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This is a question Real Life Slapstick II

What's the best slapstick thing you've ever seen?
Have you witnessed someone walking into a lamp-post? A food fight? Someone clonked round the face with a frying pan? All your favourite moments please.
(suggested by social hand grenade)

(, Sun 5 Oct 2014, 16:03)
Pages: Popular, 3, 2, 1

This question is now closed.

I've never reposted so hard in my life
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.
(, Thu 9 Oct 2014, 12:08, 9 replies)
I was walking with a freind up on the hill fort at the top of brighton,
we decided to walk a little bit down an extremely steep hill to sit on the hillside and smoke a joint. my mate took about 3 steps before sliding about 3 and a half metres on a massive dog turd. He was sliding on one foot, untill said foot picked up momentum and travelled faster than his body at which point it kicked up into the air above his head as he landed on his back. Assuming he had landed in the turd he quickly rolled over onto his front, only to land face first, directly into the turd...It was fucking hilarious.
(, Tue 7 Oct 2014, 14:18, 5 replies)
Everyone loves wavy lines, right? I'm sure everyone loves wavy lines.
~~wavy lines~~

University halls, arse end of the 90s; there was a long, reasonably steep road, with a speed bump and a bend at the bottom. Wandering back from lectures, or the pub, or something - probably stoned - I saw a girl making the descent on a pair of rollerblades. She cut an impressive figure; crouched down into a racing stance, slim, toned, her long brown hair blowing in the wind - she sailed effortlessly past, knees flexing to account for the speedbump without her upper body moving at all. Quite aside from the fact that she was reasonably attractive, her graceful economy of movement was a thing of genuine beauty. My gaze briefly followed as she rapidly disappeared away, into the fog of my then lamentable short term memory.

Turning back to my walk home, it became apparent that she was merely the appetizer to the substantial main course. Her 'big boned' friend, bedecked like the Michelin Man in all the protective gear money can buy, was approaching at a speed that was clearly very worrying to her, and also to any innocent bystanders in her path. Face beet red, stature bolt upright, and arms windmilling like a mong in an MMA ring, she hurtled past with a plaintive wail that rose and then immediately fell in a Doppler shift of unadulterated panic and misery. I turned in time to see her reach the speedbump; I don't know how, or why, but the centre of her not inconsiderable gravity seemed to be placed several yards above her head, and the moment her blades simultaneously touched the rise she pivoted violently backwards, never bending in the slightest - and with a distinctly audible "crack", hit the deck like the fist of an angry god.

She was groggily up and on her way before long. Which is just as well, as I was too crippled with laughter to actually do anything constructive. Hopefully, her padding - both natural and purchased - protected her from any real harm

tl;dr: fat chick falls over, suffers potential brain damage.
(, Mon 6 Oct 2014, 2:01, 2 replies)
Un Idiota
A few years back we celebrated my father's 70th birthday in Tuscany and he took the whole tribe to the sumptuous Villa Casanova, just west of Lucca.

The Casanova was a small but beautifully formed hotel with only 14 suites, which led to a high level of intimacy with our fellow guests and within two days we were on first name terms with a couple of rich Americans on second honeymoons, overfed German retirees and members of my highly dysfunctional family.

Being the height of summer, meals were taken outside, with tables perched precariously around the pool, allowing residents to eat with an unrivaled view of the Tuscan hills. One night, the night of my Dad's actual birthday, we returned en-masse to the hotel at around 11pm. We'd put away a fair few bottles of Tignanello, I was drunk but not falling down drunk. The hotel's front door was locked, so we entered via the villa gates that led down to the pool.

Spying one of the American couples - a particularly attractive, well-kept, fortysomething brunette and her husband, a refined tidy-bearded dotcom millionaire - I waved and strode over to the their table...completely failing to notice the swimming pool between us. I took a full, purposeful step...directly into the deep end.

As I slowly and embarrassingly swam to the steps, hauled myself out and began the ritual of pouring water from my Italian loafers, I took stock of the situation. Trying to ignore the din of my family screeching in hysterics, I glanced at the brunette, now looking far less attractive with red wine pouring through her nose.

Whilst wringing out my linen suit, the noise died down enough for the obnoxious male-half of the yank couple to declare at full volume, 'Amazing! Whaddya do for an encore?'

Prick.
(, Tue 7 Oct 2014, 11:41, 27 replies)
C2C
A few years ago, a couple of mates and me rode the Coast to Coast route from Newhaven to Sunderland with an arranged tour as a pre-stag party in Newcastle. There was 4 of us, another group of 3, a guy on his own and the guide.

The group of three and us got on really well, but the bloke on his own was an utter plank. We were all pretty shit cyclists, but he turned up with all the gear, a bike worth more than my 1st flat, all the gels, shakes and rehydration stuff and enough GPS/sat nav's to invade a foreign country. To compare, I'd bought my phone and some bags of Disco's (best crisps ever).

First day goes well and we all go out for a few pints in Keswick, and on the second day we get further than we should and we reach what the guide calls "the worst 10 miles on the route". All I remember was a pub, a left turn and then uphill for ever. About 6 miles (I'm sure it wasn't very steep but at the end of the day we were all knackered) up and we reach the top at a complete crawl, and stop for a quick drink before descending.

To be fair to our guide, he warns us that the way down is steeper than the ascent, but we are ok until the cattle grid; after that, just roll and keep your back brake on. The chap on his own gets out his spare bag, swaps his front and back wheel out for less drag and then just says "You guys get started, I really want to burn this"

We all enjoy the descent, clocking about 35mph and then there is a cattle grid, and we all brake. Thank Jebus we did; for at the bottom is a 90 degree turn with a nice dry stone wall in front of you. Down comes Mr "Burn this", and he must be clocking 50 mph, goes to pop on his brakes, and all we hear is "Shit....... cables aren't done up".....

He smashes into the wall, attached to his bike by his pedal cleats, and flies about 20m through the air, somersaulting like a Charlie Chaplin extra, and lands arse first in a field full of shit.

I have never laughed so hard....
(, Wed 8 Oct 2014, 23:17, 3 replies)
A pea but still makes me laugh whenever I think about it
I have a mate (honest) who, despite being in his 40s, loves to scare the bejesus out of people by jumping out of hiding places when they least expect it. His name's Lee.

On one occasion, the rest of the family (wife and two kids) were out, and he heard the car pulling into the drive. Giggling to himself, he decided to hide in a storage cupboard opposite the entrance to the lounge and to see just how badly he could make them shit themselves.

They came in, put the shopping away, wandered round the house etc, while Lee stayed concealed, waiting for the perfect moment once they had all settled down. This they eventually did, after about 20 minutes or so, and they settled down on the sofa to watch a bit of telly.

Lee's plan was to leap out of the cupboard, taking a giant stride or two, leaping into the middle of the lounge while roaring at the top of his voice. Not imaginative, but likely to be effective. Unfortunately, in the 'giant stride' phase of the plan, Lee neglected to factor in his 6 foot 4 inch height. As he embarked upon his leap into the lounge, he smashed his head on the underside of the door frame, knocking himself unconscious before he even had the chance to roar.

Thus his family were confronted with the sight of their husband/father hurtling noiselessly into the middle of the lounge, collapsing as he went, and smashing through the coffee table.

Went well.
(, Mon 6 Oct 2014, 11:13, 4 replies)
I hope I die in a fire.

(, Tue 7 Oct 2014, 19:05, 9 replies)
hilside halls of residence
When I was at University, for the first year I lived in halls on campus - Hillside in Dundee if you insist. The buildings were identical – toilets, kitchen and showers in a block and (from memory) 8 bedrooms on either side of a long corridor. The campus was split male female with a strict ‘no overnight visitors of the opposite sex’ rule that was of course roundly ignored. One fateful Sunday night, heading back up from Glasgow on the glamour wagon that was the late night Stagecoach, I found myself next to an attractive, curvaceous and very friendly redhead, let’s call her Pauline for that was indeed her name. We got chatting and it quickly transpired we lived on the same campus. The poor lass must have been missing a screw or two or simply felt sorry for me because, well basically by the time we got to Perth I was most definitely ‘in’. When we finally rocked up at her halls I noted how much they differed from my own, the layout and furnishings were absolutely identical yet the place didn’t smell of blokes, weed and overflowing bins. The kitchen and toilets were also remarkably clean however my new bestest friend seemed keen to usher me swiftly past all this to her room at the end of the corridor. Presumably before we were spotted by wandering hall mates. Basically i was being sneaked in. The girly, fragrant Pauline had delightfully fresh bed linen, another novelty – which we duly set about doing our best to sully.

I woke some time around 3am needing a piss. Pauline it seemed was a heavy sleeper and did not stir. No worries I knew my way around. Whether I was being a bit daring, blasé or simply foolhardy I have no idea, but in my infinite wisdom I decided to step out into the dark empty corridor and pad along to the toilets stark bollock naked. On my way back the inevitable happened, a door clicked in front of me, a girl in pyjamas stepped out, saw me, froze, then screamed, leapt back into her room and slammed her door loudly. So, in true pantomime farce style more doors were flung open behind me, more screams, lights were switched on, hysteria set in, threats were made, all whilst I’m standing there butt naked, trapped in the middle of a corridor of screaming girls in assorted nightwear, stammering that it was ok, I wasn’t some pervert intruder I was in fact there with…

Shit. I had forgotten her fucking name.

Have you ever tried to describe a person you barely know whilst naked and being ranted at by half a dozen irate young women? It's a bit stressful. For all the sense I was making, I might as well have been Manuel spluttering 'I here to see girl'.

Naturally this didn’t go down well and more cries of ‘pervert’ and ‘call the police’ were going up. All the while I’m standing there cupping my now pathetically shriveled meat and two whilst pointing frantically over the shoulders of a pair of seething first years towards the door of the girl who I claim to be a guest of, yet cannot even remember her bastard name.

After about 300 years she-who-was-remaining-resolutely-nameless stumbled out of her room, bleary eyed, blinking at the unfolding commotion. Not only did I have to suffer the shame of outing the poor girl as being somewhat easy I then had to explain after sitting next to her on a bus for a couple of hours, working my feeble charm then exploring her most intimate orifices I didn’t even have the gallantry to remember her fucking name.

The relationship did not flourish.

tl:dr charmless Muppet gets caught naked in a girls dormitory at 3am and isn’t even the 13th Duke of Wybourne
(, Mon 6 Oct 2014, 11:58, 5 replies)
Skilarious
Did a week's ski school in Bulgaria in the mid 1990s - strange place, but interesting. Six of us on the school, one of whom was a sprawling female mess of lard and facial hair from Sarf Lahndan.

And I mean big - I couldn't believe this woman could ever move on a pair of skis - I'd have confidently predicted them to grind to a halt under her weight. Initially I admired her guts (there were after all, plenty of them) but as the week progressed, it became apparent that guts equated to a total lack of self-awareness. She was a right fucking pain on every level.

We were supposed to be an intermediate group but she was far and away the worst, causing endless resentment since we had to wait for her every time we went anywhere - her wobbly snowplough down an easy red run had to be seen to be believed. She wouldn't admit she was complete beginner level and, we found out later, no other instructor would take her.

But of course her biggest problems were always going to be on the lifts. It always took her three or four attempts to get on one and getting off at the top generally sent her careering off in an unintended direction.

This particular day we used a button lift where the track steepened quite a bit before hitting the bump on the crest. Everyone found it a bit tricky to get off at the top but this time, instead of dismounting ungracefully and wobbling unsteadily away she fell off just over the bump - and of course, couldn't get up again.

The instructress and I were both at the top, we quickly ditched our skis and tried to pull her up - god knows what she weighed, but no way was that ever going to be a possibility. There were a few empty buttons behind her but as we frantically tried to raise her we were aware that there was a line of people getting closer and closer. She and I looked at each other and, without saying a word, just let go of her arms, scrambled back to where we'd left our skis and settled down to watch.

I don't think the people behind could quite see what was going on - the first one came over the bump, let go of the drag, and fell flat on his face on top of her. The second fell over the first, the third tried to go off to one side but again fell over, the next went the other way and disappeared down the slope into some trees.... within seconds there was a pile of bodies helplessly waving every available limb. I remember thinking it looked like something from a 60s cartoon, all static bodies and waving arms.

I don't think I've ever seen anything so farcical. I cried laughing - I mean really, really cried. The instructress, try as she might to avoid it, also cried with laughter. The body count increased but there was absolutely nothing we could do - in the end they had to stop the lift while everyone managed to pick themselves up.

And it took three strapping Bulgarian instructors to drag whatever her name was to her feet again - one pushing from behind while the other two pulled her up. Which made me feel much better.

The last thing I saw, as we finally set off down the run, was the friend of the guy who went the wrong way off the slope still shouting "Hans? Hans?" into the trees. Fuck knows what happened to Hans. He's probably still there somewhere.
(, Mon 6 Oct 2014, 1:00, Reply)
Ondura Remoulds
I still remember with pride the buff brown clocking in card with my name and number on it. A deft slide into the slot,a firm press of the brass handle and at 7.29 AM I was in. Pushing open the dirty cream swing doors with my foot I once again entered another world; a world of hissing steam,fiery furnaces and the pungent smell of rubber. I trudged past half naked blackened men, crouching over the row of grey porcelain sinks, smattering Swarfega all over their faces,arms and chests.The night shift.
Pops and loud bangs filled the smoky air as I passed other half naked men fighting with long, iron tyre levers and truck tyres. Their sweaty torsos glistened in the orange light as though melting in the fierce heat from the open furnaces.
Almost overcome by the intensity of the heat, I was relieved to feel the waft of cooler hot air as I pushed through the rubber doors and into my work area. Alf had my grubby mug of tea ready and I sat down to enjoy the bacon and egg sandwich mum had risen early to make me.
The factory nestled in the smog of the once proud and dying textile town. A former mill, the new tyre remoulding set up was seen as a saviour for the unemployed and was also handy for students like myself labouring for tax free booze and drugs money.
The idea was that old truck tyres could have a new tread moulded onto them and then resold cheaply. The business boomed in the early stages and before long our work could be seen everywhere ... scattered on the hard shoulder of every motorway in the country.
Anyway, my job was to cut off the inch long spikes of rubber left on the 'new' tyre by the moulding process. I then had to coat both tyre walls with black, sticky rubbery paint to complete the illusion of newness.
On the morning in question Alf asked me to stack the tyres at the far end of the shed after painting them. Those tyres were trucking heavy and the only way to manoeuvre them successfully was to get them rolling at a decent speed, otherwise they would wobble and topple over. I can still feel the heat of the bastards as I write.
I had mastered the technique by the fifth tyre and with flushed face and a wet brow I heaved number six upright and pushed off for the 50 metre roll down the long passageway bordered by piles of tyres. It was just after hitting maximum speed that I noticed them. The civic dignitaries. Invited to inspect the saviour of the dying town. The mayor didn't look too dissimilar to the columns of fat black tyres but his wife, resplendent in a powder blue two piece with matching hat,shone out through the gloom.
I leave you with me, a skinny 18 year old chasing a huge, sticky black runaway tyre and a menopausal mayoress losing her race to a place of safety.
(, Wed 8 Oct 2014, 12:49, 5 replies)
Perpetual stumble.
I was walking home one day with a lady friend when she tripped, most likely on a raised paving slab. As she did so she attempted to correct the stumble and avoid falling flat on her face. She used the standard technique of reaching her arms out in front of her, bending at the waist and taking a few giant pounding steps until the momentum had ceased.

Unfortunately it wasn't a few steps, she never seemed to be regaining control, one or two steps turned into four or five, which quickly turned into ten or twelve. As she accelerated away from me with her giant's gait I went from a mild smirk to a soft snigger and eventually broke out in fits of laughter. By that point she was at least 20 yards ahead of me so she couldn't hear.

To this day I'm not sure how she managed to fall for quite that length of time or distance. If it were me I'd have given up and allowed myself to sprawl on the pavement after the first few steps.

Incidentally, nostalgia may cause the distance to increase every time I tell the story, but it was at least three times as far as I'd ever seen anyone stumble before.
(, Tue 7 Oct 2014, 10:44, Reply)
Pearoast from a year ago
Arrived at the Odeon outside Coventry. Huge warehouse-style monstrosity of a multiplex with a big glass frontage. When you go in through the central glass doors, there's a box office desk about twenty yards away to your left... and another, identical desk the same distance away to your right. So my bestest friend and I walk in, and look left... bugger, there's a queue. A queue, it transpires, of unobservant dolts, because when we look to the right, SCORE! There's a rather nice young lady sitting there, just waiting to sell us some tickets. None of the dolts has noticed, so they're queueing like mugs. We, on the other hand, are now smug.

As is traditional, between us and the box office is one of those saggy thick velvet ropes designed to corral the queue into a space-saving zigzag. No need to walk around, oh no, I'm far too cool for that, and besides, the rope's barely four inches off the ground at its lowest point. Hands in pockets, I approach the rope, hop nimbly over it, and approach the nice young lady.

That's how it was supposed to go.

Hands in pockets, I approach the rope. I lead with my right foot, but my toes go UNDER the rope, not over it, lifting it. Thus, when my left foot leaves the ground, it also encounters the rope, and wraps round it. Now... if I was Buster Keaton, or Jackie Chan, I'd have tucked and rolled, and made a priceless moment of physical comedy look great.

I am not Buster Keaton. I am not Jackie Chan. I went down like a sack of shit. Hands in my pockets. Onto my FACE.

And I lay there for a bit. I thought about having a little cry. Then I got up. And I helped my bestest friend up off the floor. He hadn't tripped... he had literally fallen down laughing at me. He was still having difficulty breathing when we finally approached the nice young lady (whose face was a bit redder than I remembered) and bought our tickets.

On the up side, none of the unobservant dolts in the other queue noticed.
(, Mon 6 Oct 2014, 12:06, 1 reply)
Animals do the funniest things
I was working in the kitchen which overlooks the rear garden and there was a thud at the window. Most likely a bird so I go outside and indeed there is a Goldfinch fledgling looking stunned. Good I thought that means I don't have to 'neck it', the young bird flew onto the lawn further assuring me of it's safety.

That is until next doors cat made a pounce for the still dazed bird. Oh noes I think and the cat does grab the bird, until the Peregrine Falcon which must have spotted the soft target of a Goldfinch for its breakfast arrived at speed but it grabbed the cat which dropped the bird and then the falcon after raising the terrified cat about a metre from the ground dropped the cat. The falcon disappears, the cat disappears and the lucky, thankful soon to be adult Goldfinch escapes to safety. All in all an exciting 45 seconds or so.
(, Mon 6 Oct 2014, 9:42, 6 replies)
Motorcycle Emptyheads
On the first day of motorcycle training, us n00bs were arrayed on our titchy little bikes, while the instructor started his speech astride his impossibly beefy (to our nervous eyes) throbbing 1000cc beast. "So," he said, "I'm going to ride around the cone course, to show you how it's done. If I can do it on this monster, you should have no trouble on your little step-thrus." And so saying he set off around the cones.

...and fell off at the first corner. Not surprisingly, we all pissed ourselves laughing - especially when he had to get some of us to help him pick up the bike.

But actually it helped, as we no longer saw him as the scary biker man -- now he was just another farty like us. And so we progressed through the course, until the day finally dawned and we took our tests.

My test went without problem, and I parked up with the others to watch the remaining candidates. One lass on a scooter was approaching a corner, when she managed to fuck up royally: rather than slowing, she accidentally grabbed a large handful of throttle. The bike shot forwards, hit a wall, and somehow bounced in such a way that it actually drove UP the wall. It came to rest about 2m up, hanging from the ivy that covered the brickwork. The rider had been deposited on the ground below, perfectly placed to receive, full in the face, the stream of petrol now pouring out of the tank filler cap...

Insert "pissed in her own mouth" joke here, if you like
(, Wed 8 Oct 2014, 13:48, 4 replies)
While my colleague was distracted…
I put a basketball on his chair. I thought he’d try to sit back down, find an obstruction, and that would be the limit of the ’amusement’. Instead, he bounced right up in the air, like Sonic bopping a Crabmeat.

As a short, compressed screamlet caught in his throat, his arse caught the back of the seat, which swivelled around, making the whole chair s-l-o-w-l-y tip up onto one castor, before toppling entirely against a radiator. My friend ended up trapped twixt chair and wall like a foldaway bed, his knees around his ears, his specs comically askew and his eyes having a strange blank look I can only describe as ‘Does not compute’. We had to turn him off and on again before he even registered that he was on the floor.

I still laugh out loud every time I even think about it (15 years later) and wish I had the words to do it justice, especially the final image. If anyone is familiar with Flaming Carrot, the panel in ‘What are they doing in the Hyacinth House?’ where the alien gets caught up in the ‘click clack chair’ is the closest analogue I have yet found.
(, Tue 7 Oct 2014, 13:44, Reply)
Everton Blender (born Everton Dennis Williams November 21, 1954 , in Clarendon, Jamaica) is an award-winning reggae singer and producer
known for his smooth, crooning, tenor vocals, up-tempo arrangements, and spiritually uplifting themes, successfully bridging the gap between roots reggae and dancehall.
(, Sun 5 Oct 2014, 19:05, 6 replies)
Bus crotch mis-hap
I was once attempting to alight from an Edinburgh double decker bus with a couple of mates. We'd been on the upper deck and I was the first to go down the stairs.

The bus will still in motion as I got to the bottom. The exit door was in the middle of the bus and there was a distance of perhaps a yard and a half that had to be negotiated between letting go of the rail on the stairs and grabbing the rail at the door.

As soon as I let go of the stair rail the bus driver slammed on the brakes as a parked car pulled out in front of us without warning. This sent me flying up towards the front of the bus, head first RIGHT into the crotch of a young lady. It's quite tricky to remain cool when you have your face wedged into an attractive girl's mimsy and a crowded bus is collectively laughing it's tits off at you.

20 years later, it still periodically gets brought up by my mates. Cunts.
(, Thu 9 Oct 2014, 15:16, 16 replies)


(, Wed 8 Oct 2014, 14:04, 9 replies)
The Picnic Bench and the German Holidaymakers
When we were on holiday, my wife and I decided to go for a late lunch at MacGochan's, the pub/restaurant next to the main car park in Tobermory. We sat at one of the picnic benches outside, at the front of the restaurant.

Next to our bench was another such bench, at which a couple of German tourists sat down shortly after our arrival. They were - how shall I put this? - a little on the large side. They were also sitting next to each other on one side of their bench.

This would have been fine if the bench had been screwed into the paving slabs, but it became apparent about 30 seconds later that it wasn't.

The bench flew backwards, catapulting them along with it, as though someone had pressed an ejector button. The third member of their party arrived soon after, with drinks for them all, and was puzzled to see them looking annoyed and embarrassed, and brushing themselves off.

Laugh? I had to hold it in until we got in the car and drove back to the hotel. And then I shat myself.
(, Tue 7 Oct 2014, 15:29, 2 replies)
in fact, fuck it, worthy of its own (fiftieth re)post
1.bp.blogspot.com/_aSP1QCAVclA/R7ad0DBo-7I/AAAAAAAABRk/xxrCGhklS8Y/s1600-h/Old_lady_crashed.jpg
(, Mon 6 Oct 2014, 11:56, 2 replies)
It's ok. It will polish out.
A few years ago, we stayed at a very posh hotel in Austria called the Hotel Sacha. There's no way we could normally afford to stay in a place like this, but my Mrs was airline cabin crew so got lots of concessions, which made this sort of thing possible.

www.sacher.com/hotel-sacher-salzburg/

One morning i popped downstairs & out the main entrance for a little walk before breakfast. Just as i walked out, an uber rich swanky playboy type pulled up outside the hotel in a big posh daimler. As is normal for drivers of this sort of vehicle, he pulled up on the yellow lines outside the hotel & threw open the drivers door without looking.

......only for the drivers door to be ripped straight off its hinges by the large truck coming up straight behind him!!

I have never laughed so much in my life! Even the penguin suited Austrian doorman managed a smirk when i caught his eye!
(, Mon 6 Oct 2014, 10:40, Reply)
I once watched a much-disliked surgical registrar separate an old lady's bum cheeks to inspect her peri-anal abscess and a small fountain of shit and pus-streaked blood spurted right into his mouth.

(, Sun 5 Oct 2014, 20:34, 4 replies)
Milkshake and mud
One of my fondest memories from my younger years involves McDonalds Milkshake, torrential rain and a fairly fat man.

Sat in my then girlfriends car in the car park of McDonalds in the industrial northern town of Widnes (I know right!). We had just been through the drive thru and had been asked to go and park in one of the bay's and our order will be brought out to us. It is raining, heavily, in fact it's so so heavy it's that kind of rain that sounds like it will crack the windscreen, instant rivers are forming across the car park carrying Big Mac boxes and fries cartons that look like miniature life rafts for the local rats.

As we are there sipping our drinks and waiting for our food I am pretty amazed to see a rather portly business man type venturing out into the rain, large McDonald's drink in one hand and bag of food in the other, light blue shirt instantly turning dark blue in the extreme down pour. He starts to run, he approaches a slight grass bank about 10 yards in front of us...WHACK!!! The guy slips in such a way both legs come up off the floor about 3 feet in the air, McDonald's drink is launched straight up, food bag disappears from view. As he hits the muddy sloped floor the milkshake he has been carrying comes hurtling down right on top of him. Now I fgure he cannot see us, but he is sat now covered in mud, and milkshake and is soaked to the bone...he appears to be looking straight at us, as I laugh so hard with my girlfriend for so long I swear I may have lost control of my bladder.

As if to make things worse a McDonald's employee ventures out with our food, deftly skips around the fallen fat man, knocks on our window, hands the food over and says simply "what a wanker".
(, Sun 5 Oct 2014, 20:32, Reply)
MESSING WITH THE ORNAMENTS
One of my mates at university was a lovely girl named Kate Bucket Fanny. Kate acquired this name on account of having a vagina the girth and volume of your average JCB digger bucket. And like a JCB, she’d had plenty of builders inside her in her time. Midway through the first term Kate bequeathed my flatmates and I an object of wonder and delight: her knackered old vibrator that she’d ridden to mucky, gloopy oblivion. It was a crusty pink double-handed broadsword of a motorised dildo which leapt and bucked like an electrocuted break dancer whenever one of us plucked up enough courage to twist the base and turned the damn thing on.

It probably had the DNA of half the people in our halls splashed all over it and the remnants of all the best venereal diseases.
We put it on our windowsill between the spider plant and our collection of empty Coors bottles, pride of place, you could see it from the road outside.

Then one night after a particularly heavy drinking session, one of my flatmates, Ian, more pissed than George Best after a liver transplant, appeared in our communal kitchen stark bollock naked. This was alarming. He then staggered over to the fridge, grabbed another beer, and in another jerky, drunken C3P0-esque move lifted Kate’s former best friend from the windowsill.

“Errr, Ian,” said one of my other flatmates, Blackpool Ben.
Ian wasn’t listening. He tottered back over towards the closed kitchen door, revved up the mighty plastic phallus of dread, bent over and wiggled it round his brownstar.

“Err.... Ian... ???”

But Ian just replied in an incredibly drunken slur, so drunk he sounded like he’d had a stroke: “Look at me! Look at me! I’m Kate! Huuh, huhh, huuuh... I’m cumming! I’m Kate! Huhh, hee, hhuuuhh, haa!”

At which point, one of my other mates, Dan, barged into the kitchen, slamming open the door and ramming Ian’s hand forward. Kate’s vibrator, humming and revving like an idling motorcycle, shot forward and disappeared, embedded deep inside Ian’s stinky sweetcorn tunnel. Ian screamed like, well, like he’d just been anally raped. He leapt forward, twatted his face on the kitchen counter and then landed in a heap face first on the kitchen floor, out cold, arms splayed either side, the final couple of inches of the massive though now somewhat muffled vibe doing a little jig buried between his buttocks.

The rest of us just stared.

We waited for Ian to come round himself – it would’ve just been a bit too gay to help our naked, drunk, machine-buggered mate out.

Just far too gay by far.
(, Thu 9 Oct 2014, 20:37, 9 replies)
Badgers are bastards
I used to live in the middle of the countryside, and had a very small smallholding. I grew fruit and veg and kept chickens, ducks and geese. It was great, and I'd do it again in an instant, but dusk was badgertime. Which is a lot less fun than hammertime. At dusk the badgers would come and if I hadn't put the birds to bed, they'd get eaten. I know it's fair enough, as they've got to eat, and it didn't happen very often, but when it did it was horrible. One night the badger came a bit early (they did this from time to time) and I heard a crazed frantic quacking. The fucker was in the process of ripping a duck's throat out. I chased it away and then had the not such fun task of finishing the poor duck off. While I was doing this, the badger had snuck back in and started chasing the other duck around. I picked up a metal pole and lobbed it at the badger. Of course it missed, but it also ripped a huge gash out of my hand, and the badger just kind of snorted in disgust and wandered off, not in the least bit intimidated.

This was but one of many battles between myself and the badgers of doom. I was so traumatised that for years I'd get twitchy at dusk; and about 5 years later, when a friend I had visiting moved slightly in the night I sat up and whispered "what's that?" to which she replied "it's only me". I lay back down muttering "well at least it's not a badger!"

Sorry if this read like one of those build up to a pun stories. I can think of no pun for you, but I'm open to suggestion.
(, Wed 8 Oct 2014, 22:14, 8 replies)
Cycling through the outskirts of Edinburgh
Clipped into my pedals, didn't want to put a foot down as I came to a stop near the front of a line of traffic. Reached out to lean on a bus. Bus drove off. I fell over.

Seemingly every car driver in the world laughed at me. I couldn't really blame them.
(, Wed 8 Oct 2014, 21:25, 4 replies)
Little piggies on a Sunday morn
Ahhh Sunday mornings in the Nu Nited States Air Force; good for sleeping in. Semi-sacred for peace and quiet. Except for our military constabulary: The APs, or Air Police as they would prefer to be known, or "The Apes" as we enlisted swine called them. (This was 1975. Del Rio Texas. Not quite the end of the world, but you could see it from there. Started out doing our duty, but ended up just doing time kind of boring.)

Sgt. Ed Clark, on patrol and vigilant: Caught himself a bicyclist at 7:30 in the A.M. swinging through a stop sign on an otherwise car-deserted air base. "Whoop! Whoop!" said his siren in a quick double tap blip. "Pull over to the side of the road!" growled his loudspeaker. He turned on the twin rotating Smokey-and-the-Bandit bubblegum machine lights of his patrol cruiser and yanked the emergency brake with a ratchety grind.

I'd always been an early riser, and the siren blip got me up to see what the miniscule excitement was about. Got to the baracks window in time to see Sgt. Clark closing his cruiser door, eyeballing his quarry, adjusting his wheel cap, flipping open his ticket pad, hitching his gun belt up over his just-a-hair-under-regulation gut paunch, and saunter slowly over to the bicyclist.

A bit of background: Ed Clark was a beady-eyed Silurian, an I.Q. just above room temperature, with a flabby moon-face graced by a very unflattering child molestor mustache. He'd come to the base fresh from cop school only a month or so before, and to our barracks' Shit List just a week or so after by giving in to his curiosity with the "thingy" in the middle of his room ceiling, thereby setting off the fire alarm at 2:45 in the morning mid work week. The thingy cover was found in his room floor center by the fire department as they made the rounds throughout the recently vacated rooms as we all grouchily swatted night bugs in the road out front.

Ed launched into his cop explanation as to why he stopped the cyclist. As he was warming up and getting going, he stopped mid-harangue and noticed that one of the lights atop his cruiser had stopped rotating.

He strode quickly back to the car, piggy-eyeballed the offending light up and down and swiftly smacked the mechanism upside its' perspex cabesa. The light once again started 'round. A curt head nod, he quick stepped back to his perp, and continued to explain in police parlance punctuated with pen wags that a bicycle was no different than a motor vehicle when it came to obeying traffics signs and laws and that a ticket was in order.

A click of his ballpoint, pen poised to do the deed, ... aaaaand he spies that his light has once again stopped rotating. Shoulders up, chin out, stomp-stomp-stomp back to the car. A scowl, a lip pout, a cocking back of a pudgy right shoulder and a mighty open-handed Thuh-WHACK onto the plastic cheek of the light covering .... which promptly dis-attached itself from the chromium plated base, liesurely arced, tumbled, and spun through the air, bouncing singularly off of the cruiser hood, twice along the ground, and came to rest at the feet of the bicyclist. A pregnant pause as all of us watched it rock once and come to rest.

At this point Your Dear Narrator doubled over laughing loudly enough to be heard by Constable/Ape Clark who was last seen by me attempting vainly to see which room window the hoo-raw was coming from. No idea as to the fate of the cyclist.
(, Tue 7 Oct 2014, 21:39, 5 replies)
My old boss was a pub landlord, and he had locked himself out of his first-floor flat.
He asked one of my work colleagues if he'd climb on the big metal sign out the front, shimmy up the frontage, let himself in through the kitchen window and open his front door for him. Being half cut, my colleague agreed. He didn't have a problem getting on the big metal sign, or shimming up the frontage, but ended up dangling Keaton-esque from the window frame, legs flailing over Upper Street.

He then fell eight feet onto the big metal sign, and landed squarely on his bollocks.
(, Mon 6 Oct 2014, 21:30, Reply)
another shameless pea - the QOTW was 'Food Sex'
Many moons ago, long before the lovely Mrs Spimf happened along I had another young lady on the go, and blimey did she go. Up to all sorts (no this isn’t about liquorice) I’ve never really understood the food sex thing, the aerosol cream can and the mimsy were never destined to be happy bedfellows and I find it disconcerting to have a saveloy in the room during coitus. Similarly the alfresco thing escapes me: if I want a Cornetto I can do so without the slightest of hint lasciviousness and if I fancy some sexual intercourse then I find soft furnishings compliment the act quite satisfactorily.

Nevertheless young and keen to experiment I agreed to kill two birds with one cone. A picnic rug and (sensibly) a cool box were sourced along with some of Wall’s best selling chilled confectionary (Chocolate & Hazelnut naturally). We found a spot in the moonlight in some (slightly creepy) local woodland.

Despite my apprehensions my young hormones were unperturbed at the prospect of calorific copulation. I won’t dwell on the frippery, I’m not an erotic writer, I'll leave that to Mr Spankey et al. To be honest I was somewhat unsure what to do, clearly I was aware some degree of smearing and quite possibly insertion was required. My first attempt at ice cream carnal capers was to insert the Cornetto into my eager young partner’s rather splendid mimsy – pointy end first mind, she wasn’t a slag. This quickly left me bereft of ideas and things were melting fast. Ah! cunnilingus I thought – hurrah! In our comfy mossy spot under the creepy tree I crouched down and set to work, lapping alternately at clitoris and cream based confectionary with vigor – buoyed by my newly found decadence I decided to see if I could push some of the chopped nuts up her slippery balloon knot with my tongue, shifting down I set to work. This quickly proved ill advised, my adventurous young filly was suddenly possessed by a fit off giggles which served to force the Cornetto back out and on to my forehead and push melted ice cream into my eyes. As I recoiled the Cornetto remained stuck to my temple at a somewhat rakish angle – more giggles. I’ve never looked good wearing a hat. Humiliation was setting in quickly.

Happily my filthy little friend realised this and reached into the cool box and grabbed another Cornetto whilst deftly plucking the spent one from my forehead, tossing it in the air with impressive abandon. My fumblings were quickly forgotten as she tugged at my trousers. I can safely say the first time an ice cream cone is applied to the end of ones throbbing member is a moment never forgotten. With a wicked glint in her eye she knelt down, pushed the ice cream further down my hot shaft then suddenly lunged and bit down hard on the end of the cone! As soon as my pulse returned to mere humming bird levels I began to enjoy this impromptu porno picnic.

All too soon nearly all the ice cream had been eagerly sucked and devoured and my own churns were stirring, as my little minx delivered one last suck something terrible happened – as I flung my head back in ecstasy – the discarded cunnilingus cone felt out of the branches above where it had been lobbed with lusty abandon – smack in my bloody eye. This caused me to thrust forward, pushing the bell-end Cornetto halfway down the poor girls throat, I’ll never forget the horrible choking noise echoing through the woodland; like a lone goose honking at sunset, in fact I realised the whole situation was fast becoming my own willy honker and the chocolate hat tree.
(, Mon 6 Oct 2014, 12:09, 2 replies)
They were planning on modding that Bea Arthur picture a lot quicker than 'three weeks after it started appearing' but Scaryduck slipped on a banana skin and accidentally got al his fingers impaed on Jack Russells.

(, Mon 6 Oct 2014, 11:21, Reply)

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