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This is a question My most gullible moment

Someone once told me that gullible wasn't in the dictionary and I went, "yeah yeah ha ha" but when they were gone that didn't stop me checking. What was YOUR most gullible moment? Zero points for buying an icon on b3ta.

(, Thu 21 Aug 2008, 18:33)
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I briefly felt a pang of guilt
There was a young girl where I used to work who spent the day obviously upset about something, you know little tears and sniffles every now and then, kept running to the loo for ages. I asked what was up and she told me the courts had ordered that her pet dog had to be destroyed because it would not stop barking and the neighbours had complained. Apparently they had tried everything, muzzles, drugs, allsorts but the dog would not stop. Without taking a moment to think about it I told her to cheer up because I knew how to stop the dog barking, and explained that all she needed was a tub of margarine. She looked at me with hope in her eyes as I explained that if she examined her dogs sphincter when it was barking she would notice that it clenches with every bark. All she needed to do was smear the dogs ass with the marge and it would not be able to "get a grip" therefore would not be able to bark. I added weight to the theory by adding that it had to be margarine as the dog was likely to lick it's ass, so whatever she used had to be edible. She immediately left work, bought a tub of flora and scuttled off home. Next day, even more upset I asked again what was wrong and she told me that the margarine thing hadn't worked despite the fact that she had "even put some inside".
(, Thu 21 Aug 2008, 19:20, 7 replies)
Ooops, I did it again
My friend Craig is a cock. I love him dearly, I’ve been harbouring a not-so-secret crush on him for the last ten years; he bankrolled me through my PhD and he’s one of the funniest people I’ve ever met, but he’s a cock. For it is he who is responsible for a lapse on my gullibility meter that resulted in a conversation about underage porn which one should never have with ones PhD supervisor.

It took me about 4 months to write my PhD thesis. It’s a weighty tome, 300 pages in all and has all the scientific validity of a paperweight, which is incidentally what it is now used as. I wrote up in my office at the lab, an office I shared with 8 other people. In order to drown out the inane squawking coming from the two guys at the end of the room, I invested in a pair of headphones and trawled the new fangled interweb to find me a radio station. Something with no DJs, something suitably shouty to keep my spirits up (note to potential thesis writers, do NOT listen to Radiohead while writing. 8 hours of data analysis is bad enough, it’s positively suicide inducing when served with an accompaniment of Thom Yorke).
Anyway, I asked Craig what he would recommend as he knew his way round the web far better than I did. “Evildildo.com” he said. “Really?” I replied, “you’re not winding me up are you?” “No,” he assured me, “it’s a real website, not porn or anything.”
So I tried it, and he was right. Great music, no DJs, just what I wanted. I went back to him. “Thanks, mate, any more you can recommend”

“Try Smooth Jazz, oh, and Teensluts.com, it’s American indie music, the kind of stuff you like.”

Except it isn’t, is it. Trustingly, I typed “Teensluts.com” into my address bar and was greeted with what looked like Britney Spears in the “Hit me Baby” video. Well, if in the video she’d been sucking an enormous black cock…

I froze, horrified. Then I was treated to the porn pop up frenzy. Every window I tried to close, another one would open, with more and more lurid images. I was squealing “make it stop, make it STOP,” but no one was coming to my aid. They too were frozen, horrified because my supervisor was standing behind me…

After a long, painful conversation about why I had been looking at underage girls in the kip, he agreed to let the matter drop.

Craig met me for coffee and said “hey, did you try the websites I gave you?”
“Yeah, like I’m going to type in Teensluts.com. How stupid do you think I am?”
“I did wonder. God, imagine if you had eh…”
“Yeah…”
(, Fri 22 Aug 2008, 14:30, 7 replies)
Oh I am just too gullible for words...
Hell, I even believed the BBC when they said they had footage of flying penguins earlier this year.

So this will be the first of many replies I post this week, I am sure.

When I was younger, I wanted to go to Wimbledon Common to see the Wombles, which would have been about two hours drive from my Essex home.

But my Dad,bless him, saw how much I wanted to go, so he took me there.

We packed up a picnic, and off we want on our adventure.

I was so excited. I leapt in the car, and, as I still tend to do when travelling anywhere by car (or train, or plane or anything other than bike really) I promptly fell asleep.

Two hours later, I was woken up by my Dad tellinng me we had arrived.

I got hyper, was running around everywhere to see if I could find my cuddly heroes, and being really disspointed when he kept seeing Wombles in the opposite direction to where I where I was looking.

I kept spinning round just as one had 'hidden in that bush, over there' or 'must have dived down a hole behind that bumpy bit'

But still, I was having fun, so it wasn't too bad, until the fateful moment that hunger took over.

'Dad, can we have our sandwiches?'

'Of course'

But it wasn't to be. We opened the bag, and the sandwiches were gone! The Wombles had stolen our sandwiches while we weren't looking!

I was devastated. I loved The Wombles, how could they do this to us? They were supposed to be nice.

My relationship with them had been soured forever.

It was only many years later, during some idle conversation about childhood memories that the truth emerged.

My Dad had put me in the car, driven around for a bit until I fell asleep, headed to the local park, eaten the sandwiches, put his watch forward 2 hours and then woken me up.

Evil. Bastard.

I still don't trust those bloody Wombles though.
(, Fri 22 Aug 2008, 10:24, 8 replies)
broooooooooooooooo ck bock bock bock bock
i clucked excitedly, answering the phone one day when i was about 13 to a lovely - if chavvy - lady from kfc. she said that they were having a contest to see how many times you could cluck in a minute, and the winner got #500 and free kfc for a month.

forgetting that i was veggie and hated chicken, i threw myself into it with a vengeance, clucking for england. cluck! cluck!! cluuuuuuuuuuuuuck!!!!!!! i squawked loudly.

after about 15 seconds and 150 clucks, i was happily confident about my clucking abilities. but by 30 seconds and 300 clucks, i suddenly got suspicious. how were they counting these......

as i faltered, there was a gap in my clucking. through the silence, i heard the sound of stifled laughter, which rapidly got louder and louder.

yeah, so the nice lady was a so-called friend from my class, and she had what felt like half the year there listening to me squawking like a muppet.

this is still arguably the most embarrassing moment of my life! didn't live that one down until - well until something even worse, but i don't think i'll be sharing that!
(, Thu 21 Aug 2008, 22:50, 15 replies)
Binary Code
I have no particular expertise with computers, and in fact did manage to write off a £2000 laptop by spilling Pepsi Max on it. But whenever something goes wrong (and this happens often, not only am I clumsy with carbonated drinks but I can't resist certain things, like pressing big shiny red buttons with "DO NOT PRESS" written on them in very serious looking font) I'm too cheap to get someone competent to sort it out, and spend many determined hours searching for do-it-yourself solutions. This is not always easy, especially when I have to ignore flashing error messages and periodic overheating (due to cat hair clogging up the fan - this I DID have to get an expert to sort out). But I usually find out what's wrong, and store the information away in my brain for the next time I click the wrong thing.

So my friends turn to me for computer help. Bless them.

One time I was called to a friend's house because, and I quote: "IT WON'T TURN ON, IT WON'T TURN ON, OH MY GOD WHAT AM I GOING TO DO ALL MY COURSEWORK IS ON HERE, OH MY GOD PLEASE HELP, IT WON'T TURN ON".

When I get there I tell my hysterical friend to go and get us some drinks, preferably not Pepsi Max, while I have a look. Well the solution is obvious in 3 seconds, even without the assistance of Google. A lead has fallen out and the PC isn't connected to the power supply. While I'm crouched under the desk plugging it back in, the OCD sufferer in me races to the surface and starts seperating wires from the hideous mass of black plastic that hangs forlornly down the back of the desk.

When she comes back in, my friend sees the computer miraculously whirring into life and me straightening out the wires connected to it.

"Oh my god," she says weakly. "You fixed it! What was the problem?"

"Well, you know that computers run on binary code don't you?"

She knows no such thing of course, but she nods quickly so as not to look stupid.

"The zeros can squeeze through any kind of wire, but the ones always travel sideways and it can be really difficult for them to navigate the bends. You have to keep the wires straightened out so they can get through."

To this day, she faithfully straightens all the wires feeding her PC once a week so the ones can flow through easily. Bless.
(, Thu 21 Aug 2008, 20:00, 4 replies)
Mrs Spimf...
like many ladies seems to need to go to the loo quite a lot - often at inopportune moments. I've lost count of the amount of movies she’s missed crucial scenes in.

A few years back, we were out boozing with friends in Edinburgh. Around 2am I realised I was suddenly so hungry I could probably have eaten something even Mrs Spimf had cooked. So, en masse, we pile into the huge McDonalds branch on Princes Street. It was rammed - every till queued 10 deep. Standing in the queue Mrs Spimf whispers the all too familiar "I need to go to the loo". No problem thinks I until the person at the front of the queue asked where the toilets were only to be told the upstairs area was closed due to staff shortages - they had those velvet rope barrier things across the stairs. On hearing this I politely made my way to the head of the queue...

"Excuse me, are you the manager?

"Erm no"

"Can you get the manager for me please"

"Erm, yeah"

Disinterested lard spattered bint in a uniform a size too small shuffles over...

"Yeah, can I help you”?

"Yes, good evening, Mr Spimf, Environmental Health"

(For added effect I flashed a Blockbuster membership card at this point)

Two things happened

1. The manager bint seemed to suddenly get a belt of electricity up her bottom

2. Mrs Spimf sighs and melts back into the crowd – she’s seen this sort of nonsense before

“I understand you are providing food and beverages for public consumption on these premises without adequate provision of toilet facilities”

“Yes, but…”

“You are aware this contravenes the Trade Practices Act, 1974”

“Erm, no”

“Well I’m afraid ignorance of the law does not provide immunity”

(Crowd gets interested at this point)

“We have two options – either you open the upstairs area where your restrooms are or I close you down with immediate effect”

I think her capacious bottom might have made a small squeak at that point.

Within minutes the upstairs area was full of drunken idiots throwing chips and rolling joints unchallenged by the few overstretched McGoons.

Mrs Spimf got to the loo.

How anyone could be so gullible as to imagine a drunken environmental health officer might pay them a visit at 2am is well beyond my McComprehension.

!
(, Wed 27 Aug 2008, 6:49, 7 replies)
Falling for the old crossword favourite.
FORMER COLLEAGUE - I'm really struggling with this clue 'Busy Postman'
ME - How many letters?
FORMER COLLEAGUE - Hundreds
ME - AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAGH!
(, Tue 26 Aug 2008, 15:37, 9 replies)
The Lollipop Tree
Imagine if you will a world in slightly dusty crimpolene and paisley prints where everyone wore flares, big hair and cheesecloth. Add to this picture smokers, white dog poo, Morecombe and Wise and school milk just leaving by the hand of one Milk Snatcher.


This, dear reader, was the world of my childhood.


My parents had many friends all of whom spoke the Queen’s English with a broad brogue of Scots or Irish apologies for constantly repeating myself here and I being a sweet little girl with more than a passing resemblance to Shirley Temple (damn those curls!) was regularly taken around the Celtic Ghetto in which we lived.

Now as many of you who still live in the Auld Land (on both sides of the water) will know, those carrying blood of the ancient Celts are blessed with the Blarney.

Kiss the stone?

Feck me, we all swallowed it!

Actually my dad did a family history search some years ago and discovered we’re descended from the poets of the Kings of Connaught – although I think for ‘poets’ you should perhaps substitute jesters or piss artists.

Anyway, back to the tale…..

So, as a cute as a button wee girly I was taken around all the pals and for many, many years I believed that one friend of my dad’s had a special tree in his garden.

Larry was an old family friend – he’d been at school with one of my dad’s aunts back in Scotland and had left when he was called up for WW2 – he’d been on the beaches at Normandy as a very young man and was now seeing out his retirement in sunny Kent.

I was told that this special tree grew wondrous things….

Lollipops.

And every time we went to visit there on the branches of the tree would be a toffee lollipop just for me.

Larry had acquired this tree from a witch and she was a great friend of his, so great in fact that she would send him boxes of Black Magic chocolates regularly but sadly he hated them so they were thrown away.

“But, but I LOVE Black Magic chocolates Larry! Give them to me!” was my cry every time he told me this – which he did each time he saw me after I’d scoffed my lollipop.

“Oh, I didn’t know you liked them! I’ll try to remember next time.” He’d always reply.

Until one Christmas when I couldn’t have been anymore than seven or eight years old.


It was early evening and there was a ring at the doorbell.

My parents told me to answer it – something that they never did probably because I’d have invited anyone in and sold the family formica.

So out I went to the hallway…

the hallway was bathed in bright red light from the Chinese lantern lampshade brought back by my uncle from Hong Kong when he’d been with the army. I pulled back the heavy curtain and opened the door but no one was there.

Just as I was about to close the door I looked down and there sitting on the concrete step was a box of Black Magic chocolates in their tell-tale black box with red ribbons…and on the box was a white card which read –


“A gift from the Lollipop Witch.”


And my Christmas was made.





*********************************


A couple of decades later and I have children of my own….

Larry has long gone to join the other old soldiers and witch-friends in the sky, yet his spirit lives on....



My sons' favourite tree in their grandparents’ garden?

The lollipop tree.

My boys are ten and a half and one of them still firmly believes that there is a lollipop tree.

I just wish I could get hold of a money tree. Does anyone have a cutting?
(, Thu 21 Aug 2008, 22:17, 12 replies)
You’d have to get up pretty early in the morning…

I feel sorry for those poor deluded saddos who believe anything they’re told. One born every minute I suppose.

Not only do I pride myself on my own intelligence and ‘street smarts’ I have an impressive entourage of friends who seem duty bound to protect me from everyday scams and con-artists

Only yesterday my mate Jim was warning me about the ‘evils’ of those ‘timeshare holidays’. Fortunately for me, he has experience on the matter, gave me the benefit of his wisdom and he allowed me to invest in a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity to spend 2 ½ days a year camping by a petrol station in Magaluf, for the discount annual price of just £3000 up front for the next quarter of a century.

Sometimes I don’t even have to leave the house to benefit. Last week I looked out of my front door to see my garden covered in tarmac. Some lovely travelling folk informed me that they didn’t want me to miss out as they were only in my neighbourhood for the week; and that the £1200 cost would save me thousands in the long run. When I paid them, they sharpened one of my knives and gave me some ‘lucky’ heather absolutely free of charge! Try and beat THAT for service – so called ‘Tesco value!’

Last year I bought a computer…and within 2 weeks, totally out of the blue I was informed that not only had I won the Lithuanian lottery without even entering, but I was contacted by a Nigerian Civil Servant who informed me I had been ‘specially selected’ to share in his £20 million pound business scheme. I reckon I am just days away from receiving my cheques…I sent the admin fees away quite a while ago…

In fact, the amount of phone calls I get telling me that I have been ‘specially selected’ for various offers make me think that I must have been born under a lucky sign.

In a supreme act of kindness, my buddy Barry recently let me buy his 'home safe' that is cleverly disguised as a cardboard box to thwart thieves, and is made from the very latest fireproof cardboard. £500 well spent I’m sure you’ll agree, because you can’t put a price on knowing that your collection of extended warranties and credit card protection invoices will be safe.

I’ll also never forget the debt of gratitude I owe to my mate Keith, who managed to warn me (just in time) that Plasma TVs cause cancer, and offered to take my new 50” away and humanely dispose of it for just a £90 handling charge. What a guy.

Then there’s ‘Doctor’ Pete – I’m not sure what he is a doctor of exactly, but he said I looked a bit peaky the other day and offered a free rectal examination. His thermometer seemed a bit on the ‘wide’ side…so much so that it took a few attempts to properly insert it…and I think the bulb burst at the end…but it was free so it wasn’t for me to complain.

My girlfriend has also kindly warned me about the terrible legal implications (and complications) of making a will, so kindly offered to take control of something called my ‘power of attorney’ (whatever that is). My girlfriend has assured me that I never need worry about anything again. I am so lucky. She’s going on holiday soon and apparently ‘can’t say’ when she will be back. Lord knows I will miss her – perhaps I should have loaned her my timeshare?

So anyway, as you can tell, this QotW definitely does NOT apply to me.

Must dash, I’ve heard a rumour that somebody down the marketplace is selling some ‘magic beans’…
(, Fri 22 Aug 2008, 12:35, 5 replies)
I believed him.
I believed him when he said he loved me.

I believed him when he said they were just friends.

I believed him when he said he'd never cheat on me.

I believed him when he said he was going to the pub with his friends when he was actually fucking his ex girlfriend in the back of his car.

I believed him when he said it was my fault.

I believed him when he said he was sorry and it wouldn't happen again.

I believed him when he cried.

He hit me and I never believed in him again.
(, Wed 27 Aug 2008, 13:19, 20 replies)
Not nice
Upon entering Year 7 in High School, we were told that the first subject we would be covering in science would be 'sexual education'. This was met with much giggling, but after learnin what the penis did, it gave me an idea to trick my best friend's little brother (he was only a year younger than either of us, remember that), who was an absolute cunt. He once got me thrown out the house by smacking his head against my mate's wardrobe and claiming i'd done it.

Anyways, after school i went along to my friend's house, saying i was doing my homework with him. Went up to his room, told my friend my plan, and he agreed to try it.

So, we told his little brother that you could milk humans. At first he didn't believe us, and so he asked how. We told him he had to grip his willy and make pumping motions. Upon hearing this, he ran back to his room and tried it (by himself).

After a few minutes, he ran down the stairs holding a cup of a white substance. My friends and i heard the following scene from upstairs

'Look mum! I milked myself!'

'That's nice dear... YOU DID WHAT?!?!?!?'

We got a bollocking for that, but when my friend's brother entered high school, he was forever known as 'The Milkman'.
(, Tue 26 Aug 2008, 18:07, 8 replies)
Order
Not me, but my Missy. She was ordering us a Thai takeaway on the telephone when I scribbled a last minute order on a Post-It note:

"Ask them if they've got any Phat Kok"

The lady on the other end of the phone was laughing so much the call had to be terminated.
(, Tue 26 Aug 2008, 15:22, 4 replies)
Level Crossing Cameras
Not me but a colleague...

Many years ago at a place I worked there was a very extrovert, gay and annoying French guy. He was really boastful about pretty much everything 'I've done X amount of bum, almost died X amount of times, spent X amount of money on drugs'

Really irritating.

He made the mistake of bragging about jumping the red light at the local railway crossing, just as the barriers came down! What a dangerous kinda guy he was! (sarcasm) Wow, I was so impressed. (/sarcasm)

Anyway, while he was on holiday the next week, no doubt picking up a few of the ladyboys he was always bragging about, I fabricated a letter from "British Railways Police" (non existent) which, as he drove a company car, was put in his post tray.

It went along the lines of the fact that due to the large number of motorists jumping lights at level crossings, cameras had now been put on the crossings and he had been caught (this was in the days before speed cameras). It told him he had to appear at Wokingham Crown Court (non existent) on a certain date (which happened to be when he was on holiday). I quoted all kinds of made up Traffic Acts and punishments. Including:

'Failing to give way to a Railway Locomotive' and
'Bragging about dangerous exploits to work colleagues'
(It was sooo obviously made up)

Then I did another letter dated the day after he didn't turn up in court, saying that he was now arrestable on sight.

Ha! Panic ensued when he returned to the office and read the letters. He ran around the office in his usual flamboyant style screaming and jabbering, almost in tears. He then tried to phone the number I'd fabricated on the letterhead, which also didn't exist.

I of course was quietly pissing myself in the corner. I had to tell him soon after as he was about to go up to the MD to tell him he'd been a bad boy.

Should I have done?

Click *I like this* and I might bore you all with the time I did a similar thing to an 'advanced driver' who made the mistake of telling me about a road rage incident he had when he should have known better.
(, Tue 26 Aug 2008, 15:48, 2 replies)
I used to work in a well known cinema in Manchester...
Christopher Eccleston regularly came in to watch films on his own.

I don't follow celebrity land, and have never watched Doctor Who, so I didn't know who the hell Christopher Eccleston was.

As he approached the box office, one person said "Oh look who it is"...

I said "Who is it?"

Sensing my ignorance to this famous actor, the manager quick as a flash replied.

"Oh it's Chris, it's his first day, he has special needs. Will you show him around?"

Being a kind hearted citizen, I then proceeded to talk to Christopher Eccleston like a 5 year old and try to usher him towards the staff room. With the words "Special Needs" on the brain, I even went so far as to stop him when he tried to get away.

I soon realized he wasn't so special needs when he told ME to fuck off and stop acting like a spaz.

Well he looks a BIT special needs.
(, Fri 22 Aug 2008, 11:24, 5 replies)
I once
convinced someone that sterility was hereditary.
(, Thu 21 Aug 2008, 19:42, 2 replies)
Conned by a bloke in the pub...
A few years ago as a student in Sheffield, a group of us were telling jokes in a pub. As Southerners in a Northern local, and students to boot, we weren't particularly popular, but we were keeping ourselves to ourselves, and as far as we were aware, weren't bothering anyone.

My friend James came out with an absolutely lame one.

"What do you do if an epileptic has a fit in a bath? Throw your washing in..."

which was met with a bit of half-arsed laughter, until the huge bloke on the next table stood up, staring James straight in the eye.

"Now you lads seem alright, so I was going to leave you be. But don't ever fcuking say something like that - my brother was an epileptic and he died in the bath."

All for of us felt incredibly ashamed, studied our feet, mumbled apologies, and all the while this burly monster's murderous stare was fixed on James.

"Yeah," he continued. "It was a fcuking tragedy. He choked to death on a sock."
(, Sat 23 Aug 2008, 23:42, 6 replies)
bidets
Curious to see a bidet for the first time at my grandmother's house in France, I asked my sister what it was for.

"For crapping in", she said. "French people like to crap in big bowls".

Happy with the explanation and not overly surprised, thinking 'those dirty bastards', I left it at that.

Later on that evening in the (toilet-less) bathroom, about to have a shower, and full of a ridiculously large quanity of French food, I was caught short.
"Sod it", I though, "I'll go for it", and proceeded to have the most enormous crap of my life into the bidet.

It was only after I finished that I realised there was no flusher, and absolutely no way something akin to a mutant dung-beetle's wet dream would go down the plug hole at the end of the bidet.

I'd also left the door unlocked.

For a Father, there's nothing quite like the sight of your son on his knees attempting to force a giant mound of poo down a bidet plug hole with his bare hands.

I stopped listening to my sister after that.
(, Fri 22 Aug 2008, 15:38, Reply)
earn money the easy way!
if you click "I like this!" on this post I will send you a fiver if it makes top of the Best Of page.
(, Thu 21 Aug 2008, 18:49, 5 replies)
Gullibility
At the age of around 5 or 6 i had asked my Grandad the same question thousands of grandchildren ask. "Grandad, what did you do during the war?". Grandad sat me down and began to tell me how he was a machine gunner in the glass bubble underneath a Lancaster bomber. This is how he told the story..."We had just got back to England after a sortie over Germany but we had taken so much flak that the undercarriage would not work and I could not open my hatch to get out of the bubble. We all knew that we had little fuel so a crash landing was required. We went lower and lower until finally we were only four feet from the ground" At this point my Grandad stopped talking and carried on watching an old war film on TV (for the first time he usually told us) while I just sat there. Only a minute later I turned back to Grandad and asked "what happened then, Grandad" to which my Grandad replied "we were all killed".
(, Fri 22 Aug 2008, 10:21, 2 replies)
Another tale from a Greek isle
On moving to the island of Kos, I immediately fell in love with its charm. Its beauty was multi-sensory; the village church looked as if it was made of marzipan. I could imagine cutting a slice off to savour at sunset, washed down with a glass of retsina - the oily taste cutting through the sweetness of the church. The taste of warm sea air mixed with the scent of fresh marjoram and the royal herb, basil; blended with the tempting smells of sweet pastries and roasting lamb, all danced capriciously in my nostrils...

One particular balmy evening was especially impressive, the first night I'd seen a full moon since my immigration. I'd watched it rising over the sea, its immense grace emerging from the precipice of the earth, slowly distributing its peachy, silvery light over the sea towards land.

Keen to immerse myself completely in this delightful section of life, I was eager to learn the language as well as customs, cuisine and culture. I made a mini phrase book which was constinually updated with new expressions and grammatical nuances. I already knew that adding the suffix "aki" made the root word smaller, e.g. duckling, riverlet and similarly, adding "ara" to the end had the opposite effect, making a bigger version of the root word, thus: kolos = arse, ergo an arse like mine is "kolara".

The first job I found was in a rustic little taverna as a hostess, for which I received 2000 drachma plus my supper, for 4 hours of chatting. As cutomers dwindled towards the end of the night, my Greek colleagues would teach me traditional dances as well as building on my vocabulary. This particular evening of the full moon, which I'd been admiring at every opportunity, they taught me that the word for moon is "mooni"....

So, a sickle moon would be "moonaki" and the full moon, in all its glory, would be "moonara".

"Yes-yes!" nodded my waiter friends enthusiastically.

Always eager to try out new expressions/vocabulary, I skipped ebulliently down the street, smiling at all I passed and proclaiming, "Kali spera! Ti omorfi moonara pou echoume apopse!"
I thought I was saying, "Good evening! What a beautiful full moon we have this evening!"

After half an hour, I was informed that the word for moon is "fengari".

"Mooni" means cunt...
(, Wed 27 Aug 2008, 18:09, 3 replies)
Herpetologist
.
I was oblivious to my mate setting this one up. I was standing at the bar in the Students Union chatting to a few randoms.

A few tables away, my mate was chatting up a sweet, innocent and incredibly naive Goth.

The conversation had turned to snakes as the Goth girl was into them.

"See that bloke at the bar" said Denty, my partner in crime, pointing at me "He's a Herpetologist - well into snakes"

"Oooh" gushes Goth

"In fact, he just took delivery of one of the rarest, most poisonous snakes in the world. If you ask him nicely, he might lets you see it"

Goth was fascinated.

So Denty and Goth rocked up to me. Goth looked at me with big eyes and said:

"If I ask you nicely can I see your One-Eyed Spitting snake?"

I choked on my beer.....

Cheers


Who wants to stroke my snake?

(, Fri 22 Aug 2008, 8:59, Reply)
Guillablility backfiring
When I was small (6ish, I suppose) I asked a pointlessly advanced question about space*. I was told (by people who, with good reason, didn't have a fucking clue) to "write to NASA and ask them."

So I did. Not knowing their address I simply marked my envelope: 'NASA, USA', and happily sent it off, with most people probably sniggering away at my belif it would a) get there and b) NASA would give enough of a shit to read it and reply.

However, it did get there, and NASA did reply. Not only with an answer, but also with a bloody massive pack of goodies and information on space. I was proper chuffed, and I like to think that those who thought I was being stupid falling for their "write to NASA" trick felt a bit silly.

Go NASA!







* "If you hang a string out of a spaceship going round Earth, does it hang towards Earth or trail out behind the spaceship?"
And about twelve years later I started a Physics degree. Can you see a pattern, children?
(, Thu 21 Aug 2008, 21:07, 9 replies)
Praise the Lord...
I can't really pinpoint when my most gullible moment was, but I'm guessing it was the time I decided to join the Church.

I was only young, so i probably didn't know any better.

I grew up in a rather broken home, with a disabled mother and angry father. I felt the brunt of his anger a fair few times. Oh, and he was a bodybuilding champion, so it made it worse. In reality, he was suffering from a crippling depression, and needed psychiatric help. Probably due to some repressed childhood experience, but I digress.

My mother, my brother and I took solace from the community spirit we found in the Church. Community spirit we thought came from the 'power of God.' I lapped up the Bible stories, my voracious knowledge of them infuriating my stridently atheist father even more. A few years later, my mother made a nigh on impossible recovery from her disability - a massive spinal injury btw - which we saw as a miracle. I'm still not sure that this wasn't some divine act, it certainly wasn't will-power related...

In a 'Road to Damascus' moment, my father turns to God. He joins our Church. Double result. plain sailing from now on? Oh no. It could never be THAT simple.

The anger continued. if anything, it got worse. But now the church elders intervened. 'You must submit to your husband', they told my mother. 'It says it in the Bible.' Any self-respecting woman would have walked out. She stuck by him just as she had done when she was disabled. Believing all the crap that was supposedly 'sent from heaven.'

I suffered quite a serious breach of trust by someone in the church, details of which i shall withhold, for now. You can make your own mind up, but the long and the short of it was that I suffered a nervous breakdown at the age of 8. I was bullied by my teacher, herself a member of the Church. (this isn't just one church, this is the Church in general) I descended into depression. Only a move away from my dreadful church-run school saved me from another breakdown. They did similar (if not worse) things to my brother. it wouldn't be fair to mention all of them, but he was humiliated on a school trip. By the Headmaster, no less. Cunts, the lot of them.

I, for some reason, rejoined the Church a few years later, after a couple of years in exile. I thought I'd just had a bad run. Christians are supposed to be God's messengers on Earth, after all.

it was good for a couple of years. I made some good friends. Then I went away to uni. Dared to have a girlfriend who wasn't a Christian. Dared to *gasp* sleep with her. Outside of marriage? the fires of Hell for you! I was constantly bombarded with questions about my private life upon my return. 'You shouldn't be doing things like that', they'd say. trying to control my life. The same way they'd tried to control my mum's life, and succeeded for years. My parents, incidentally, had left the Church. Their marriage was going great, still is. Coincidence?

There were 2 final nails in the coffin. A few years ago, an old friend had realised that he was gay. But he couldn't be gay - he was a Christian! What was he to do? Confused, he confided in someone from his church. He was told he'd need counselling, and Jesus could help him be 'freed from the demon of homosexuality.' Then, the following Sunday, someone from the same Church preached a sermon about not being afraid to die for Jesus.

He killed himself the next day. Chucked himself off a cliff, no less. His family were distraught. He had a fiancee at the time, a lovely girl. She was obviously devastated. His best friend had missed a call from him that morning, through sheer carelessness. I can only imagine how he must have felt. He was only 23. The same age I am now.

Then a couple of years later, I lost another friend, in a car crash. He wasn't a Christian, and it was during a conversation with one of my Christian (former) friends, that I was informed that he would be in Hell. Because he didn't believe in Jesus.

I just couldn't accept this any more. How could someone who was loved by so many (the church was rammed at his funeral, people were spilling outside) being burning under the fires of eternal damnation, and the same Christians who bullied me and my brother at school, humiliated us in front of everyone, be resting in heaven when they die? No fucking way.

It is only now that i can look back and see that I was conned. I was conned into believing a Bible that is merely a propaganda tool, to subjugate women and oppress those who don't believe, I was conned into thinking I was part of a unique family: any member of any club can claim to be part of a community, bound by a shared interest: what makes believing in a God you can't see so different? They told me that life as a Christian was wonderful. They lied.

I still believe that there is a God, although I utterly reject the 'God' I grew up believing in. Judging by what I've seen and experienced, I'm beginning to think I was communing with the Devil.

Apologies for length, it was about 21 years before I realised the error of my ways.
(, Thu 21 Aug 2008, 20:16, 9 replies)
I fought the law and the law sent me a threatening letter
During the summer of 1995 before I went to university I received my one and only parking ticket. I was quite shocked at the £40 fine, but the small print stated that if I paid within a week it was reduced to £9, so being a good little bitch of the system I paid up & put it behind me.

A few months later I was queuing with friends in my halls of residence dining hall, the queue filtered past the pigeon holes where you received mail & I saw that I had received an official looking brown envelope. I opened the letter & my heart sank, it was a court summons for non-payment of the parking fine. Without finishing the letter I sprinted out of the dining hall, past the line of people queuing for their lunch & headed for one of the payphones. With shaking hands I phoned my dad at work:

Me: “Dad, I’ve been sent a court summons for not paying that parking ticket”
Dad: “But you paid it”
Me: “It must have got lost in the post”
Dad: “What does the letter say?”
Me: “It states the date of the fine, my registration number, the date of my court hearing, oh god dad it’s in 2 days time…it says if I don’t attend they’ll send da boyz to get me….”
Dad: “It says what?”
Me: “They’ll send da boyz to get me”

At this point I realised the letter is signed “A. Cunt” in the unmistakeable handwriting of my friend Neil. My friend Neil who was with me when I received the parking ticket, my friend Neil who knew my halls of residence address, my friend Neil who is a complete bastard and still mocks me to this day about the time I fell hook, line & sinker for a badly typed letter.
(, Fri 22 Aug 2008, 10:46, Reply)
Shiraffes
My ex's dad told me that they were had bred a cross between sheep and giraffes at a farm in Shropshire. I believed him and we went out on our bikes through the lanes of rural Shropshire to look at the 'shiraffe'.

It was a llama.
(, Thu 21 Aug 2008, 19:28, Reply)
Hook, Line, Sinker
.
I was around ten or eleven when this happened and it affected the rest of my life. Since this incident I've always looked for *how did they do that* explanations for unexplainable things.

Let me take you back to 1970

~~~~~~~~~~wavy lines~~~~~~~~~~

They were building the school I eventually went to and it was a massive affair. Room for 1600 kids drawn from all over the district. It was one of the first Comprehensives in Britain.

So one weekend a group of us kids were wandering around this massive construction site. It was kind of eerie - scary.... I can remember looking at the new kitchens with the massive steam-cookers they had. These were big enough to fit at least 20 kids inside - it was disturbing. They looked very like the machines that the Cyber-Men of Doctor Who fame came out of.

I'd had enough. Something about this disturbed me. Time for me to leave. So I told my brother that I was heading back to the pond and he could met me there when they'd finished exploring.

So me and my group of younger kids headed back to the ponds leaving my brother and the older kids still exploring the site.

We waited by the pond, messing about trying to catch frogs and newts and my uneasiness gradually faded. We started to have fun again.

Then I heard it. A crashing through the undergrowth and my brothers voice screaming...

"No..No..NO..NOOOOOOOO......"

He crashed out of the bushes and fell about 20 feet away, his face awash with red. Behind him came Bob, his best mate, and a really tough bastard. He was screaming too as he legged it towards us.

Behind him came the horrors.

I've never shit or pissed myself in fear but I came desperately close to it that day. I can still remember my sphincter tightening, the hairs on my arms and my neck coming up to full bristle stage and the sheer terror of what I saw.

Running out of the bushes were the remaining three of my brothers mates. But they were altered. Their faces and arms were a hideous cracked grey - I could see grey scabs cracking and dropping off as they ran towards us. They were the undead incarnate.

I screamed and took off like a bat out of hell.

I've never been a fast runner but that day I would have left Linford Christie eating dust. I flew.


I eventually came to civilisation and headed straight for the nearest phone box. Tears where streaming down my face as I grabbed the phone and desperately dialled 999. We'd need the police and the army and the Church and - fuck-it - we'd need EVERYONE to try and deal with the undead.

The phone rang a couple of times and the n the operators voice came on with "Emergency - which service please?" and I shouted "EVERYONE...." and then the phone cut out. Bob had followed me and cut the call off.

He took me out of the phonebox and tried to explain that it was all a joke. He was four years older than me and probably weighed twice as much as me and it was all muscle but he was looking at me warily as he tried to calm me down.

Eventually sanity returned as Bob explained that it was all a joke. Nobody was hurt, nobody had been killed and the undead weren't stalking the Earth. We went back to the pond where all was revealed.

The undead effect was my brothers mates covering themselves with a thick layer of slimy mud. As the mud dried in the sun it gave the cracked peeling look that had terrified me.

The spray of red as my brother went down was simply red emulsion that they'd found on the building site.

OK - I was ten or eleven and had a vivid imagination, but nothing, ever, has come even close to the sheer terror of that day.

Gullible? - Yes.

But since then I've always looked for the rational explanation of the odd events that life throws at you.

Woo! - bit of an epic...

Cheers
(, Sat 23 Aug 2008, 14:24, 1 reply)
the crimson chin
as a child, i was more than a little gullible. as a result of this, i developed a sense of deep cynicism in my mid-teens. sometimes, this was not to my benefit...

one night, i was sitting in my parent's kitchen with my friends alison, joanne and sharon. we were having a good time, laughing and having more than a couple of drinks.
after a while, we started to play silly drinking games. one of these games was "stick the glass to your chin." this game is played by taking your empty glass, placing it over your chin and bottom lip and sucking all of the air out of it, until it sticks to your chin. this struck us as an hilarious activity but, as i said, we were drunk.
alison decided it would be funny to see how easily glasses could be pulled off each other's chins. not wanting to "lose" the game, i sucked as hard as i could, creating a forceful vacuum inside the glass and practically welding it to my chin.
when alison tried to pull the glass off my chin, it took several attempts.
finally, with a "pop!" glass and chin parted company.
the looks of horrified fascination on the girls' faces lasted about 3 seconds before being replaced with gales of laughter. "what's so funny?" i asked.
"your chin has turned purple!" howled joanne, tears of laughter now streaming down her face.
"no it bloody hasn't!" i replied. all three of them assured me that it had but, due no my new-found skepticism, i didn't believe them one bit.
"well," i said, "if my chin is purple, doing it again won't make any difference, will it?" and with this, i proceeded to vacuum-seal my chin inside the glass again.
by this point, my friends were practically wetting themselves with laughter. finally, the seeds of doubt began to grow. i pulled the glass off my chin.
"you are joking, aren't you?" i asked, with more than a hint of hope in my voice. shaken heads and more laughter had me racing to the large mirror in the hallway.

my chin wasn't purple.

it was fucking black.

i had sucked all the blood in my chin to the surface, causing an almighty black bruise that didn't fade for a little over 2 months.
2 months of looking a complete and total tit. not even pancake make-up would cover it.

they've never let me live it down.

length? 2 months, just over.
(, Fri 22 Aug 2008, 21:16, 6 replies)
That reminds me
"Oh my god, she's died"
"Who has"
"That actress who was stabbed last night.. she was in hospital, but they've announced she's dead"
"Who? Who's died?"
"She was stabbed! Reece... Reece..."
"Witherspoon?"
"No, with a knife!"

It didn't help that after the punchline, I kept remembering that she'd died. Then remembering that no, it was a joke.
(, Fri 22 Aug 2008, 12:11, 9 replies)
Gullible ex
Never underestimate the power of education.
One night I was out with my (ex)wife when she remarked how cold it was.
'Why do you think that is?' i said
'Well the sun isn't out at night'
'True but it's colder than that would make it, don't you think?'
'Yes, yes you're right.'
'So what could make it that cold?'
'Don't know.'
'Well the sun shines and it gets hot but at night the moon shines..' I paused
'and it gets cold!' she said triumphantly, 'the moon shines cold.'

You know i didn't even feel like a twat for that.
(, Thu 21 Aug 2008, 20:19, Reply)
i have a story!
but i'm eating my dinner so i'll post it in a bit.

honest.

what, you don't believe me?! watch this space.

Ta Dah!

Here's my story.

Junior School. Standard Three, as it was then, before it was called Year, um, Five? The one before the one before I left Primary School to go to Secondary School, anyway. So I was nine.

It was a lovely sunny day, I had a desk which over looked the playground, and things were lovely in ancrenne land. Daydreams had carried me away to places far beyond Welsh village life, parental discord, and schoolgirl squabbling. Even crushes on rugby players were forgotten. With my work for the lesson done, I sat, musing on the view (tarmac frilled with long grass, dropping down to a tiny valley of flowers) and idly chewing the end of my blue pen.

Suddenly, reality brought me back to the room, and I found my mouth rather…fuller… than it had been previously. A panicky child, I swallowed, and lifted my hand to my mouth to see what was going on. I’m no royal, so when my hand came away blue, it was obvious what had happened – I’d managed transfer the contents of my blue pen to my now blue mouth.

Panic rising, I turned to the boy next to me, an older and therefore wiser boy* to ask for his advice. His response floored me. He calmly, and quietly, told me that I was going to die.

There was absolutely no doubt at all in my mind that he was telling me the truth. Why would he lie? I’m pathologically honest, was then too, so I just wasn’t expecting anyone else not to be**. Ice cold fear made way for my innate practical nature. I had made no will. Who would make sure my cuddly toys were buried with me? Who would ensure I was buried not burned? Who would keep *my* Lego away from my kid brother? I hadn’t told anyone which my favourite clothes were, or that even though I was forever covered in mud, I actually quite liked wearing dresses sometimes. I’d be buried, in jeans and a rugby shirt, without my cuddly toys

At this point, fripperies such as school rules became unimportant. The only important thing was to get home, and hold my cuddly toys and a dress and hope someone would understand. Hoping I would get there before I died, frothing and convulsing, I got up to leave, and let go of the tears that had been held back. It didn’t matter that people were staring, or that I was crying in front of them. I wouldn’t be alive long enough to care.

Unfortunately, ink is not, in fact, fatal, and I really was alive long enough to care. 23 years later, I still care and can feel the blush rise even as I write this. My kindly teacher assured me I would live, sent me on my way to wash out my mouth, and lambasted the git next to me as I went through the door. So, most gullible moment - believing I’d die of ink poisoning swiftly followed by a very embarrassing moment – having to walk back into the class, knowing that 34 other children, cruel laughing, pointing, sniggering children, now knew that I’d been tricked***.

Fuckery.

*Nope, just a cunt.
**I no longer have the same expectations of others.
***I just bit a pen. you'd think I'd learn. Christ, I hate the taste of ink.

(, Thu 21 Aug 2008, 18:56, 6 replies)

This question is now closed.

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