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This is a question Housemates

Catch21 says "I go out of my way to make life hell for my shitty middle-class housemates who go running to the landlord every time I break wind". Weird housemates are the gift that keep on giving - tell us about yours.

(, Thu 26 Feb 2009, 13:28)
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The Colour Purple…

Disclaimer: Please get comfy…and you might want to get a cup of coffee / can of Redbull / gram of speed to keep you going through this one…

When my brother and the sugar-coated Sherman tank that ended up becoming his (now ex) wife were star crossed young lovers, they were desperate to shack up together and plunge nose-first into credit-related chaos.

Unfortunately, they were hindered in their plight by that annoying, age old stumbling block of having no job, no money…and criminal records.

Their doomed blossoming romance needed help…and someone answered their call…

Behold! Bumbling along, like a drunken, late-teens, slightly sex-obsessed superhero, whose special powers consisted only of regular employment, being debt-free and having no previous convictions against his name…step forward 'Super Pooflake' – aka: ‘Security Bond & Deposit Guarantee Boy’!

I signed up and lived there for about a year or so, genuinely enjoying my first taste of freedom without the parents...although to be fair, my folks were always pretty liberal on the ‘bringing girls home’ front (Dad used to ‘high five’ me as I escorted the young ladies out of the house 'post-humpage'). My steady girlfriend of the time pretty much moved in with me, work was nearby – all was good.

Unfortunately, although we made a fair fist of blissful cohabitation for a while, living under the same roof as my brother and his monu-mentalist missus simply couldn’t last.

(Their domestic disputes made the hundred years war look like a ‘bit of a tiff’…I soon developed a sort of Jedi-esque ‘I have a bad feeling about this’ ability at spotting violent arguments just before they kicked off…and spider senses to avoid ashtrays just before they whizzed past my head)

Eventually, I informed them of my decision to move out, and all was amicably agreed. They had been on the premises for over a year, were getting by and were settled in; however, they asked me to hang around for a bit whilst they found a replacement lodger to help them with the almost overlooked matter of paying.the.fucking.rent.

I don’t know how, or where from, but eventually, they found their saviour in the spindly form of ‘Nigel’.

Nigel was an accountant-type fellow and owned a home PC, and this was in the days where your average compooter-a-tron was the size of an articulated lorry, had twirly-round tape wheel thingies, and thousands of nondescript lights blinking on and off like the set of Blake’s 7.

I was impressed. However, my suspicions were first aroused as to him possibly having ‘rolled onto the mouldy side of the fruit bowl’ when I was helping him move in, and I complimented him on some of the artwork that adorned his new bedroom walls.

Although the subject matter wasn’t exactly my ‘cup-of-tea’ (general wildlife, gore fests, people hanging from trees etc), I could at least acknowledge the talent involved.

“They’re good” I bleated nervously before enquiring: “Did you paint them yourself?”

He then informed me that he had bought the paintings from various artists, but that every piece had one thing in common. Each artist featured in his collection had later committed suicide…this was his motivation for buying them.

'Ooooooookay then' thinks I, as I slowly back out of the room...

Nigel got past the first few days without incident, and like so many stories on this QotW will no doubt testify, he seemed to be one of those guys who pretty much ‘kept himself to himself’.

To celebrate his arrival (and my subsequent freedom), we decided to venture out for a good old ‘boozy do’. Nigel was invited but said he had ‘other plans’. Non perturbed, my brother, his g/f and I went to our local and partook in the time-honoured tradition of getting bladder-bustingly shitfaced.

When kicking out time came, we were predictably kicked out, and we staggered back to the house for a 'sophisticated night cap' (tins of cider), and the welcome invitation for me to sleep on the sofa.

We crept along as we approached the house, in a conscientious move to avoid causing a disturbance. My brother’s g/f then quietly opened the front door, and as we tip-toed along the hallway we noticed that the lounge light was still on. ‘Ah, Nigel must still be up’, we thought to ourselves as we opened the door…

The sight that awaited us shook me to the very core.

Nigel was laying flat out on the floor, plum faced, completely stark-bollock naked, except for his trollies which were pulled down by his ankles, and a thick leather belt wrapped tightly round his throat. In one of his hands was a half drunk bottle of scotch…on his other hand was a purple silk glove, and in it he was holding his limp, dribbling, flaccid bacon bazooka, which was drooping snoozily, with a drizzle of post-ejaculatum oozing from his blistered hog’s eye. Surrounding him was a collection of jizzed-to-a-pulp tissues, scattered liberally about like stumpy, scrunched up little monuments to all things spunkilicious.

Nigel had passed out completely…fixed with the kind of glazed, gurning expression that you find on mongs clutching tickets to a Chuckle Brothers extravaganza.

He had quite literally wanked himself into blurry unconsciousness.

Aghast at this initial sight, our eyes were then turned to the subject playing on the video…

Despite the shaky camerawork, we could clearly make out an uncomfortable-looking woman repeatedly thrusting herself back and forth on to the gargantuan dangling phallus of a strapping farm horse – and both parties were ‘whinnying’ frantically as the dong-tastic Dobbin was plunged balls deep into her cavernous cack-canyon time and time again.

As we collectively recoiled we were just in time to watch another young lady collect about half a gallon of fresh horse spaff into a carrier bag…then tip it all over herself.

Time then seemed to slow down for us, Matrix style, as we stood there looking at the screen, then each other, then Nigel, then the screen again...as we noticed the action had changed to feature a rather blessed-in-the-chest-department female receiving enthusiastic oral pleasure from a weapons grade Rottweiller…whilst another was frying the dog’s miniature mountain of munting manure…and eating it. (she was using a knife and fork though...it seems there’s always time for good table manners).

Whooooa?” I mewed meekly, leaving my mouth agape as my fledgling mind warped more and more beyond recognition with every passing frame of filthy film footage.



Eventually, my brother timidly ponders: “Ahh……erm……Shhhh, don’t wake him” he whispers kindly, holding his finger to his lips.

In the meantime, his psychopathic significant other had stepped over Nigel, and quietly switched off the TV…But as she heard my brother's words she breathed deeply, then visibly ‘snapped’ – screaming out at a lung-collapsing volume:

”DON’T FUCKING WAKE HIM?”

Bellowing with a force that would have had Brian Blessed reaching for the ear plugs, she continued: ”Oi! *kicks Nigel stoutly in the ribs* – you dirty, filthy fucker! What the fucking FUCK do you think you’re doing?”

Nigel slowly awoke and he rubbed his eyes, then after a brief realisation of his surroundings and the situation, he let out a piercing screech, like tyres in a 70’s car chase, before catapulting himself skywards in the manner of someone who had just received 3000 volts through his wrinkled, spent scrote (which on reflection he probably would have enjoyed).

He then desperately scrambled about for his clouts, whilst attempting in vain to cover as many offending articles as he could; yet only succeeding in doing what looked like a combination of synchronised swimming, an epileptic episode, and an impressive rendition of the ‘funky chicken’ dance.

Gazing down at this pathetic personification of purest perversion I tried to stifle the onset of giggles by adopting the moral high ground, ‘tutting’ loudly, shaking my head slowly, then turning and walking away in mock disgust…before running out of earshot and laughing like a particularly ticklish drain.

I slept in the bath.

To his credit, Nigel didn’t move out straight away… Fair play to him, he tried to ‘live it down’, but there are just some things that no amount of apologising can make up for, some things that you can’t just 'sweep under the carpet' (especially when you know what has taken place on that carpet)

Most of all…it’s impossible to share a house with someone when you can’t even bring yourselves to look each other in the eye.

He lasted about a fortnight.
(, Fri 27 Feb 2009, 11:58, closed)
Click
Eloquent as always, Sir.
(, Fri 27 Feb 2009, 12:01, closed)
I lost it at...
..."DON'T FUCKING WAKE HIM?"

I have tears rolling down my cheeks - an excellent tale.

*clicks*
(, Fri 27 Feb 2009, 12:18, closed)
We have an early winner, right here
See you in next week's mailout....
(, Fri 27 Feb 2009, 12:28, closed)
Thanks, but please don't say that...

People have kindly predicted that my posts will win before...and it's been the kiss of death!

I mean, it's bloody typical, I write these epic efforts that I'm proud of and they do 'ok'...then I write some crap B3ta-bashing throwaway comment and it goes and fucking WINS!

fucksocks
(, Fri 27 Feb 2009, 12:32, closed)
Ah but to be fair
Yours was the only post NOT to mention vegetarianism, and was thus destined for victory from its very inception.

This one's got wanking, animal porn, drunken humiliation and IT weirdos in it: something for pretty much all B3tans...and again, no vegetarians.
(, Fri 27 Feb 2009, 13:29, closed)
Nice work Mr. Gay Pond.
*clicks*
(, Fri 27 Feb 2009, 12:35, closed)
Ahem
That's "Landlocked Body of Water That Practices An Alternative Lifestyle", or we'll have the Diversity Awareness Stasi turn up.
(, Sat 28 Feb 2009, 10:38, closed)
Of course you only find these sorts of people in the Midlands.
*sniff*
(, Fri 27 Feb 2009, 12:49, closed)
Any chance of a précis?
.
(, Fri 27 Feb 2009, 12:56, closed)
Erm...
The Colour Purple

I used to live with my brother and his hard-arsed cow ex-wife.

I moved out.

Another bloke moved in. He was a wierdo.

We caught the new bloke wanking proper pervy style.

He moved out. Eventually.

The end.

How's that?
(, Fri 27 Feb 2009, 13:05, closed)
That...
...is magic. For the herculean effort involved in forming that précis I will click it with hammers.
(, Fri 27 Feb 2009, 13:08, closed)
It's phrases like "Bacon Bazooka"
...which paint a smile on my cynical face.

Brilliant
(, Fri 27 Feb 2009, 13:15, closed)
I could tell this was going to be good
when I read "Sugar-coated Sherman tank."

I nearly soiled myself at "DON'T FUCKING WAKE HIM?"
(, Fri 27 Feb 2009, 13:49, closed)
Winner!!!!
Love it!

...."a combination of synchronised swimming, an epileptic episode, and an impressive rendition of the ‘funky chicken’ dance."

Trouble is, I CAN visualise this. Pure poetry!
(, Fri 27 Feb 2009, 14:23, closed)
You certainly have a talent
What it is we may never know, but you write a cracking story.
(, Fri 27 Feb 2009, 14:29, closed)
............
Click... I haven't laughed so much in a while!
(, Fri 27 Feb 2009, 15:19, closed)
Long stories...
..I normally avoid, unless it's one of yours.

Just wish you hadn't described it quite as well.
(, Fri 27 Feb 2009, 16:01, closed)
Ace
As ever Mr Poo!
(, Fri 27 Feb 2009, 16:41, closed)
Fandango!
Have a click for your troubles!
(, Fri 27 Feb 2009, 19:48, closed)
Clickety
With a side order of click.
(, Sat 28 Feb 2009, 10:09, closed)
To all the sceptics.
There have been some doubts as to the veracity of some of Mr Poo's posts. He does admit to "embroidering" some of his more flowery accounts of shitting himself, wanking, shitting himself etc. However, I have checked this story out with his brother (one of the protagonists in this little morality play) and it's all true! Even the "DON'T FUCKING WAKE HIM"!.

All true.

And a bit more disturbing thereby.
(, Sun 1 Mar 2009, 17:23, closed)
Oh God! Oh God! Pooflake, stop!
"combination of synchronised swimming, an epileptic episode, and an impressive rendition of the ‘funky chicken’ dance."
I'm laughing so hard I can't breathe. I can SEE this in my mind's eye, complete with sticky purple glove and I can't stop my Canadian Loon imitation.




whines My tummy hurts!
(, Mon 2 Mar 2009, 4:46, closed)
.
"it’s impossible to share a house with someone when you can’t even bring yourselves to look each other in the eye."

That alone is worthy of a click.
(, Tue 3 Mar 2009, 9:13, closed)

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