my 2yr old niece has a fever, and having just been upstairs where no one could hear she'd called NHS direct who agreed they needed to get to A&E immediately. Cue her scooping up my niece who was happily playing/running around/laughing with her new toys, and my brother and my mother (as the only one sober and could drive) being forced to spend next 6 hours waiting at the hospital, just to be told there was nothing wrong.

Such a shame, we had a pretty good, laid-back and feud-free immediate family until she came along...

To offset the sour Christmas above: one xmas back in the late 80's my nanna and her sister got really pissed over the course of the day and were laughing so hard my nanna was rolling around on the floor for nearly 10 minutes, like some kind of Internet-cliche. That's the image I have in my head whenever I read 'ROFLOL'.
(DaftenDirekt, Sun 22 Dec 2013, 5:13, 7 replies)

In which my dad bums some furniture
(Repost from 'Dad Stories')

Picture the scene... It's early Christmas evening. The presents have all been opened. The Christmas dinner has been demolished. Her Maj has been toasted at 3pm with the first sherry of the day (A tradition at my folks' house - though they give nary a tinker's cuss for the royals for 364 days of the year) and it's just about that sort of time when...

Ma Jimlad: "Anyone for charades?"

We never learn. It always descends into trouble. But we're all rather merry and in fine festive fettle so myself, my brother and the 'rents settle into a game.

It's all jolly good fun. To begin with. Ma pulls off an impressive 'Gone With The Wind' with a flatulence mime. I get lucky and manage to do 'Imagine' in under 5 seconds while my brother raises a few guffaws by goose-stepping his way through 'Fawlty Towers'. So that brings it round to...

My dad loves a game of charades. Though it does tend to bring out his competitive side. This will quickly be illustrated by what happened next. I'll be as descriptive as possible, see if you can guess what he was trying to do....

Having read the card he pauses for a second in thought and looks around the room.

"Are you ready?" I ask, in my role as time-keeper for the round, "Go!"

"No! Wait!" he screeches and belts out of the room.

Cue three puzzled faces from the remainder of the family while we hear him unlock the back door, run across the patio and burst in to the garage. We can hear some commotion and the clock is still ticking.

"Is it 'The Invisible Man'?" quips my bro. Ho ho!

We hear him coming back and, even though we're all au fait with his competitive nature, none of us were quite prepared for the sheer WTF-ness of what happened next.

He *leaps* back into the room. Wearing a welder's mask and a weird sort of tea-towel scarf *thing*. He has a Christmas card in his hand. The one from Aunty Carol if memory serves.

After standing there in a "Well? Isn't it obvious?" pose for a few seconds, he points at the Christmas Card. Then resumes said pose. We all look at each other, not sure wether to laugh or have him sectioned. He gives us an exasperated look then starts jogging round the coffee table holding the Christmas Card by his side. He stops and gives us a pose that screams "oh come on! You must have got it by now!". No-one's made a single guess since he returned. I think we were all too stunned. We don't know how many words or anything, he forgot about that bit.

I look at the timer and in my stunned state barely manage to blurt out "15 seconds left, do something else quick!"

I so wish I hadn't said that.

He gives us one last infuriated, exasperated stare. Pulls me off the sofa and proceeds to dry-hump it. Hard. Still holding the Christmas card by his side and occasionally looking at it as though it was keeping him going in his furniture-bumming ways.

The buzzer goes.

He continues to give the sofa a seeing-to.

"Come on!", he shouts, now that he's allowed to. "It's obvious!"

"I don't think we're gonna get it dad..." ventures my brother, which is finally enough to stop the cushion-thrusting.

He gets up, red faced and beaten. We can all sense the frustration and anger bubbling under the surface so no-one wants to say what has to be said. He looks at us all in turn like we are dirt. We're an idiot-convention of the world's worst charade-guessers and he hates us.

It was my mum that finally cracked.

"What was it love?"

If, at this point, anyone has guessed correctly then I would suggest you are some form of superior being for if we had guessed for the rest of the day I don't think any of us would have expected him to bellow:

"I'M FUCKING BATMAN!"

There's a silence.

"BATMAN! Look!", he pulls off the tea towel. "What the hell did you think this was?"

Silence. And shrugs.

"It's a cape!"

Then came the questions... And the giggling.

"And the welders' mask?"

"It was the most bat-like mask I could find!"

"What was the little jog round the coffee table all about?"

"You must know the 'Batman Run'!!!? That's how he runs!"

"Oooooo-kaaaaaay... What the hell were you doing to the sofa?"

"THAT WAS THE BATMOBILE!"

We're in hysterics at this point and he's just getting angrier and angrier. Through tears of laughter my brother asks "Since when did Batman carry Christmas cards around with him?"

My dad picks up the card, turns it to face us and points with great conviction at the one detail that might have helped us.

"IT'S. A. FUCKING. ROBIN!"

He refused to play the next year
(R. Jimlad twitter.com/sirmarkymark, Sun 22 Dec 2013, 4:56, 6 replies)

My Dog once got a squeeky toy
that she squeeked non stop for 8 hours straight...
( SkUG >_O i got a couple of stitches in my eyeball... ow, Sat 21 Dec 2013, 21:28, 1 reply)

It's A Wonderful Death
My many fans will no doubt recall that, in one of my incarnations, I once held a senior position in a large corporation. They will also remember that I once had to tell someone that they were going to be made redundant, just before Christmas. Here are the details:

www.b3ta.com/questions/sayingtheunsayable/post1830292

Now for the sequel. A heart-warming tale of Yuletide love and goodwill. Read on, gentle cunts, read on, and prepare to be entered by the true Spirit of Christmas.

The date: Christmas eve, a month or so after I sacked Bill (not his real name. Which was John). The scene: a cold, frosty urban winter’s evening. A chill wind is howling around the concrete and glass canyons of Plutus Park. Above, a deep black sky with a shining canopy of twinkling stars, that neither know nor care about the antics of the creatures moving about the face of the Earth like the blind, helpless worms that they are. Below, the icy passageways empty save for a crisp packet being blown down the cavernous concourse between the gigantic edifices of Babdastard Bank and Ultracaust plc.

But what is this? In the vast coldness and cold vastness, hearken! Voices, voices merry with merriment! A woman laughs, the sound a tinkle of Bacardi being poured over iced gold. Her male companion (me) joins in, a chuckling avuncular baritone so charming that Prince Charming himself would pooh his pants upon hearing it. Hearken! And viddy well: down the corporate canyon between Babdastard Bank and Ultracaust plc, people, happy festive people, well-wrapped against the winter chill, stepping quickly, their expensive shoes striking the frosty paving-slabs with precision and confidence, the sound echoing efficiently around the concrete enclave. Four people; two couples: myself, my then consort, the sexy Stephanie, and two of our friends, David and Samantha. We are making our way through Plutus Park to a fancy restaurant sited on the far side thereof; we have just spent a merry hour in the pub, and are well refreshed and looking forward to a slap-up Christmas grill. We – me, Stephanie, David and Samantha – could not be happier. It’s Christmas eve, we are with the people we love, we are about to deeply indulge in sensual pleasures (and I’m not just talking about food, you know!), we are bollocking bastard rich, and we fear nothing. Ha!

As I walk beside her I gaze down into Stephanie’s face. Her cheeks are reddened by the cold air, and her dark eyes gleam like the stars in the heavens above. I give her gloved hand a squeeze. She squeezes back and I imagine that hand (sans glove) around my erect penis, wanking it slowly yet determinedly and lovingly until it shoots out pumping great squirts of creamy jizz. I kiss her, my tongue exploring the inside of her mouth which feels excitingly hot against the cold winter air. We then walk on, catching up with David and Samantha, who are also holding hands, and also thinking about having sex with each other. Of course, by now I am nursing a prodigious erection.

As we draw level with our friends, a sad, croaky, hoarse voice rends the air. ‘Spare change?’

My erection melts away like an icicle dipped in hot tomato soup. I stop. I turn and look down.

There, huddled against the wall of Ultracaust plc, is a pathetic, shivering figure, pale and stubbly, shrouded in stinking rags. Its eyes stare up at us, hope gleaming within their reddened, hollow sockets. ‘Spare change?’ repeats the creature again.

My first instinct is to destroy. To stamp, to smash, to rid Plutus Park of this fucking lump of shit. How dare this abject, wretched turd, this worthless, hopeless failure, have the temerity to address us, its superiors? How dare this foetid smear of whore’s cuntbutter dare to puncture our jolly Christmas mood? And fuck ‘goodwill to all men.’ This is not a man; it is a worm. A worm to be crushed underfoot, scraped against the kerb, washed away by the rain and forgotten forever.

We have all stopped and are all staring down at this putrid germ, all thinking the same thing. But then I recognise the figure shivering within its foul coverings of piss stinking rags.

‘Bill?’

The human-shaped object attempts a smile; it is ghastly and wretched, and I clench my fists, wanting only to punch the cunt’s teeth in. ‘Yes, Sir,’ gurgles the thing. ‘It’s Bill. Remember me?’

‘Oh Bill,’ I purr in my best Bond villain voice. ‘How could I ever forget you?’ I then turn to my dear friends, David and Samantha, and my gorgeous Stephanie, who all appear as gigantic gold-plated gods next to this grovelling, base insect. ‘Do go on,’ I say. ‘I’ll deal with this.’

I hunker down next to the creature. I am trying not to burst out laughing. ‘Well, Bill, how’s things?’

Bill looks up at me with fear in his eyes, eyes which, to my disgust, emit hot little tears which steam gently in the Christmas Eve chill. His broken, wretched face then folds and creases and a choking sob is emitted from between his cracked, flaking lips. I am about to stand and start administering the kicking when the miserable being seems to master itself, and speaks:

‘Well, after losing my job, things went downhill. I started drinking heavily, spending all my redundancy money on alcohol. I began losing my temper and beating my wife and children. She kicked me out, and I was going to move back in with my parents, but they both died in a car smash. I begged my wife to let me move back in with her, and she relented. Then my children got abducted, raped and butchered by paedoes. My drinking and violent mood swings got worse, and I started using prostitutes. My wife found out and kicked me out again, but let me back in when she discovered she was pregnant. Then I found out that I had caught HIV off of a prostitute and passed it on to my wife. When I told her she had a miscarriage and killed herself. I then started drinking more and more and I now have cirrhosis of the liver and full-blown AIDS.’

I really have to struggle hard not to burst into laughter. ‘Oh well,’ I manage to say. ‘Never mind. It’s Christmas.’

At these words Bill’s face cracks completely and he lets out a howling wail of deep soul-crushing woe. It is the sound of a tiny thing completely at the end of its tether, the sound of profound and inescapable despair.

I decide that I have to do something.

‘Hey, hey, hey!’ I say, putting my arm around the quivering mass of useless flesh and bones. ‘Don’t be like that! Tell you what – you can come and stay at my house for Christmas. Tonight you can have a nice long hot bath and get into some cosy clean clothes, and then have a slap-up Christmas Eve supper. I’ll put you up in the spare room – it’s very cosy and the bedsheets have just been changed. And then tomorrow – Christmas Day! – I’ll make sure you have the best Christmas you’ve ever had!’

The wretch gazes up at me, a dim gleam of hope igniting in his poor little eyes. ‘Really?’

I chuckle good-naturedly. ‘Yes! In fact you can stay with me for as long as it takes to sort yourself out. And in the New Year I’ll take you to see my doctor friend, who will be able to cure your liver disease and AIDS.’

A shadow of doubt passes across Bill’s grimy, tear-streaked face. ‘Really?’

‘No, not really, you stupid fucking cunt.’ I stand up and kick him in the face. He yelps as blood courses freely from his now broken nose.

‘You feculent speck of stinking excrement!’ I spit. ‘Did you REALLY FUCKING THINK I WOULD HAVE A PIECE OF SHIT LIKE YOU IN MY HOUSE? AT CHRISTMAS? OR AT ANY FUCKING TIME?’ I bellow.

Bill blubbers and howls and tries to mop up the bloody, snotty mess that used to be its face.

‘You are a worthless, useless, hopeless waste,’ I explain. ‘You are a sad, sorry little turd, waiting only for the flush. WELL HERE COMES THE FLUSH!’ I reach down and box his ears, knowing well how much it will hurt in the cold air of this frosty Christmas eve. I then kick him several times in the stomach, and consider pissing on him, but my erection would make it difficult to urinate. Instead I spit on him. ‘I hate you, I gob on you, FUCK you!’

It’s high time I left this mess and returned to my loving friends. I start to walk away, but hesitate. I can’t leave this unfinished.

I turn back to the snivelling, sorry wreckage of the thing that used to be Bill. ‘I can’t allow you to remain here,’ I inform it. ‘Spoiling the frontage of the Ultracaust building like this! What if one of the shareholders sees? Come on!’

I haul the thing to its feet – it feels like a sack of spuds – and shove it along the concourse. ‘Now FUCK OFF!’

Bill obeys mutely and begins to stagger away. He seems to be finding it difficult to walk, so, in a show of Christmas goodwill, I offer him my arm. We walk together for a while, Bill silent, me humming Christmas carols, until Bill mumbles that he is tired, so very tired, and needs to rest.

We come to a halt in the middle of a bridge over the railway, and Bill leans heavily on the stone parapet. In the distance, I can see a train approaching, and I come to a decision.

‘Would you like to die now, Bill; or would you prefer to wait for the complications of AIDS or cirrhosis to kick in?’

Bill says nothing. He merely stares into the night, shivering, his breath misting the festive air.

‘Only, the latter option would involve a protracted, painful, ugly and undignified death, during which you would have ample time to think back over the catastrophic failure of your miserable existence. Best to end it all now, quickly, and relatively painlessly.’

Still Bill says nothing. The train draws nearer. From some nearby hostelry, the merry strains of Mariah Carey’s festive hit ‘All I Want For Christmas Is You’ can be clearly discerned.

‘So, Bill, which is it to be? Quick death now, or horrible long-drawn-out death later? Hurry up and decide, the train’s almost here.’

Bill mumbles something, but I can’t quite make out what it is. ‘Sorry?’

A whisper issues from the beaten lump, a whisper colder than the depths of winter. ‘Death now.’

The train is getting closer, closer. ‘Death now, what?’

The whisper comes again. ‘Death now, please.’

Closer and closer. ‘Death now, please what?’

Bill turns to look at me. There is nothing in his eyes. No fear, no hate, no pain, no broken heart, nothing. They are empty of life. He is already dead. ‘Death now, please, Sir.’

‘Okey dokey.’ I grab him round the middle and with one big heave pitch him over the parapet. Just in time! There’s a sort of wet crackling thump, and the air is rent with the piercing shriek of the train’s brakes. I sigh. A messy delay for all those poor passengers, but something to talk about over their Christmas eve suppers.

I walk away, and catch up with my friends David and Samantha, and my gorgeous lover Stephanie. We go on to have a lovely evening, and later, I fuck Stephanie, and spray my semen all over her face, hair and tits.

Merry Christmas, everyone! And a happy and prosperous New Year.
(Dr Skagra glorious glargzhem, Sat 21 Dec 2013, 19:55, 5 replies)

My dog dun a poo

(McChinaman banned, Sat 21 Dec 2013, 17:12, 3 replies)

The shits
hewhowalks tale of the The Great Mince Pie incident of 1985 reminded me of last Christmas when I had the shits all Christmas eve, all through Christmas day and Boxing day and then continued to have them all through the following week. I couldn't go out on New Year's eve and was also at home all through New Year's day with the shits again. Then I continued to have them all the way through the weekend until they finally went back to school on the 7th of January.
( buffet_the_appetite_slayer ٩(●̮̃•)۶ jacked in to the ICE on, Sat 21 Dec 2013, 15:52, 2 replies)

The Great Mince Pie incident of 1985
As a child I loved mince pies. Mum always used to make her own, baking up batches almost endlessly in the two weeks or so through Christmas. Christmas Eve, an exceptionally large batch was cooked up and the young me set about them with gusto during the course of the day.I believe 18 was my total. Unfortunately this excessive combination of dried fruit, buttery pastry and Christmas eve excitement led to the night's chaos. Vomiting on the hour, every hour from around 8 in the evening until 5 the next morning, every last raisin was expelled. I still can't eat them to this day. Even the feel of sugared shortcrust can turn my stomach.
(hewhowalks -log10 [H+], Sat 21 Dec 2013, 15:00, 2 replies)

This
www.b3ta.com/questions/dad/post985732 is my favourite Christmas story
( social hand grenade I was a lurker before you were a lurker, Sat 21 Dec 2013, 14:52, 3 replies)

...because the naughty kids are supposed to get coal
In the early hours of christmas morning a fair few years ago, on his way back from the pub, my brother stopped off at a family home a couple of streets from my parents' house and did a massive shit in their porch, as their youngest son, a tragic small-town wannabe hardman, and a gang of his mates had recently battered one of my brother's old schoolfriends for no reason.
(cs1ca, Sat 21 Dec 2013, 12:39, 7 replies)

I reckon if they didn't want to sleep in a stable they should have fucked off back where they came from.
Of course, If you point out that there was no room in the Inn the PC Brigade will call you a "wacist".
( Dr Preference AjcuiVd289, Sat 21 Dec 2013, 11:30, 2 replies)

The only time we were invited to my aunt's for Christmas
Christmas morning and my father had a grey-green look, having over-indulged hugely the night before. Revivifying pre-dinner dare of the hog had merely topped up the blood alcohol level to borderline incoherent. This became clear once dinner was served. As the rest of the family looked on he slumped face first into his laden plate. We never got another invitation.
(unclestinky, Sat 21 Dec 2013, 7:50, 3 replies)

bollocks
the easy question is who is working on christmas day?
( Tesco Quality 60.825659, -0.788337, Fri 20 Dec 2013, 19:22, 8 replies)

Alone on the Icy Plateau
There was one Christmas Eve where I was driving home across a distant plateau with my mouse-like but intelligent dog, when a storm suddenly draped the road in fog and ice. There were a few traffic jams, and at one traffic stop we exited the vehicle, only to realize it was too icy for either of us to stand on the roadway. Better to drive then. We pressed on, and it slowly dawned me there was no more oncoming traffic. Apparently the authorities had closed the highway, but we had somehow slipped past the cordon. We proceeded through an obstacle course of vehicles - a wilderness of metal and ice. Abandoned and jackknifed tractor-trailer rigs and snow-covered cars littered the roadway at crazy angles. And there were no people evident at all. Nightfall found us alone - radically alone - on the foggy, icy, empty plateau. Sensible travelers would have pulled to the side of the road and waited for better weather, but my dog gave me fortitude. She was intelligent and her faith never wavered. We pressed forward, avoided trouble, and arrived home in time for Christmas.
(Perv With A Dog had his eyes pecked out by scrub jays on, Fri 20 Dec 2013, 18:44, 6 replies)