Chalfont St Giles
When Mrs Osok was gestating our little lad, she obviously had some wierd voodoo stuff going, 'cos I got all the pregnant symptoms instead of her. I could handle the barfing, even the bigger tits (could coincidentally be alcohol related) but then one fine morning as I was in the shower giving the old crevices a good soaping, I discovered something had appeared.

Forget 'grapes', this bastard felt like a fucking walnut glued to a tea towel holder. My first reaction was to see if it could be prodded back in, as you do.

Don't do this. Really, really don't do this. I swear my bollocks retracted so fast I had hamster cheeks as my manly falsetto squeal awoke the neighbourhood.

Cue visit to nearest pharmacy. Being cunning, I waddled to the supermarket where I could obtain arse soothing products in the main shop rather that explain my symptoms to a deaf pharmacist in front of 20 easily amused spectators. (Look at the funny man...he can't walk without stabbing agony shooting up his ring...ha ha ha ha ha CUNTS).

Buy the entire stock. John Wayne back home. Squirt. Aaahhh. Read box (UP TO A FUCKING WEEK??? Whimper). Shudder at the sight of the 'internal' applicator (whimper, sob).

Okay, a week. Had better weeks, but being so damn hard I could handle it. No bother.Then...

I got a bit of a dicky tum (trans: think tubgirl) I think the shock of my attempted prod made my bowels decide to really fuck me up in revenge. Multiple bog visits for about a month, passing what can only be described as razor sharp chilli coated pebbles of poo, that needed forcing past Nobby, accompanied by agonised grunting, straining,more pathetic girly whimpering, praying that someone would shoot me in the head that second. Oh, and the discovery that regular bog roll develops abrasive qualities after a few hundred wipes and I may as well have shoved my arse in a belt sander. (Moist is good BTW. Unless they are stored by the radiator so that the top one or two dry out and become razor sharp, so when applied to the tormented arse....eeek).

And the final insult. Mrs Osok developed a strange taste for grabbing/slapping me on the arse (and a complete lack of interest in the rest of the trouser department once up the duff....). And I hadn't revealed the extent of my arse related torment. Exiting the throneroom one evening after my regular torture session, I get a full-blown SMACK across the area in question. Cue 15 stone bloke levitating (David Blaine you're a fucking amateur)... and causing my back muscles to go into a locked rigid spasm thing that lasted another week and meant if I could get on to that fucking bog it took me 10 minutes to get off again.

God fucking hated me that month, and I hadn't even said Jehovah.


I've also got chilli juice on my dangly bits, caught myself in my fly at the age of 8 and had to be cut free by my Mum, nearly self circumcised myself by repeatedly shagging with a half healed frenulum (new hot GF) and all pale into insignificance before the arse of doom. Shredded wheat anyone??
(osok Rebel without a clue, Sat 15 Jul 2006, 14:05, Reply)