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This is a question I didn't do it

Chthonic wants to know about awful, terrible things you have definitely never done. But secretly have. Confess!

(, Thu 15 Sep 2011, 13:16)
Pages: Popular, 7, 6, 5, 4, 3, 2, 1

This question is now closed.

I AM A FUCKING HERO.
Or I would be if this happened
IT DIDN'T HAPPEN.

A long time ago I was in the pub, meeting up with my ex-wife/supermodel's dad and new wife. God, she was such a fucking WHORE BITCH, first thing she did was undress me with her eyes, next thing was to buy me a drink. I'd already had six cans of spesh by then so I asked the FUCKING WHOREBAG to get me a triple scotch.

Fuck me, they were arseholes. They bought me more drinks and asked me back to their house, by now FUCKING WHORE BITCH was sucking me off with her eyes and it was really fucking annoying, with barely contained rage I accepted.

I'm not going to tell you what happened next but lets just say the FUCKING DICKHEAD FATHER got all shirty and that. After I'd pulled my trousers back up he asked me to "please leave."

As I stood outside on the lawn, swaying, red-faced and screaming YOUFUCKINGSHITWHORECUNT, I swore I would have my revenge.

AND I DID.

Through many improbable and un-specified means I gained entry to their house and played a few light-hearted japes on them. JUST TO SHOW THEM WHO THE FUCK THE BOSS IS!!111!1!1!!!!

1) I bitch-punched a goat to death in their basement and hung its intestines like FUCKING BUNTING.

2) Made copies of their keys and posted them to every address in the WORLD, so any fucker could come round and do what they liked.

3) I shat in their boiler 384 times. HAVE FUN WASHING YOUR HANDS BITCHES.

4) Rigged their shower so it would spray blue dye over them. I admit, I may have watched Private Benjamin a few times. GOT A FUCKING PROBLEM WITH THAT YOU NONCE?!?!?

5) Put cobras in all the radiators, hungry cobras with FUCKINGWHORECUNT sprayed on them with cobra blood. Have fun regulating your heating now! LOLOLOLOLOLOL ROFL.

6) Repeatedly fired an Elephant gun at the mains water system, so it would leak and no-one would know why.

7) Placed paintpots filled with acid above every door in the house, leaving the doors slightly ajar. YOU KNOW WHAT HAPPENED NEXT YOU CUNTS.

8) Squashed kebabs into every light fitting in the house. Filled every wall cavity with Kebabs, fuck I even shoved kebabs up their eldest daughter while she was asleep.

9) Took all the taps out the house and replaced them with knobs I tore off children's corpses in the local morgue. SO EVERYONE IN THAT HOUSE IS A NECRO-NONCE.

10) Fill every lock in the house with fire ants. Real fucking angry fire ants. I told those fire ants that THEFUCKINGBITCHWHORE hated ants and always called ants GAYS.

and the one that clinched the deal...

11) Re-programmed a sky satellite to only spew out low grade Albanian porn to the house before firing A DEATH LASER at them.

as it turned out they were SO FUCKING STUPID they didn't even realise what happened. THEFUCKINGWHOREBAG cried every night, and the FUCKING DICKHEAD FATHER had a massive heart attack, brought on by cobra venom.

THAT'LL FUCKING TEACH HIM TO TELL ME TO GET OUT OF HIS HOUSE FOR TRYING TO GIVE HIS FUCKINGBITCHWHORE WIFE WHAT SHE SO CLEARLY WANTED!!111!!111!!11!!!!!

if you think I am a cunt then click "I like this"

I'M NOT A CUNT THOUGH CAUSE THIS WAS A WHILE AGO AND I WENT ON A ROLLERCOASTER AT ALTON TOWERS AND HAVE GROWN 1 INCH SINCE THEN.

FUCK YOU ALL YOU CUNTS.
(, Sat 17 Sep 2011, 19:20, 113 replies)
1st Mistake
100% True:

I have never done this. Huff huff huff! (As I wink at the computer and make female readers do a Honda Gush)

Apologies for length of my 2.2l Japanese Import Saloon.

Many moons ago, before my penis fell off due to the overware of constantly being solar plexus deep in supermodel virgin muff, I was standing outside Greggs.

This 6ft 6 guy came up to me and without any reason tried to punch me. Luckily my Honda Accord earrings took most of the blow, thus I didn’t drop my Steak Bake.

He said to me “Listen hear you Jive Turkey, You’d better get out a Pappy Joes ‘Ho Go Slow before he pimp slaps you into the time where LP Records will play in an automobile sucka!”

I brushed off my Armani suit with studded detail and said to the wall of meat “Dear fellow, you appear to have ‘crumbed’ my polyester twosie, now …feel…my…WRATH!”

I did a double backflip through the sunroof of my Accord, keyless starting meant I was ready for Justice at the press of a button. I revved the car and let off the hand break, making the car roundhouse the hitman upside the ears and sideboards.

He dropped some massive drugs on the floor… I noticed that they had a label that said “…for kids. Good ones too”…Nothing makes me want to rev my car and have a threesome with a Victoria Secrets model more with rage than a drug dealer who likes to get kids hooked into Meow Meow Woof Woof Bark.

I got out of my car and with one punch I knocked him out twice. I grabbed him by his nose and sucked all of the burps out of his lungs, I then added some more of my burps and then breathed all of this back into him.

This above statement didn’t serve a purpose.

I then pulled him into my Accord, sitting him on the passenger seat whilst screaming “DUAL CLIMATE CONTROL BEEATCH! I KNOW YOU’RE ROASTIN’ RIGHT NOW HOLMES BUT I’M 14c AND COOL AS AN ACCORD’S BOOT LINING!!! NOT GET THE FUCK OUT OF MY HONDA YOU FACKIN’ YOGHURT!!!!”

He limped away looking like a sellotape wrapped baby, crying and cursing himself that he chose to try and mug a Honda driver.

By now a large group of supermodels had gathered around my car, curiously moist by what had been occurring. I wound down the windows and flopped my penis out for them all to have a gander and a stroke. I KO’d 4 of them when it twitched like a stretching dog after a 10 hour sleep.

“Jump in girls, it’s Accord Timez! Stereo Volume set to ‘Crumpet’!” I gargled as the massive bass biffed them all up inside their Gucci clad caves, making them flump milm all over the upholstery. “Don’t worry about the stains jutting out of your pobbers, it’s fackin’ leather and wipe clean, Barry Scott has got nothing on me! Bang and your Pelvis is gone! GRAK GRAK GRAK GRAK!”

The supermodels all laughed at my amazing joke and we all drove off into the sunset, Literally. They all set on fire but I was ok because I was driving the Accord, thus making me invisible and a master of Jeet Poon Do.

The End.
(, Fri 16 Sep 2011, 15:29, 27 replies)
Ummm....
....dear Wife. That smashed photo frame in our living room from a year ago, which somehow occurred when you were out on the raz with a few mates and I was stuck in the house wasn't the result of the cat chasing a fly, like I said it was.

It was the result of me getting drunk and watching Star Wars A New Hope on dvd while swinging the kitchen broom around my head, pretending to deflect laser fire from a training drone.

Ahem.
(, Thu 15 Sep 2011, 15:54, 5 replies)
Police! Lies! Bloodshed!
Not sure whether I should post this.
It’s been 12 years, and just recalling this whole episode still gives me a little knot of anxiety in my stomach. It’s a bit of a long one …

As I’ve mentioned in some other posts, my father used to be a policeman. This brought a strange set of perks and pitfalls to my youth – colleagues of his would give you an “Ah, it’s you eh lad? Well go on, on your way” when they caught you drinking in the park, rather than driving you home to your dad (their boss). On the downside, if he himself caught me or my brother doing anything remotely untoward, we would feel his full wrath.

Consequently I had mixed feelings when he retired from the force. In a way it felt like a load had been lifted. He’d long proclaimed how my brother and I were ‘ambassadors’ for him when we were out and about, and it was a relief to feel that if we were ever in the shit in future, we only had our own reputations to worry about, rather than his professional one. But in an odd way I was very proud of him as a policeman, and I knew of lots of instances where he’d made peoples’ lives immeasurably better. Also, being a bit of a whelp (18) I was nervous about what would happen to our family with him retired. Our lifestyle was far from lavish, but would it get worse? Would we keep the family house? Would sacrifices have to be made? Could I go still go to uni? To my panicked and selfish young eye, it felt like a whole load of change was coming.

By chance, his retirement party fell on the same day as my last ever A-level lesson. We were both leaving systems that had become our lives, and the party was an emotionally charged event, held in a local hotel lounge. Like all good 18-year-olds, I got riotously pissed and danced like a fucking dickhead, before being overcome by the emotion of the night and sloping off to cry in a corner. My dad wandered over and gently suggested it was time I got myself home. I nodded tearfully, and set off on the walk back.

The walk back, incidentally, took me past the very college I’d left that day.

I remember swaying there in the dark, peering up across the basketball courts at the building that had dominated my life for four years, pissed-up sentimentality sweeping over me. And then I spotted something I’d never before noticed – the central spire of the building had a weather vane on top of it. An idea formed, and I staggered over to the nearest drainpipe.

Over the course of twenty minutes I grunted, heaved, shimmied, crawled, climbed, slid and scaled, and eventually was hugging the top of an incredibly steep spire, victoriously clutching a cast-iron cockerel. I had my prize. I should have just got out of there. I wish I had. But I thought “Fucking hell, you don’t get to do this very often. I’d best have an explore.” And so I found myself pottering around on the roof of my old college at one in the morning, cockerel in hand, marvelling at the unique views from the various departments. Until, inevitably, there was a shout.
“POLICE!”
I was suddenly lit up by a powerful light from below.

In panic I ducked behind a skylight, weighing up my options. With the true logic of a shitfaced kid, I knew what had to be done. They must not catch me. I took a deep breath, stood up, and illuminated in all my glory, I ran like fuck towards the edge of the roof. In my mind's eye I’ve falsely romanticised this scene – I see it in slow motion, the fleeing fugitive being tracked by a spotlight as he bounds towards the precipice and jumps into the night ...
Falling …

Falling …

Falling ….

SMACK onto the playing field 20ft below, twatting my face into my knees. Barely catching my breath I jumped up and took off like a maniac across the darkened field. I could hear a wheezing copper right behind me but I knew I was losing him, and by the time I’d galloped the 200m to the fence, he was way behind. I leapt over onto the road, and then made another stupid decision. Rather than carrying on running, I veered into a garden and crawled under the nearest bush.

The wheezing copper turned up about twenty seconds later, followed shortly after by two police cars. They knew I couldn’t have disappeared into thin air. I could hear about five of them milling around angrily just metres away. Then footsteps approaching. The crunch of leaves underfoot. And finally the awful, firm grip of a hand on my shoulder.
“Get up. You’re under arrest.”

I was terrified. “For what?” I asked.
“Suspicion of burglary.”
BURGLARY!
I felt my whole future drop away in a heartbeat. My stomach lurched. Fucking burglary. Burglary. Three months inside on a charge associated almost exclusively with smackheads. Kicked out of home. No uni. No job. No more mates. Just me, a convicted burglar. What a fucking let-down.

Then I noticed that the white shirt I was wearing was completely soaked with blood.

“I HAVE BURGLED NOTHING!” I intoned in my best ‘respectable’ voice as he bundled me into the back of the squad car. “I have been assaulted, officer, assaulted grievously, and I was hiding up there from my assailants.”
“We’ll see about that.”
I sat in the back of the car for half-an-hour while they pored over the school, looking for damage, signs of a break-in, discarded loot, anything that would prove I’d been up to no good. Thank god, they found nothing, and had to return to the car and formally ‘unarrest’ me. As far as they were concerned, I was simply a drunkard on a roof. I never thought I’d be so relieved to be officially declared ‘a drunkard on a roof.’
“Sir, would you like to make a formal complaint about the assault you claim to have been a victim of?” one of them asked.
“No thank you.”
“Well then, would you like us to drive you to hospital, because your face is a bit of a mess.”
“Yes please.”
When I had landed on the field, the impact had driven my bottom teeth through the flesh below my lip, leaving a hole I could poke my tongue through. A&E gave me a local anaesthetic and sewed it up as best they could, before sending me on my way.

The next morning I woke up in my bed. I had that glorious millisecond beloved by drunks everywhere in which your mind is totally clear, before the stupidity of the night runs in like a pack of starved wolves. I groaned pathetically, got up and inspected my face in the mirror. A fucking mess. My mouth looked like a worn cushion, bursting, black, with loose threads poking everywhere. And then my dad walked into my room.

He’d heard it all. Officers at the party had been paged. He’d suffered the ignominy of his retirement do being overshadowed by his son’s stupid, pissed-up wankery.
“Why were you up on that roof?”
“I was assaulted.”
“Bollocks, why were you on the roof?”
“Well, I thought someone was after me …”
“BOLLOCKS, why were you on the roof?”
I stuttered along for another few moments, before he cut me off with the line that probably made me feel worst of all.

“You know what, I don’t even care anymore. It’s got fuck all to do with me now. You’re 18, I’m a civilian. If you want to behave like a wanker, it’s on your head.”
Then he walked out, quietly closing the door behind him.

And afterwards all I could think was – I can’t believe I left that fucking cockerel up there.

I was a prick as a teenager.
(, Thu 15 Sep 2011, 16:07, 4 replies)
I Didn't Have To Be Rescued By The Lifeboat
Living in a village by the sea meant that a lot of my mates from the pub were fishermen or owned recreational boats and we used to rip then piss out of the stupid fucking tourists who'd go out in a boat and then get themselves into trouble and have to call the lifeboat out. Mouth-breathing Darwin Award candidates, the lot of them. Who could be so fucking stupid that they actually went to sea without any training and didn't take even the most basic precautions?

Well that would be me. But nobody from the village ever found out.

It all started when me and a mate, Uncy_Herb, decided to buy a boat. Uncy_Herb, like me, was an IT contractor with absolutely no experience of boats apart from the odd trip on a ferry.

But we'd decided to buy a boat and take up fishing. A week later we were off down the coast to pay for and take possession of a 14ft cabin cruiser.

We got a taxi from the village to the town where the boat was stores, paid cash to the owner and he gave us a basic trip round the boat showing us how to to turn it off and on.

Petrol switch on the outboard - needs to be on.
Throttle - push forward to go faster. Neutral for idling. Backwards to reverse.
Steering wheel. Just like a car.

And that was pretty much it.

"Well we'll be off then" we said. "Need to get the boat 20 miles up the coast before dark and to catch the tide at the village."

"You sure you want to do that lads? Bit of a blow coming on. Might be an idea to wait for better weather"

"Nah - we'll be right"

And off we set. It was a little bit breezy but, protected by the harbour walls, nothing to write home about. It took us about 30 minutes to motor down the river and set a course for the mouth of the harbour.

"That's odd." says Herb as the wind hot us from the harbour mouth "Why are we the only people heading out and everyone else is heading in?"

And, sure enough, heading for the harbour was a shitload of small craft pouring speed on like a bunch of fat girls at an all you can eat buffet.

So we rounded the harbour mouth and into the sea proper.

Oh shit! Now I didn't know much about the boating but I was pretty sure that if you were looking up at the waves then that couldn't be a good thing. At every wave we'd go over the peak and than crash down into the trough with an almighty bang. On either side of us were two walls of water - we couldn't see the horizon. This was not good.

"Errr - I think we better turn back" I say.

"Too fucking right" says Herb....

So we spun the boat about and gunned the motor back for the harbour. We surfed into the harbour on the crest of a wave, narrowly missing the wall and motored back to the mooring.

"We'll try again tomorrow" I said as we whistled a taxi up.

Next day, the wind had dropped and we tried again. Armed with our navigation aid - the AA Road Atlas - we cleared the harbour and turned left. 20 miles to go.

Then, in the middle of Druridge Bay, the engine coughed, spluttered and died. Out of petrol. Now I know what you're thinking. You're thinking that we were too dumb to have brought extra. Well you're wrong - we had a full jerry can. So we refuelled the tank and turned the key.

Whirr-whirr-whirr-cough. And again and again - whirr-whirr-whirr-cough.

Nothing we could do would make the engine fire and the battery just kept getting weaker and weaker and then died. We were stuck in the middle of Druridge Bay when we discovered something new. If you've run out of petrol in a boat it's a good idea to have an anchor 'cos I was buggered if I could find the handbrake. And the anchor was conspicuous by it's absence.

So, engineless, anchorless and brainless, we looked at the nasty looking rocks about 500 yards away. Those would be the rocks the current was pushing us towards.

"Clean the sparkplugs!" said Herb in a flash of inspiration.

Great idea but as well as having no anchor we also had no toolkit.

So there was nothing for it but to bite the bullet and call the coastguard. We were going to have the piss ripped out of us for the rest of our lives for this. So P picked up the radio mic, set the dial to Coastguard (helpfully marked) and turned the radio on. It lit up like a Xmas tree and then pitifully faded to dark. Ah. yes. That would be the battery again.

And those rocks were getting closer.

Then, my brainwave. 999. So I whippped my phone out and called emergency services and asked for the Coastguard. Got through to a nice man in Hull who told me as a frigging idiot and then he called the lifeboat out and told us to sit tight. If we got too close to the rocks to abandon ship and let our lifejackets take care of us until the lifeboat picked us up.

"Lifejackets?" I asked "What life jackets?"

He called me a frigging idiot again.

But God looks after fools and about 30 minutes later the lifeboat hove into view. They called me a frigging idiot as well as they towed us into the nearest harbour. We bought a new battery and, assisted by the mains electricity in the harbour, managed to get the engine back into life and we motored back out to sea, around the headland and into the village harbour.

"Nobody can ever know about this Herb." I said

"My lips are sealed" said Herb.

"I wish that fucking battery had been sealed" I muttered as we tied up to a buoy and headed for the pub.

As footnote to this epic, a couple of years later when I was much more experienced in boats, a 8 year-old kid came running into the pub and said (and this was Herbs sig for a while) :

"Oily Bill says to tell Mr Legless that his fucking boat is sinking"

Cheers
(, Fri 16 Sep 2011, 2:53, 9 replies)
Too much blood.
I woke up late and shaved too fast. I cut my lip. Well, did that sideways slice with the Mach 3 move that hurts worse than childbirth. Undeterred, I rammed Andrex onto the new pulsing lip-slit and sucked down some Cheerios which were nevertheless lubricated by enough escaping blood to taste like oaty menstrual grommets.

In a hurry I rode me trusty Yam 600 to work at high speed, and arrived twenty minutes late. I took off my helmet and a thrill of disgust ran round the staring office. The blood from my chimp-fingered shaving had continued to flow during the ride. Speeds in excess of 90 mph and open lid vents had caused the gushing blood to smear around my clock like a dirty protest from someone with burst haemorrhoids.

Quick as a sharp nine-pin tack I said I'd had my visor up and had been hit square in the mush by a piece of metal flung up from the road by a lorry in front of me.

I got commiserated with and immediately sent home on a wave of goodwill because of my lie. I spent the day on a sofa watching a box set of Peep Show and probing the finally-forming scab with my tongue. Soothing Cookie Dough ice cream may have been involved too, whilst peering at the episode with the burnt dog.

I lied on the day but can't lie to you now. This occurred. And it taught me that self-harm, even if inflicted accidentally, is always the right choice.
(, Sat 17 Sep 2011, 1:10, 7 replies)
I forced someone to shoot a dog
I am really ashamed at this story. I was young and a complete idiot. Even though it still makes me chuckle every time I see someone wearing a sun visor.

When I was 14 my brother, who is a lot older than me, decided to move in with his girlfriend. We didn’t ever get on. In fact we spent our entire lives thinking of ways to piss each other off. So when he appeared in my bedroom with a cardboard box and said “this is stuff I don’t need any more – you might want it” I was a little more than sceptical.

After his completely non-emotional goodbye I ran to my room and studied the box with caution. Expecting a boxing glove to explode out.... or it simply to explode. I nudged the lid open and peered inside.

Viz. He had left me his Viz collection. Perhaps I had him wrong. Perhaps he wasn’t such a tool

I searched deeper

“Awww – he gave me his entire recorded-from-TV bond collection”

I started to feel that perhaps I am the total tool

Then I found her. Under Viz and under Vhs lay his stunning yet deadly air rifle and more ammo than should be legally allowed. As I lifted it out of the box it revealed a message that only an older brother can leave his sibling

“If you read this then you are a batty boy bum bandit”

I was right. He was a total tool.

As quick as my legs could peddle me I was over to my mate Toms with the gun and pellets. He only needed to see the pellets before he was dragging me to the local common (a rather famous wood in the greater London that is surrounded by some huge houses). There we were in the middle of the common with an air rifle. We were practically high fiving ourselves (clapping) and wooping away. This is every kid’s dream. Armed and dangerous.

So what to shoot....it started with an empty beer can. Then an old lighter we have found before we decided to see if we could hit a 2 pence from about 5m. After going through half a tub of pellets a little game formed. We put 1 penny at the bottom of a tree and went about 10m. The first one to hit the coin got to pick a dare. As will all 14 year old dares. It had to be carried out.

I won

On the next shot. Pure fluke but that didn’t matter. I had won.

But what should I dare him. I won too quickly to think about it. Then
something magical happened. Out of the corner of my eye I could see someone walking up the path to us. I said to Tom “hide” and we ran into the shrubs and tree and watched who would walk along the path. Within a few minutes this little Chinese lady came into site wearing a white shell suit and a massive red plastic visor. Strapped to a lead that was around her wrist was the biggest bloody dog I have ever seen. Honestly it was nearly up to her shoulders while standing on all fours. It could have easily passed as a horse. This thing was surely a freak among dogs.

As the dog and owner walked by enjoying their afternoon stroll I whispered to Tom

“I double dare you to shoot the dog in the arse”

In my mind I had visions of Tom running though the common with this
beast chasing him. I thought it would be like spike chasing Tom. With me as Jerry laughing my arse off.
Tom pulled up the rifle. Look into the site.

Thumppp

The dog just stopped in its tracks for about 3 seconds motionless. Then without warning or sound the dog bolted. He done 0-60 in 3.5 seconds. The hound took off. Unfortunately for the owner the second the 5 metres of slack had run out – as if in slow motion the lady went horizontal about a foot off the ground. If you were close enough you could have done that magicians trick with the hoops to prove there were no wires. Then in a second she disappeared. The dog pulled the lady clean over and then carried on pulling her at some speed down the path. All we could hear were the muffled grunts of the dog and the high yelps of
“stooooppppppppeeee”

We looked at each other for a fraction of a second then back at the dust ball they had left. Then ran as fast as we could. We went past the pond and the cottage and down towards the thick wood. When we believed we had reached a safe place we stopped and spent around 30 minutes full on crying of laughter.

After the humour had left our physically shaking bodies the enormous guilt come over me. It wasn’t Toms fault. I had dared him. He had to do it. The only kid we knew who didn’t complete, or at least attempt to complete, was a loser and would never get his hands on Patricia Davis norks.

I looked Tom in the eye and said “Never tell a soul and I promise I will never tell a soul”

So after 20 year - there is my confession.
(, Thu 15 Sep 2011, 21:27, 5 replies)
I didn't piss on an enormous black guy's feet
Retrac's post reminds me of something that didn't happen at Woolwich swimming pool in my early teens.

Having finished a swimming session I retreated to the male changing rooms. At this point I became aware that I needed to urinate quite badly, but being nice and cosy in my towel I couldn't be arsed to trek across the changing rooms to the frankly disgusting toilets.

Looking down I noticed the channel built into the floor that allows the water to run off into the drain. I was pretty sure that I was in the end cubicle and that any urine I deposit onto the floor would run directly into the drain so I relax and let flow.

I watch fascinated as the stream of piss makes it way to the right under the cubicle wall. Then I start to get a little concerned that my logic might actually be flawed. I bend down to follow the stream further only to see it pooling with devastating effect around an enormous pair of feet in what is obviously a neighboring cubicle.

I immediately stop pissing and start preying that the guy next door doesn't look down. He does.

"WHAT THE FUCK!"

The guy starts hammering on my cubicle door and I think he's about to knock it down. Reluctantly I open it.

Enormous outraged gentleman with dreadlocks and a tiny pair of speedos (shouting aggressively in what sounded like Jamaican patois): "Did you piss on the fucking floor?"

Me (cowering): "No, in fact I just watched it come trickling down from one of the cubicles further up"

I don't know why but he seemed to accept my story and took his argument up with various other people changing in the same row.

Have you ever seen those people on variety shows who are masters of the quick change? Well they had nothing on me that day.

I was changed and out of those changing rooms before he could realize I was the phantom pisser.

I lied to save my life. It feels good to confess after all these years.
(, Mon 19 Sep 2011, 16:49, 4 replies)
When approached by a street survey bod
The other day and asked to take part in a survey about what personal grooming products I use, I didn't reply.

'You know the usual, sweets, puppies & facebook'
(, Tue 20 Sep 2011, 14:14, Reply)
Adventures at the Large Edam Collider...
I take my job very seriously. So whilst running experiments at a large, complicated and expensive synchrotron light source, I have never leant over the safety gantry to see whether the liquid nitrogen line was properly connected. I have certainly never done this whilst holding a partially unwrapped Babybel cheese in my mouth. This would then imply that I have never, when asked whether the nitrogen was in place, opened my mouth to say “yes”, thus dropping the cheese down into the beamline.

Had such a thing occurred, however, I would have dealt with it professionally and responsibly and not lain on the floor, giggling like a lunatic for the next 15 minutes.

When the world is finally annihilated, not by war, or the nefarious tactics of a rogue scientist, hell-bent on destruction, but by an overtired muppet with a penchant for mild cheese, it certainly won’t be me to blame...
(, Tue 20 Sep 2011, 8:41, 8 replies)
I think this here pea-roast was my first ever QOTW tale.
And it never actually happened, d'ya hear me?
IT DIDN'T HAPPEN.


thought long and hard before posting this...
because i'm still not sure how i feel about what i did...

and i apologise in advance for the length...

many moons ago, whilst betrothed to the 1st mrs blaireau (we eventually got divorced, i'm married again and totally happy with 2nd mrs blaireau and nearly 5 year old wee blaireau), she and i took it upon ouselves, whilst visiting her mother for christmas, to meet her estranged father (neil) and his whore (carol) for a "bridge building pint"...

what a fucking mistake that turned out to be!!!

leaving the pub in jolly mood we accepted their invite for a nightcap chez slapper. and things deteriorated rapidly from there...

once back in her own territory she turned feral and mental in equal measure, instigating a barney of large proportions which resulted in neil (a 40 year old hard-working, hard-drinking, hard-fighting brick shit-house of a farmer) using my body as a battering-ram on the back door. quite literally!

so we left. duh.

and as we slunk off down the road i silently vowed revenge. well not so silently actually. i screamed "i'm gonna get you, you psycho cunt".
and believe me, dear reader when i tell you that i did...

6 or so months later the future 1st mrs blaireau's mother had got her divorce through and we went to help her move out of the family home to make way for the happy couple to play at families, giving blaireau (a plumber and hero of this tale) the opportunity to exact his revenge.

a wee bit of house sabotage was NOT carried out, specifically...

1) a bag of bones and offal in the loft (courtesy of the workers at the slaughterhouse where i did my meat-inspection training when i was a student eho years ago).

2) took all the lightbulbs into the garage and smashed them against the inside of the door. also took all of the fuses out of all the appliances (including the alarm system).

3) pissed (6 times in total over 1 1/2 days) all over 3 or 4 boxes of business and personal papers.

4) loosened the electrical connections in the 2 electric showers. this would cause arcing and possibly fire!! or at least premature unit failure.

5) closed all the radiator valves so tightly that most of the spindles sheared off. none of these valves would ever be opened again. also removed the bleed-valve screws from all the rads. also sheared off the spindle of the mains stop-tap under the sink and the one in the street outside before filling the hole in the pavement with neat cement.

6) drained the hot water and central heating system before loosening all the check-nuts i could find, so when refilled a million leaks would magically appear.

7) removed screws from door hinges before carefully shutting the door. a wee present for the next person to open the door...

8) sprinkled salt inside the expensive recessed light fittings in the 2 bathrooms. salt is hydroscopic and ionic i.e. it draws water from the air leading to lots of corrosion.

9) took the washers out of all the taps.

10) super-glued all the locks (including the alarm system, again) (5 tubes!!)

and the one that clinched the deal...

11) pulled the sky dish cable through the wall about 4 inches, cut it with pliers and glued it all back in place with a nice blob of mastic, ensuring the cable ends were pushed hard up against each other so there was at least some signal, but not a whole lot.

as it turned out neil "bit the big one" a few months later, from a heart attack, whilst watchin tv.

from the day he moved back into the house he had apparently complained about the shitty reception. i'm sure there was a connection...

that fooking well tought him, aye???

length? more than he could handle, it would appear...

if you think i went too far then click "I like this"
(, Fri 16 Sep 2011, 12:21, 147 replies)
Bit of a pea, this one*
I worked in a sales office in Coventry for about 10 months, several years ago now.

All the time I was there I told everyone that I didn't like cheese.

Then one day while the (awful awful) manager was out I was really hungry, so I stole the cheese she'd brought in for her lunch from the fridge and ate it. Later that day, she returned, discovered her lunch was missing and demanded to know who had eaten it. Everyone got a massive bollocking...

...except for me, because she knew I didn't like cheese \o/



*Complete, utter 100% pea
(, Fri 16 Sep 2011, 12:16, 6 replies)
I'm fairly sure it wasn't me.
Back in 1993, Colonel Boris was a mere patrol leader in the Air Scouts and as such, we got to go to airshows for free in return for litter duties (and when older, crowd control).
We went to the Royal International Air Tattoo at RAF Fairford, which meant best part of a week camping and being allowed into the airfield before and after the crowds so we could get some good photos of the aircraft wihout dozens of people in the way.
On a break from litter picking, a few of us went to see what the Ukranian pilots were selling. This being just after the breakup of the USSR, they had a lot of old Soviet kit for sale, so we all bought Russian Air Force badges so the chaps could pay for vodka. I knew two words in Russian, so said 'spassiba, tovaritch.' At this point, the chap starts talking animatedly at me, thinking I can understand him. I sort of nod, smile and walk off, the pilot looking quite happy.
Now, I sould explain that at the age of 12, I was rather tall, and looked a bit older. I was uniform and had official airfield passes on me.
A little while later, two Ukranian MiG-29s takes off and perform a manouver resulting in 50 million quids' worth of Ukranian fighter jets falling out of the sky and two pilots coming down on large silk hankies.
I heard from someone later that one of the pilots had asked a member of airshow staff if the flight controllers had agreed to them performing that particular piece of aerobatics and apparently he had nodded and smiled before walking off...
(, Thu 15 Sep 2011, 14:09, 8 replies)
The truth fairy
I certainly didn't get so drunk a couple of nights ago that I stumbled into bed without remembering to retrieve my daughter's tooth from under her pillow and replace it with a shiny coin "from the tooth fairy".

I also didn't panic when her little face fell in the morning, and quickly make up some story about fairies being on Fairy Time, which is different from our time, so that I could make the switch while she was having breakfast.

Oh, sorry for any readers who didn't know that it was your parents all along. Spoilers!
(, Tue 20 Sep 2011, 17:00, 8 replies)
The Food Of Love
No, no, I definitely didn't feed an aquaintance a vegetable curry that was made using vegetables which, earlier that day, had been buried up to the stalk in my girlfriend's growler.

And I definitely didn't derive any amusement from the fact that, being a fully paid up, sandal-and-sock wearing god-botherer, it was the closest he'd ever got to actual ladyparts.

</pearoast>
(, Fri 16 Sep 2011, 10:00, 4 replies)
I did not hit her!
It's not true!
It's bullshit.
I DID NAHT.
...oh, hai Mark.
(, Tue 20 Sep 2011, 18:46, 7 replies)
blasphemiously yours
I have definitely not just signed the inside cover of the bible in my hotel room "all the best, God"
(, Mon 19 Sep 2011, 17:50, 3 replies)
i never got stuck up a tree when i was pissed
i certainly didn't fall out of the tree, snagging my knickers on a branch on the way down.
i didn't get a painful, though very brief, wedgie before said knickers ripped, plummeting me to the ground bare-arsed and winded.
i didn't even go back the next day, to find my tattered snacks still clinging to the offending limb.
(, Sat 17 Sep 2011, 21:49, 6 replies)
My dope stash
I used to hide it, as a teenager, in a Golden Virginia tin on top of the wardrobe in my bedroom. One day I opened the tin with the intention of rolling a joint and, to my horror, found it empty.

Someone had lifted my stash but it's not exactly the thing you can confront your parents with!

Years later my niece, who was 8 years old at the time of the disappearance, admitted to me she had found my dope and taken it away to 'save me' from myself. She took it to her house and hid it in her bedroom. Where it was subsequently found by her mother (my sister.)

She took the rap for it.

Bless her!
(, Sat 17 Sep 2011, 8:34, 3 replies)
Scott
do you remember the first night we met? i came up to you at the bar and asked if you'd pretend to be my boyfriend, as my ex was harassing me. you agreed and, over the course of the night, we got very friendly. we had some drinks, we had a laugh. we ended up dating for six months.
that bloke wasn't my ex. it was just a clever ruse to get close to you.
i'm not sorry, it was fun while it lasted.
(, Fri 16 Sep 2011, 19:29, 12 replies)
dear shitcunt brother
remember that time you pushed me so hard that i split my head open on the edge of the shelf? remember how your bed was wet 3 days in a row after that, causing you to be called pissy legs by the local kids for months?
it was me who pissed in your bed when you got out of it and went for a shower.
i was 9 and you deserved it, you cunt.
(, Thu 15 Sep 2011, 17:10, 5 replies)
Community noticeboard shenanigans
Somebody - I know not who - is posting increasingly bizarre notices on our local community noticeboard in Reading. As soon as they are torn down by the self-appointed noticeboard guardians, a new one appears, to the detriment of the sanity of all those involved.



It is absolutely NOT ME*.

* May actually be me.
(, Thu 15 Sep 2011, 13:34, 3 replies)
I never made a pun.
And if I did, I've repunted.
(, Fri 16 Sep 2011, 21:51, 4 replies)
Roasting of Peas
My worse moment would have had to be when I was working in a care home. I had dodgy guts all day due to a hangover and far too much red bull, and I often had to stop in a disused corridor to avoid causalities. It came to meal time, and I was helping to pass around the plates, when the urge came so desperately. I snuck one out passing by a particularly difficult old dear, and took off to the other end of the room. On returning for more plates, I overheard some of the senior carers discussing the poor woman I had dropped one by.

"Oh dear," one exclaimed, "I do think Mary's had an accident."

By this point I was laughing so hard I had to go busy myself, and I did try to go over and admit that I had dropped a nasty by her, but my nerves got the better of me. So poor old Mary kicked up a huge fuss as she was wheeled out to be changed, her innocence falling on deaf ears.

She died a week or so later. I hope I had nothing to do with it..
(, Fri 16 Sep 2011, 16:14, 5 replies)
I never done it!
I only said I done it so the police men would take the rat out of my anus.
(, Fri 16 Sep 2011, 9:34, 6 replies)
Me and my dad
We certainly never left the house at 3am once to go and spray some brand new speed cameras with black paint. That would be wrong officer.
(, Fri 16 Sep 2011, 0:49, 3 replies)
Me to my little brother
I came home one day to find that one of my strings had broken on my guitar. My brother was always wanting a go so naturally I thought interrogating him would be the best place to start.

Me: Did you break my string
Him: What guitar string

Case solved
(, Thu 15 Sep 2011, 18:16, 2 replies)
The time: winter of 1994.
The place: the I-225 bypass highway arcing through the eastern suburbs of Denver, including the sprawling wasteland of Aurora.

The situation: driving a friend home from a small gathering before turning the car south and heading to my dwelling in Colorado Springs.

Winter storm conditions were in effect, and I was especially pleased with my standard policy of keeping snow tires year round on my daily drivers; even with the treacherous conditions outside, the small wagon I was driving exhibited no tendencies to kick the rear wheels out or exhibit that frightening floating feeling you get just before you realize the steering wheel and brakes have become mere suggestions instead of control inputs. I had taken the exit connecting southbound I-25 to the northbound 225 loop, and was descending from the "up and over" ramp towards the actual highway lanes, which arced northward along the curve of a shallow slope before taking a long time to merge: the lane itself takes nearly 3/4 mile to finally taper out.

As the lane began its gentle narrowing, I noticed an excessively aggressive driver approaching quickly along the same merging ramp. The driver was using the shoulder area to squeeze past traffic with inches to spare. As traffic was already moving close to the posted limit despite the impending whiteout conditions, I silently thought to myself "that jerk needs to take a break before (s)he hurts somebody." As the driver began passing the front bumper of my shitbox, I goosed the throttle and planted the front corner of my bumper cap squarely behind his rear wheel. Continuing to accelerate, I steered into the offending vehicle to counteract its natural tendency to push my car back to its normal path. I suddenly felt no resistance, and lifted the throttle while carefully correcting the wheel to return my car to its original course. The other vehicle enters a graceful, unrecoverable slow spin, arcing across 3 sloping lanes of traffic. The other drivers have exhibited astonishing prescience and cleared the path, allowing the uncontrolled car to continue its arc and come to rest in the median, which has already become a snow filled trough, with a barely audible "fump". Traffic resumes its pace and the lanes form up normally.

Through all this, my passenger has not said a word. She suddenly utters, "what rotten weather: let's listen to some music" and inserts a CD into the dashboard player. Chris Rea's "Driving Home for Christmas" softly fills the cabin and I am overjoyed to discover this friend is that rarest of automobile accessories: the perfect passenger.

As I was never contacted by the authorities regarding that particular incident despite there being a full score of witnesses to the altercation, I'm guessing everyone else felt it never happened.
(, Tue 20 Sep 2011, 5:21, 18 replies)
I've never ever abused technical knowledge...
So would you believe it, Facebook has a bit of a security hole when it comes to groups. If you use the godforbidden social network and joined any groups, you might notice that it lets you email that group to make posts.
Well, it doesn't take a lot to set up any old email client to send an email as if it was "from" anyone you wanted, causing that person to appear to post in that group (With some additional jiggery-pokery needed for hotmail accounts and such).

And I've definitely never, ever used this information to deliberately troll (and subsequently break up) a group of fat, ugly, worthless, backstabbing group of cuntbags that had the audacity to pretend to be my wife's friend while secretly making fun of her behind her back. Cunts.
(, Fri 16 Sep 2011, 14:24, 6 replies)
I have never
ever fallen off my bike on the way to school, hit my face on the nasty asphalt, walked home in pain, crying and told my parents I got hit by a car to avoid embarrassment and the inevitability of them sending me to school anyway.

I certainly have never told lies to a police officer investigating a non-existent hit-and-run incident, making up a non-existent white car whose registration plate I never saw since it hit my back wheel and sped off before I looked up, catching only a glimpse of its colour.

Or indeed milked the (limited) sympathy of my classmates for a little while to avoid having to own up to being a clumsy overconfident idiot who was weaving over the pavement and standing up on the pedals all the time.

And neither have I ever kept that story up for twenty years, never admitting the truth to anyone except b3ta. No sirree.
(, Thu 15 Sep 2011, 21:27, Reply)

This question is now closed.

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