I have never, never laughed so hard
I was walking home from shop when I saw my mate cycle past. I shouted and he looked round to see who it was. However, whilst he was doing that, a car just ahead of him had stopped at a crossing. My mate, who was going a fair speed hit the back of the car and his bike stopped dead. He didn't however, and the momentum carried him over the handlebars and onto the roof of the car. He would've most likely glided right over the car to land on the road at the other side if the car aerial hadn't snagged on his jogging bottoms, which caused him to slide out of them.

Now, the occupants of the car had spun round to see what the bang was and then turned back around in time to watch my mate slide down the windscreen minus his trousers with his bare genitals pressed against the glass and being stretched out, doing a fine impression of Deirdre's neck (from Coronation Street), finally coming to a halt, face first, with his chin resting on the car bonnet in a very awkward upside down position.

He thrashed about a bit trying to get down, and resigned to pulling his legs out of his trousers completely, whereby he rolled rather gracelessly off the side of the car bonnet and onto the pavement. He picked himself up and in front of a small crowd, stretched up to retrieve his jogging bottoms from the top of the car, giving him the opportunity to press his bollocks against the passenger-side window this time.

I laughed so much I started getting a bit light-headed and had to sit down, and for the next three days my sides ached as if I'd been beaten up.
( sandettie light vessel automatic New Twitter - @bollocksreally, Thu 17 Dec 2009, 15:56, 31 replies)

I helplessly watched as two blind men wielding white canes
walked smack bang into each other, both ending up on their arse. They simultaneously blustered, "WATCH WHERE YOU'RE GOING, CAN'T YOU SEE I'M BLIND??!!"
(twattybanjo, Thu 17 Dec 2009, 14:26, 6 replies)

My dad once convinced my brother the frozen pond was OK to walk accross
"look" he said "i did it earlier, you can see my footprints in the snow"

Unsurprisingly my brother stepped on the ice , which gave way and landed him in a very cold pond

Turns out my dad had been up earlier and made footprints with a slipper on a stick
( Citizen Cavy Admires your passion for conformity, Fri 18 Dec 2009, 14:59, 15 replies)

Take care when driving on ice..
..not in the recent snowy conditions but a few years ago I had a subaru impreza. It's the kind of car that attracts idiots who think you are up for racing all the time..

Anyhoo I was driving fairly gingerly due to snow and ice and had a pair of chavs in their modified piece of junk literally foaming at the mouth to get passed me.

They grabbed the moment as the single road opened into a dual carriageway to fly by - not knowing that there was a roundabout within about 20 metres!

Yes I arrived at the roundabout to see their car half way across the roundabout, nose pointing about 45 degrees in the air.

I did the only decent thing and beeped and waved as I went by them.

I then did the second decent thing by going round the roundabout several times beeping and waving.
( Signify, Sun 20 Dec 2009, 12:02, 3 replies)

More baby hilarity
The other day, mr vitC was changing our son's nappy before bed time. As he did so, our delightful child pissed right up in the air, hitting mr vitC all over his face and down his front. Naturally, I fell about laughing, especially as baby had a mischievous grin upon his face.

Mr vitC asked me to take over so he could change his top, so over I went, still laughing, and tickled baby on his tummy, saying 'ha ha, you really got daddy, didn't you?!' As I lent down to kiss his soft little cheek, he vomited, and shat at the same time, covering my face in sick, and my hand and much of my arm, plus the wall behind the changing mat, in shit. I heard my baby boy laugh for the first time that day, although it was somewhat spoiled by my other half actually weeping with laughter as I dripped excrement and regurgitated milk over the baby.

It's over a week later, and mr vitC still dissolves into giggles every so often remembering it. The bedroom wall still has a faint 'baby-faeces-motif' to it.
( ascorbate, Sun 20 Dec 2009, 12:09, 10 replies)

Karma Police
The M69. You'd think from being numerically blessed with the most mutually generous of sexual positions, it would be a motorway that couldn't fail to take you to a happy place. Well, you'd be wrong - in one direction it takes you to Leicester, and in the other it takes you to Coventry.

I can only imagine that when the motorway was first opened, the inhabitants of both cities flocked onto it, desperate to escape for a better life elsewhere, only to end up bitterly disappointed at the other end. It's the road that proves that the grass isn't always greener on the other side.

Anyhow, the one benefit of having a road with no enticing destinations is that it's usually quite traffic-free, allowing for some speedy East-West Midlands migration.

Usually, that is, except for the one day you want to get somewhere. Back when I worked in Birmingham, one day I needed urgently to get to a client in Leicester (why the fuck anyone would urgently need to get to Leicester is unfortunately lost in the haze of time now). I was therefore disappointed to see queues of traffic as I joined the M69. I can only assume the "M" on the sign was obscured, and everyone was blindly following a promise of mutual oral satisfaction.

Evenutally, the traffic changed from a total standstill to gradual movement. This should have improved things, but it actually just played into the hands of the true cunts of the motorway - lane-weavers.

You know the sort - the dicks who believe that their journey has higher priority over those of everyone around them, and so will happily cut you up with inches to spare, in order to get them to their destination two seconds earlier. I'm sure there's a special place in hell reserved for them, just between people who ruin the endings of films you haven't seen yet and whoever was responsible for commissioning Horne & Corden.

After about five of these twunts had swerved across the front of me, getting closer and closer to the bumper of my car, I was starting to get a bit pissed off, so when the traffic started to pick up pace, I was happily thinking it was over. At this point, a sixth fuckstick hove into view, seemingly from nowhere, causing me to hit the brakes and give him a blast on the horn.

Had I realised that said fuckstick was an undercover policeman, I probably wouldn't have been quite as vociferous in my reaction. I didn't realise, however, until he pulled across into the next lane, slowed down until I was level with him, and then showed me his warrant card and beckoned towards the hard shoulder with a look of pure smug satisfaction on his face.

Thankfully, that look was quickly wiped off his face. Whilst concentrating on searching for his warrant card and looking smugly sideways, he failed to notice that the traffic in his lane had come to a stop, and he casually drove slowly into the car in front of him.

Laugh? I almost shat a kidney.
( TheMagicDwarf is back like ballroom dancing, Fri 18 Dec 2009, 10:46, 7 replies)

pikeys
A few Christmas's ago now, I was sat in the Aldershot McDonalds having a pre-booze feedbag when four pissed-up, proper pikeys came in shouting their heads off, being total wankers, quite literally throwing their weight around. The Macky-D manager, bravely, tells them to keep the noise down and also leave the cans of Carling outside, because they don't have a drinks licence. Cue even more outraged nonsense by the pikeys until a teenager sat nearest the counter with a bunch of his mates says, "keep the noise down mate", to which the biggest, meanest looking pikey gives it "fuckin' come 'ere and say that, you short-haired cunt".

The last I saw of the pikeys, before the ambulance turned up, was of one of them being repeatedly bounced off the little spikey fence outside McDonalds, pissing blood from many orifices.

Clue to pikeys : If you're going to pick a fight with thirty members of 2-para, it's gonna take a lot more than four of you.
( Linbox has a serious dunk habit, Fri 18 Dec 2009, 10:13, 7 replies)

a load of bollards
my brother, who is a cunt, really doesn't like me. he never has. he has spent a lifetime torturing me. sometimes, though, i get my own back.
one winter, when i was about 8, it snowed really hard. all the kids were outside building snowmen, except my brother. he would wait until someone had finished building a snowman, then he would run over and kick it to pieces. i've always believed that what goes around comes around, so i set a little trap.
while he was inside having lunch, i was busy in the carpark. i built a lovely snowman. well, partly snow, but mostly iron bollard. it took me about ten minutes to cover the bollard completely and convincingly.
just as i finished my trap, my brother finished his lunch and came back outside, determined to deliver more reebok-related mayhem.
spying my snowman, he gleefully ran up to it and, despite my heartfelt pleas for him not to kick it, he drew back his foot and let fly.
the agonized scream that issued from his lips moments later made the 3-week grounding that followed completely worthwhile. frosty may have been broken, but so were 3 of my arse-hat of a brother's toes. i may not be strong, but i definitely got the brains in my family!
( Smash Monkey lowering the tone of the whole internet, Fri 18 Dec 2009, 22:46, 7 replies)

If theres one thing that winds me up its people using mobile phones whilst driving.
I was waiting at a bus stop near my place of work at the end of the road, near a roundabout. A woman drove past, going about 10mph, window down, on her mobile. I shouted "Get off you phone idiot!" for it angered me so. She turned her head to face me and shouted "Mind your own fucking business!" before driving in to the back of the car in front which had now stopped at the roundabout. I laughed. He got out and wasn't fucking happy. I laughed. As she sat with a very shocked look on her face she said right in front of the guy "I've just had a crash I'm going to have to call you back" The guy called the police. I laughed and my bus arrived, I left the scene still chuckling.
( Peej, Mon 21 Dec 2009, 13:44, 25 replies)

Snow
The snow reminds me of a story that would be perfect for this QoTW if my boyfriend was telling it. He's too busy though, so I will:

Last year, my loving boyfriend and I were near Alston, happily playing in the snow, until he threw a massive snowball that hit me right in the middle of my face.

Overriding my desire to cry and hide in the car, I made the biggest snowball my girly hands could carry and chased off to get my revenge. CALAMITY! So preoccupied was I with my vicious vendetta that I failed to observe the slidiness of this patch of mud, and instead of exacting revenge on the evil beast, I flipped, comic-book style, into the cold sludge.

Luckily for you, he thoughtfully recorded the aftermath in a series of flattering photographs, whilst laughing till he wheezed and the tears froze solid on his cheeks. Filthy, and freezing, and banned from the car, I got undressed at the side of the road, using bits of rubbish from the boot as wellies. I eventually removed enough of the sludge for him let me in whilst he took photos of me looking like a swamp creature and poked my bruises.
(floella, Thu 17 Dec 2009, 17:32, 21 replies)

We used to keep chickens.
They hatched a brood of chicks - all little yellow fluffy things, and one black one, which was always the last at everything, being the chick equivalent of the fat kid with the one permanently blocked nostril and the other always running, that gets picked last for everything, and then only because they've got to be picked to even up the sides.

I went to feed the chicks one day, and replinished their water. They raced towards the plastic dish that served as their bowl, squeaking and bleeping with delight, and the black one was, for the first time in his life, at the head of the pack. As he got to the bowl in his excitement he stamped his big flat foot on the edge of the dish, thus spanging himself as hard as possible right in the face while drenching himself and all the others with water and destroying their water supply.
( Je suis un vagabond is an unfunny, up your own arse middle class knob, Thu 17 Dec 2009, 16:12, 6 replies)

DEATH FROM ABOVE
The sea obviously scares the living crap out of me.

I remember as a kid a fella who lived a few doors down was a contestant on Bullseye. He did well. He did very fucking well indeed. In fact he won himself a shiny new speedboat…

… neighborhood kids would come from miles round to point and stare and wonder what the fuck was the point of a car without any wheels. I imagine several elderly passersby considered telephoning the local constabulary to report a strange, mysterious, alien artifact sitting out front a crappy old terrace house on the Walsgrave Road. It became a local oddity (akin to finding a virgin at a Catholic girls school), and – in time – that speedboat sat like an overturned giant albino turtle and turned as manky as a crack addicted prostitutes gusset after a session with the horniest rugby team in the fucking world.

You see, this was the Midlands. The middle of the country. We may have the occasional river, stream and pond large enough to drown your average witch in– but, when it comes to any larger expanse of water we had sweet fuck all. Fish came from the chippy, not from the sea.

And this is why the coast scares the living crap out of me.

Although I’ve recently discovered another reason to be absolutely fucking petrified of anything remotely beachy. I now go to a small seaside town in South Wales a fair bit, a place named Penarth. It’s got a pier. It’s got a place that sells chips and ice cream. It’s even got a few bars where, being English, you can venture in and have some Welsh hick call you a cunt and suggesting you “like going down on the Queen’s hairy beaver while Prince Phillip tickles your chocolate brownstar with his fetid old cock”. Nice place. Anyway, being a greedy cunt the first thing I tend to do is grab some chips then feign interest as my girlfriend, who’s from this place, goes off on one about how much she misses the view. Yeah, great. Water. Shitloads of it. Fucking marvelous. Haven’t had this much fun since the last time I ran a fucking bath…

So, I’m there eating my chips when suddenly, out of fucking nowhere, winged fucking death descends, flapping mighty wings stronger than Thor, and I watch – horrified, letting out a girly scream – as this great big fucking beast fucks off with half my chips, tipping the tray out of my hands as it ascends like one of those big fucking scary fuckers out of The Lord of the Rings.

“Arrrgggghhhh!” I reason.

My girlfriend starts laughing. “It’s only a seagull, you great big poof.”

“IT NICKED MY CHIPS!!!”

Seagulls. Fucking horrible. Hate the fuckers. If Charles Manson ever actually decides to fucking die, he’ll probably come back as a seagull and succeed in his dastardly plans to fuck up the world through the awesome power of annoying the fuck out of anyone with a snack at the seaside. I’m standing there silently shitting myself, scanning the skies for any telltale signs of death from above. Then I notice the fucker’s perched on a post a little way away, guzzling down my chips and giving me the evils with its beady little Damien from Omen eyes. Then I notice something that really gets my interest, and so does my new arch nemesis, the feathery little shit with the huge yellow webbed feet and personality of Jordan after she’s been out on the sauce.

We both spot an old woman. Probably down from the Valleys for the day. She’s doddering along with a walking stick, using it to keep herself upright. And in her other trembling, age-feebled hand, she’s holding a tray of chips. The seagull, seeing a nice easy second course, takes flight, circles. I’m entranced – fair play, it was either watch someone else get mugged by this winged bastard, King of the Skies, or listen to my girlfriend drone on about her happy childhood summers twatting about on the pier playing Pac Man. The bird swoops lower. This is going to be good. In a weird way I was enjoying seeing this masterful hunter do its thing. I hated the little shit, but still, this was nature. This was probably educational. The seagull swoops, makes a strafing run. I’m encapsulated. It was a like watching one of those wildlife programs where the lioness stalks the wildebeest… The seagull cuts effortlessly through the air like a hot knife through butter, swoops towards the old ladies chips –

- and then, at the last possible moment, the old lady drops her walking stick and punches the fucker hard in the throat with the skill, poise and dexterity of Jackie Chan.

It squawks, lands on the ground in a crumpled heap, then fucks off on foot making a strange choking noise. I just gaped as the old lady stooped and picked up her stick and carried on ambling towards a bench; if I’d have just pulled off a move like that I’d be screaming like I’d just scored the winning injury time goal in the World Cup and demanding free blowjobs from every living human being within a ten mile radius.

“Did you just see that?” I asked my girlfriend.

She nods. “Yes,” she said matter-of-factly. “Good job that doddery old lady was about to protect you from the big scary seagull, you great big ponce…”
( SpankyHanky, Thu 17 Dec 2009, 16:52, 16 replies)

Is this schadenfreude or justified gloating?
“It could be worse. It could be my problem.” I’ve lived my life by those words. I have also made a habit out of not getting involved in what Douglas Adams described in his Hitchhikers Guide to the Galaxy books as “S.E.P. Events”, S.E.P. standing for “Somebody Else’s Problem”.

Early one Saturday morning I was parked up in a supermarket car park waiting for a song to finish on the radio before I braved the rat race that is Tescos. I watched a plump middle-aged woman park a bright yellow Nissan Micra into an empty space in the row in front of me. I was idly thinking that she had parked a bit close to the car next to her when she had a change of mind and attempted to reverse back out of the space, however, she started turning the steering wheel much too soon…”Crump” was the noise the front of her car made as it connected with the side of the car next to her. “Doh!” I muttered, subconsciously logging it as an S.E.P. event. She then proceeded to do that thing that drivers do when they get flustered, that backwards and forwards lurching without actually turning the steering wheel, making the same mistake again and again and again. It was painful to watch, backwards and forwards she went, the actual trajectory of her vehicle not changing, smack, smack, smack into the car beside her…

I had to stop her; she had given up any illusions of avoiding the other car and was slowly screeching the nose of her car down the side of the other, the sound of metal on metal was like nails down a blackboard to me. I ran over and banged on her window, “Stop! Please, just…stop!” She wound her window and snarled “WHAT?!” “You keep driving into that car” I stated. “No I don’t” she replied. “I watched you do it” I countered. “Well, he shouldn’t have parked so close to me”. I really didn’t want to get into an argument with her so I told her to drive back into the space, straighten her wheels and then reverse out completely before turning. When she was finally out I said “Let me just check that your wheel arch hasn’t buckled into your tyre” to which she replied “Oh do piss off” and promptly drove away.

Up until that point I had had no intention of getting involved any further, but her final comment had well and truly ground my gears. I whipped out my mobile and made a note of her number plate. I then returned to my car and wrote out a full report of the incident, including descriptions of the driver, the car, date, time and her number plate. I signed it and left my phone number. I folded the report up inside a carrier bag and left it under the windscreen wiper of the damaged car. To cut a long story short, the bloke who owned the car received a super-fast insurance payout from the daft cow in the Micra and she was contacted by the police (but no further action was taken). I get a warm fuzzy feeling of Schadenfreude every time I think about her losing her no claims bonus and having to explain herself to the plod.
( Colonel Dracula Two manky hookers and a racist dwarf, Mon 21 Dec 2009, 12:32, 6 replies)

I should have felt bad... but meh...
Suicidal Tendencies (The band) were playing in Sydney and I, as an aging punk, decided this was unmissable.
They start playing and I place myself on the edge of the mosh pit, just out of reach of the spinning mass of similarly aging punks who have all come out for one night and are suitable pissed up and energetic as they run around in circles and slam into each other like men who know they're only allowed out once in a while and better make the most of it.
So...
Behind me are a pair of bogans who are clearly smashed and clearly having a ball playing at being alternative. Amateur goth makeup, a t-shirt with "fuck" written on it in marker men and a few safety pins dotted around. You get the idea.
So after about ten seconds they both start jumping into me, their idea of a mini mosh, I assume.
I've been in moshpits for the better part of 20 years so I wasn't too fussed at first and then when I got annoyed I moved a bit to the side, but they moved too and continued to run up and jump into me and a couple of others who were also standing at the edge of the mayhem, pushing me again and again.
I turned around between a song and asked - politely, honest! - if they minded.
"If you don't like it, fuck off home!" screams the girl.
OK. So I move over a bit more, she follows and starts pushing into me again as soon as the next song starts. I turn around, she gives me a big smile and pushes again.
Or at least that was her plan, I moved out of the way as she started and she sailed past straight into the middle of the mass and disappeared from view. When the song ended, she made her way back out, looking utterly traumatised, with hair everywhere, tears galore and blood streaming out of her nose.
Poor little thing.
( difficultchild, Tue 22 Dec 2009, 4:36, 15 replies)

With headphones on, you have a soundtrack to life
... and I was walking along the high street in Dalston (the arse of Hackney, itself the arse of Mordor) listening to Transglobal Underground on a beautiful summer morning.

I noticed up ahead of me a big, muscley chap striding down the street towards me, and a late teens/early twenties slip of a girl chasing after him, pawing at his arm, tears streaming down her face, and occassionally falling off her high heels. Every time she pawed at him, he shrugged it off aggressively.

This was understandably something of a spectacle for the street.

The scene continued for several tens of metres until, unable to contain himself any longer, he turned around and belted her full in the face with a hard clenched fist.

I have never seen what appeared to be a random array of people doing various activities become one mass so quickly, as about six guys pummelled him to the floor; his face already spurting claret before he even hit the deck.

Shadenfreude? Woman-hitting karma gonna kick yo ass about town, more like.
( Je suis un vagabond is an unfunny, up your own arse middle class knob, Mon 21 Dec 2009, 12:40, 9 replies)

After way too many bongs...
My mate decided to put the sliding patio doors about 3 feet apart, stuck the sofa across the bottom and claimed he could jump over the sofa, between the glass doors and land safely in the garden.

He cleared the sofa, neatly passing untouched between the glass doors but sadly failing to pass under the wall above the opening, striking it face on. The momentum of the jump ensured that he continued forward but now with imparted backward spin. His now unconscious body did a complete 360 and face planted on the lawn (lucky not concrete!)

At A&E none of us could explain to the nurse how it happened because of hysterical dope-fuelled giggles whenever we started to describe it. Indeed one of us actually split his jeans with laughter. The victim lay unconscious on the trolley, we lay on the ground howling.

S
( simbosan liked your link on, Thu 17 Dec 2009, 12:29, 4 replies)

Bamboo
Actually this one is about me.

About ten years back, when I was a spotty teenager, me and my older brother were messing about in the garden. We’d climbed up a pallet and onto the fence. A big, wooden one that’s about 10ft tall. My foot slipped and I lost my grip, sliding down and dropping to the floor.

Only I didn’t quite. I fell almost to the floor – my descent was interrupted. By a bamboo pole stuck in a flower pot. The (mercifully blunt) top end caught me between my arse cheeks, taking a good inch or so of jeans, underkex and all with it into the ‘exit only’ zone.

Oh good lord. Thankfully the sturdy, pre-Tesco jeans denim held, saving me from resembling a victim of Vlad the impaler. But my feet were still a good half-a-foot from the earth and blessed escape. And the wall was just beyond my reach.

‘Owwwww help me! Ahhh it hurts!’ I thought, I expected, I hoped that my older brother would spring to my rescue and lift me off. Only he couldn’t, what with being crippled with laughter. He fell off the wall, landing on the soft grass (bastard), racked with belly-laughs so hard he was crying.

I was close to tears myself. At this point it was clear I had to save myself. So I leant forwards, felt the pot wobble, then shifted my weight back, forwards again, building up momentum until my fingers almost touched the fence. Every movement hurt like a bastard, but it was the only way to gain freedom.

I managed it, gripped the wood and scrabbled upwards towards blessed, sweet release!

I then booted him as hard as I could in the stomach, being as he was still on the floor, giggling furiously, having watched my comedy pendulum plan come to fruition. Sadly it wasn’t that hard, what with having just being violated by a bit of stick and the laws of physics.

Bastard.
(Miraclefish How appropriate, you fight like a cow, Thu 17 Dec 2009, 17:18, 2 replies)

Facedoor
When I was a younger ESP, family holidays were a 24 hour drive to somewhere in France or Italy to stay with some Johnny foreigners at a Eurocamp; although we'd always stay in a caravan rather than a tent. We may not have been able to afford trips to Disneyland every 6 months, but we were better than the plebs covered in canvas, damnit.

Anyway, my story of schadenfreude took place when I was about 13. Wavy lines ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

My family had spent a week in Provence, eating baked goods and watermelon for breakfast; having some culture forced down our throats by the rents; the incredible local food for dinner; playing table tennis with hot Dutch girls whose mannish mothers put me off the windmill-livers for life.

I had found a holiday girlfriend, a pretty yet plump creature with a lust for chips (she dumped me a day after this story happened after I refused to give her a chip. I don't regret my decision) and would spend hours laying in the sun, shyly kissing on the lips and holding hands. In the evenings we’d play in the arcade. Well, I played while she and her cousin drank coke and chatted about... fuck knows.

I decided to make my way back to our abode for food and to annoy my sisters for a few hours. Meandering through a campsite in the dark has a certain magic about it. Families of tanned tourists share company and sustenance around mozzie repellent candles, lovers drift by arm in arm, you can see proper amounts of stars. Lost in this wonderful array of sights, and still with the sweet taste of cokey lips on mine, I arrived home.

*To set the scene, the mobile home had two large, clear glass doors leading directly into the living room area where my older and younger sisters were playing a game. Outside there were three steps leading down to the patio where my parents were sitting. The place was somewhat illuminated by the light spilling through the double doors.*

I waved a cheery hello to my mum and dad and ran up the stairs to the apparently open doors. The doors weren't open. I ran into it headfirst and rebounded off, fell back down the stairs and landed in an undignified heap at the foot of them. Instant gushing nosebleed, swollen nose, sore arse and ringing ears from my entire family falling off their seats. My sisters, while laughing until tears are flowing, re-enact my moment of glory repeatedly. After a few minutes mum has managed to contain herself long enough to form coherent words and ask if I'm alright, but can't finish the sentence as my sisters are now pushing their faces into the doors from the other side and doing slow motion impressions of my face impacting, squashing and the look of 'gormless shock' I apparently had as I fell to my doom.

It was a long night, a longer last week of the holiday and a good 3 years before they stopped gurning at me through glass whenever the opportunity presented itself. Can’t say I blame them one bit, really...

Apologies for length, it’s my first time and if in doubt more is usually better.
(ElectricSexPants would like to be the Sultan of something, Tue 22 Dec 2009, 11:09, 16 replies)

I've never really found humor in the pain of others...
...well, unless they were absolute cunts to begin with.

I was a racetrack groom when I was 19. Got the job even though I knew nothing about horses, really- but all you really need to know is that they shit a lot, and you get to clean it up and take care of their racing harnesses. That, and that the guys who train the horses (and are usually your boss) are generally arrogant little fuckheads. Mine was no exception.

So one day my boss tells me to get one of my horses ready for training. This means that the horse will be doing basically a dry run for the race, rather than just a jog. No problem, I get her ready and he takes her out for her training.

When a horse has just done a training run, it's standard to give them a bran mash instead of just the usual grain feed. This means that you add a load of bran to it and add warm water until you get something resembling oatmeal. So I make this for my horse, only I add too much water so that it comes out soupy. The boss comments on this, and I ask how it could possibly do any harm. He snorts, makes a comment to the effect that I was a stupid college kid and walks off. I shrug and go back to what I was doing.

Next morning he wants to take that horse out for her jog, so I hook her up to the jog cart and send them off while I go take care of another horse. All is nice and quiet as I work...

What I didn't know, and obviously neither did he, was that the extra water in the bran mash acts like a laxative on the horse. I might as well have fed her a pound of Ex-Lax. Which is a vital piece of information when you're out exercising a horse by sitting in a cart with your feet on either side of the horse's arse and her tail directly in front of your face.

When the peaceful morning was shattered by my boss's voice screaming my name, when I came out and saw him with reeking green horse shit plastered all over his face, and when I had to hold onto a post to keep from falling over with uncontrollable laughter, I knew beyond the shadow of a doubt that it was over. And sure enough, about two days later I was unemployed.

But goddam, it was worth it. More than twenty years later it still brings a warm glow to my evil heart.

(Yes, I know, I've posted this story before- but it fits well here.)
( The Resident Loon Not a demographic. Do not measure., Fri 18 Dec 2009, 3:20, 3 replies)

Self ejection
A mate of mine by the name of Beechy was down visiting us in Bournemouth for another mate's birthday. A good few drinks had been consumed at the resultant houseparty, and we resolved to head out into town to carry on drinking. Not that Beechy needed to. He was trollied, and despite usually being one of the nicest blokes you could ever wish to meet, was behaving like an utter twat. On our short walk to the club he downed what was left of his large bottle of JD (it had been full when he started) and randomly hurled it across the road - missing the head of another friend by inches. Once inside the club, he continued being a total obnoxious twat, entering a fancy dress contest (it was also Halloween) despite being dressed in just jeans and a shirt. Upon not winning, he sprayed the judges with beer, then threw the rest of his pint, still in the (thankfully plastic) container onto the dance floor, Begbie-style.

Don;t get me wrong, normally I love the bloke but we were definitely getting fucked off with his behaviour on this occasion, and the bouncers were about to move in. We decided that we weren't going to risk a shoeing on his behalf, and if they chucked him out, he was on his own - he was, after all, utterly in the wrong.

As the bouncers moved in, Beechy's attitude got even worse and he lit up a fag (this was post-smoking ban) and leaned back against the wall, waiting for the black-suited gorillas to come and get him. Only they didn't have to. Beechy was stood by a fire door, and as he leaned back, his arse hit the bar that opened it.

Del-boy style, he fell straight through the door without breaking his form, and te bouncers simply closed the door behind him, for the easiest club ejaculation they will ever have had to conduct.

Serves hims right, the tit.
(Bappage, Fri 18 Dec 2009, 16:58, 2 replies)

Moped riding shitehawks
When I lived in Kent some years ago, the local pre teen chavvy fanny products used to ride their (usually stolen) mopeds up and down a field where I walked my dogs. They kept away from me as my (remaining, I had two at the time) GSD is pretty hysterical when it comes to being mobbed by moped riding cunts and has to be muzzled for fear of savaging the lot of 'em. The sprogs realised pretty quickly that the dogs could run faster than they could ride, should I have chosen to let them chase them (not that I ever would, I love my dog/s too much to put them/him in a situation like that.) They buzzed every other person using the field with great joy and shouts of abuse tho, and soon it became a real problem.

However one day they decided the field was old hat and took to riding up and down the pavement of the road I lived on. Many a time I had to leap out of the way (they never did it when I had the dogs with me, I wonder why). I felt it prudent - me versus kid on a moped heading straight for me - well, I'm not fucking stupid, I jumped to avoid them. The residents reported them to the police countless times who of course showed up long after they had gone and never did a thing about it.

One day I decided I'd had enough. I waited in my porch until I heard them coming along, made sure they were indeed tearing up and down the path, and as one passed by I rushed out and pushed my wheelie bin into their path.
The little shit couldn't brake quick enough, couldn't get off the pavement as cars were lining the road, and promptly plowed straight into it, dropped the 'ped and fell off into a hedge.

I laughed my fucking head off. I pointed and laughed and laughed some more when the little darling emerged with a bloody nose. I laughed as he approached me, and I laughed as he took a swing at me, dodged it and kicked him in the knee joint. I laughed as he went down for the second time in as many minutes. Oh, how I laughed as he turned tail and staggered off at the sight of a very angry woman looming over him as he lay on the pavement, a woman plainly in a position to kick the shit out of him when he was down.

They didn't do it again outside my house. They did it on the other side of the road instead. Until the people living there took to doing the same as I did with their bins. The 'ped riders moved on pretty sharpish after a few mangled peds and cuts and brusies. Result.
(womanwhocanonlylivewithdogs, Mon 21 Dec 2009, 17:21, 2 replies)

cowdenfreude.
Taking joy in the misfortunes of udders.
(apeloverage committed the vile act of onanism on, Sat 19 Dec 2009, 0:27, 3 replies)

You meet the nicest people on trains.
Friday night, off to visit some friends and bounce around in a greasy rock club – Rock City in Nottingham, I think. Four lads (17 or so) from Peterborough were on the carriage I joined, standing room only, huddled in the space by the doors. Here’s how the conversation went.

‘Your missus is a bit mental, Mark’
‘Fuck you.’
‘Yeah, but she is, isn’t she?’
‘No!’
‘What about that time you didn’t answer your phone and she left you a million messages?’
‘Oh, well, yeah. Maybe a bit.’
‘Haha, Steve’s right, Mark, she is.’
‘Like you’re allowed to comment, Danny, you’re dating a schoolgirl.’
‘Fuck off!’
‘Yeah, but you are.’
‘I’m not!’
‘You’re not going out with her, or she’s not at school?’
‘Just leave it.’
‘Haha fine, fine, whatever… Grab his phone!’
‘Hey! Fuck off! Leave it! Get off me! Give that back!’
‘Haha got it! Hold his arms, boys, I’m gonna read out some messages!’
‘Look, it’s nothing dodgy. I’m not a paedo or anything!’
At this point I’m giggling to myself, unable to hold it in.
‘Look, even that dude thinks you’re a paedo!’

To be honest mate, it does sound like you’re a bit of a paedo…

‘Haha lets find out!’
‘Just leave it, Mark…’
‘Lets see. “HI BABE HOW R U? XX TB” Aww. That’s nice. Lets read another.’
‘Stop it or I’ll fucking knock you out!’
‘Ohh! Here we go! “WANT 2 MEET UP AFTER SCHOOL?” Paedo!’
‘Ahh, fuck…’

At which point the whole carriage bursts out laughing at him, to shouts of 'nonce' and 'paedo'.

Poor Danny.
(Miraclefish How appropriate, you fight like a cow, Thu 17 Dec 2009, 17:31, 1 reply)

Related and unrelated
To my other post, unrelated as in different event, related as in the girl in question (my ex) was the sister of the victim of that other post. You keepin up? Anyways...

On the Underground we were just about to miss the train, but managed to jump between the doors as they closed. Sadly, her large leather shoulder bag was not so lucky. We were left standing inside the train with her holding the straps while the bag stuck out the side.

Down the tunnel goes the train, BANG! BANG! BANG! goes the bag against the side of the tunnel causing embarrassment to her and consternation to the rest of the carriage, but eventually the train gets to the next station and, of course, the doors on the other side open. So she is still stuck there. Train pulls off and BANG! BANG! BANG! goes the bag.

Next station, STILL the wrong side, but this time a friendly commuter went and got the guard so he could open the doors on the other side of the train... BUT God hadn't finished with humiliating her, Underground Rule:1034 subsection b: You cannot open the offside door with anyone on the train. So, yup, the guard had to clear the entire train. Peak time, lots of very unhappy people, ever MORE embarrassed ex.

BUT, God had still not finished the humiliation, the doors opened, the bag was retried, would the doors shut again? No sirree bob. Train was taken out of service, platform filled to bursting, ex red as a tomato, me giggling like a loon

S
( simbosan liked your link on, Thu 17 Dec 2009, 12:44, 1 reply)

Dad
I apologise if this story applies to you, but twas told me by a now retired Sister in A&E. Yes it involves Bottoms....
Back in the day , The days of a bit of a wait in a&e ,you know-" the good old days",, there was a gaurdian of the department called the "Triage Nurse".
This nurse would screen people coming in, and put you in priority of waiting to be seen- ie-
1.Arm hanging off- straight through- priority one
2.bit pissed and mouthy- can wait a bit to see if sobers up- priority 2
3.a bit of a cold- sit and wait long time, hopefully will realise waste of time and go home.- priority 3.

Now the next to be called had been waiting 20 mins in the waiting room, looked fine, if a little anxious.- Now picture this chap- A young welsh Glyn from "Gavin and Stacey" would be closest.
Glyn was called through- and the conversation went thus-
Nurse:Hello , My name is Jill, what seems to be the problem?
Glyn:Errr
Nurse:It`s ok how can I Help??
Glynn:Can`t tell you..( in broad welsh accent)
Nurse: Honestly You can, we`re here to help.
Glynn:Noooo, Can`t tell you.
Nurse: why not??
Glynn:( in whisper) Too embaressing)
Nurse:Thats Ok , we get allsorts in here,now whats the problem??
Glynn:( in high pitched welsh accent squeak)- Noooo, can`t tell you, it`s too embaressing
Nurse:(exasperated) Right ,In that case Go and sit down gain, and when you can, come and tell me, we`ve got a full waiting room.

So for the next 4 hours Glynn sat in the waiting room. Occasionally Nurse Jill would look over and mouth" ready"- to which glynn would avoid eye contact, and mumble"nooo".

Eventually towards the early hours, and the department was cleared of the general Detritus of Drunks and casualties of life, Jill noticed Glynn still sitting there.
Nurse:- Look are you ready to tell us what the problem is??
Glynn- a movement, brief eye contact
Nurse: its ok
Glynn:It`s my, my fffather.
Nurse: your father ?/
Glynn:Yesss- (relieved in a broad welsh accent).
Nurse:What about your father??
Glynn:oooh I can`t tell you
Nurse: noo, Go on it`s fine
Glynn:He`s.... (mumble mumble mumble)
Nurse:What love I can`t hear you?
Glynn: (Gesturing with his hand-)Got a.. (Mumble mumble)(
Nurse: look ;love you`re going to have to speak up
Glynn: he`s got a ... up (mumble mumble)
Nurse: just tell us love..about your dad.
Glynn:(shouting out) HES GOT A TENNIS RACKET UP HIS BOTTOM
Silence a few beats......
Nurse: Well where is he??
Glynn: In the car..... In the car park....

Now picture pretty much every Nurse, doctor, porter in the department( well it was the early hours), now walking out into the car park, to find an elderly gentleman in the front seat of a mini metro, yep, with a tennis racket up his arse. The poor sod had been sitting there for several hours whilst his clearly socially exceptionally shy son had gone to get help.Just to help you picture the scene, he was unable to sit (obviously) and hence was in what can only be described as the " doggy position". with a tennis racquet up his arse, with people walking past, like this for several hours.....



Ps In case you wondered-he was fine, I believe it was a Slazenger, and you`d be surprised how many people will admit shoving stuff up their arses " just because" rather than bothering with a good excuse.
(rural confucious, Fri 18 Dec 2009, 14:05, 1 reply)

Bombs Away!
Volunteering with the BTCV is a great way to spend a weekend, and generally meet fellow deviants it also provides a great opportunity to get pissed and mess about with sharp tools. (Bit like a B3ta Bash?)

I was participating some years ago in such a BTCV task, the work was the pulling up and removal of Ragwort, a nasty thankless backbreaking task which can rapidly destroy a fellow’s moral and sense of humour. The site on which we were working was split by a canal; as such one group was working on one side and vica versa. Soon the monotony of the work too its toll and a brisk game of 'fling the cowpat' was initiated. Simply slide your shovel under the cowpat, pick your target and let fly.

I should point out that this is a highly skilled game requiring the knowledge of which cowpats are crusty enough to hold their shape during flight but soft enough in the middle to provide a suitably comical splat upon impact.

It wasn’t long before cowpats were being hastily flung back and forth over the canal which provided the natural split between the two 'teams.' The comedy from the misfortune of others came when one volunteers flung cowpat went a little astray and collided which a middle aged gentleman standing atop a narrow boat which happened to be chugging down the canal at that moment, perhaps inevitably the force of this shitty missile was also enough to dump him off the boat and into the canal.

I couldn’t stop laughing for days.

Length? About 12ft from launch to collision
(Psymon_Spark Jesus Saves! The rest of you take 4d6 damage, Thu 17 Dec 2009, 17:08, 2 replies)

Coming off the ferry at Dover
As you disembark from the ferry, there's multiple lanes which filter together as you go past customs. Lots of holiday makers all patiently filtering and making good, except for the Dutch/German (can't remember which now) BMW driver who thought filtering was for losers. He barged, he honked, he bullied. He ended up being the car in front of us going through customs- who had seen the wanker doing his thing- only to be waved down by an officer who, with a nice big grin to us, pulled the twat in for a search! There was much cheering and gesticulating from all the other drivers around as they passed, the sight of his angry red face only spurning them further into mirth. Oh happy days, regardless of the lack of banana skins.
( Blind Meach Cautiously optimistic, Thu 17 Dec 2009, 13:16, 5 replies)

We like our justice poetic.
Many years ago, when I took my first job out of college, I worked for a tiny consulting firm in Cambridge. The managing director was an Equine Rectum of a man, brimming over with self importance and snobbishness, who seemingly yearned for a time when he was at a rambling public school and was able to bully new boys with impunity.

After taking 6 weeks of his managerial effluent, I was at my wits end. Lets bear in mind I was quite well aware that as the new boy, I was going to have to perform some tea making duties, and a few menial tasks like distributing post, but I had to balk slightly when, on one snowy december afternoon he demanded I wash his car.

Picture the scene, dear reader, as I stand shivering in sub-zero temperatures, in a suit and tie, washing a 1989 Peugeot 405. By the end of it I was shivering profusely and barely able to feel my extremeties.

I was given coffee by the office secretary and allowed to sit next to the radiator. The thawing process was just beginning to take hold when one of the other directors walked into the room and asked "Did you put tyre dressing ALL over Peter's tyres or just on the wall?"

Apparently he had jumped into his car, sped out of the car park and completely failed to stop at the entrance, skidding out into the busy road and t-boning a rather irate neanderthal in his brand new BMW.

When I looked out of the window, Peter, usually so ebullient and confident, was desperately remonstrating with this simeon lifeform, which towered over him by a clear foot, and was dragging its knuckles along the floor.

He arrived back in the office sporting a very fetching black eye, in many rainbow shades.
(Vic Flange, Sat 19 Dec 2009, 13:20, Reply)

This is a semi pearoast - and I'm not sure whose misfortune we were laughing at.
It's either mine or my brother's.

I once ran into his bedroom after getting out of the bath, to fart in his face as he laid in bed. Like you do. Sadly I was rather over-exhuberant and accidentally did a huge poo instead. As I was clad only in a dressing gown the aforementioned log simply dropped to the floor and onto his deep pile bedside rug.

Once we'd got our father to show him and we'd all got stitches from laughing so much, I had to pick it up with lavatory paper and send it to its watery grave by hand.
( Monty Boyce, My cheese game is strong, Thu 17 Dec 2009, 17:39, 3 replies)