"I bet you won't"
"Really? I bet I will!"

*****************************

Two friends and I were in the woods, as usual shooting bunnies for the local farmer. It was a cold winter's day, we were togged up far too warm, and our stomachs turned against us (as can happen in that Hot-inside / cold-outside kind of way.)

The other two had already relieved themselves, reporting dangerous bowel-escape velocity... and I was furiously waddling on the spot - buttocks clenched - trying to pretend that my arse wasn't about to explode.

Where to crap? Our eyes rose skywards.

In our woods there were various funky trees, but one was known as "the climbing tree". This name was well earned as it had regular and sturdy branches that any 11 year-old can climb with his/her eyes closed. One side of the trunk was bare, giving a fantastic view from a great height.

"I bet you won't climb that and poo from the top"

5 minutes later, trousers round my ankles and a good 40-something feet off the ground, I was ready to let the pressure go... My mates had retired to a "safe distance" and by Christ I let rip.

With a sound of tearing sail-cloth, mixed with a baked-bean splatter-noise my bowels were evacuated. After the final sputtering squits were squeeezed out, my friends and I were in fits of giggles - leaving me fighting for balance. The relief was marred only by 2 things:

I had negated to take any bog-roll with me.. and as I stood on the branch below begrudgingly hoiking my trollies up, I realised that my footing was worryingly slippery.. and then the final point dawned: my climb down was now dripping in steamy semi-liquid shit.
40 feet of crap-encrusted branches.

I had painted myself into the corner in the worst way imaginable.

Half way down the climb amid shrieks of laughter from my companions - tears of frustration streaming down my face - (And shit dripping on my head from the branches above), I finally slipped; tumbling from branch to branch like a sodden shit-drenched pinball.

The walk home was thankfully short, with no encounters.

I still salute my father who greeted me in the garden. He'd seen me - bloody lipped with a limp making my way across the lawn - and worried, he ran out. The look on his face asked it all, but he kept his lip buttoned.

"I had an accident dad"

He gave me a look that any father would give his shit-encrusted air-rifle-toting 13 year-old and went into the house, emerging 2 seconds later with a bucket or warm soapy water and a massive'n fluffy Dad-sized dressing gown.

"C'mon.. lets get you cleaned up... *sponge - dab - sponge*.... So, did you get any Rabbits?"

***************************************

I hope that when I'm a dad, I too know when *not* to ask the questions that I *really* want to ask.
( Humpty Dumpty was Pushed Is unaware of having any limits., Tue 24 Jul 2007, 12:37, Reply)

Hydrogen burps
In year 10 we did an experiment in chemistry where we dropped magnesium ribbon into hydrochloric acid, collected the resulting gas and tested it for that 'squeaky pop' to confirm that it was hydrogen.

As you may know, the stomach also contains a fair amount of hydrochloric acid, and far more concentrated than the stuff we used.

My friend, Ben (who was already well known for acts such as blowing the fuse for the entire science block by short-circuiting the mains supply in a physics lab and destroying every dog shit bin in the estate by blowing up cheap cans of deodorant in them), thought it would be a good idea to eat some magnesium ribbon.

He started burping. A lot.

I wanted to stick a lit match in his mouth when he burped but he was somewhat opposed to the idea.

He went home later that morning with stomach cramps.

I still have some magnesium ribbon which I have carefully kept from oxidation over the years.
I am currently living in Paris with someone who doesn't think b3ta is funny.
Click "I like this" if you think I should put magnesium powder in one of his sandwiches.
(StrongBad =! strong% AND StrongBad =! bad%: StrongBad = 1/0, Thu 19 Jul 2007, 19:49, Reply)

Bugs are scary.
My mother pretty much let me do anything. Which meant I was a bit stuck. She was however, a rather tidy and clean person, and the house was always spotless. So I did the only thing I could do and turned my bedroom into some sort of fungi and mould breeding ground.

I walk along. I tread on something. A bug. Can't quite work out what it is. Looks like a cockroach. I'm terrified of bugs in general, let alone cockroaches. I call my mum into the room.

me "MUMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMM!"

mother: "yes?"

me: "bug. scary. what is it?"

mother: "ahh, that's a cockroach"

me: "AAARRGGHHHHH" lots of mental images of huge swarms of cockroaches climbing up my legs, or over my body at night...

mother: "They get everywhere, they can lay eggs everywhere y'know. I'll have to call the council"

me: (fearing some local paper showing my room) "nooooooooooooo"

Cue cleaning frenzy. I threw out my mattress, all my bedlinen, all my clothing, my bed (one of those stretched fabric over wood things), my carpet. I then spent 3 days pouring bleach in the gap between the skirting board and the floorboards, and on every surface I could find. I then went without a mattress for about 6 months until my brother got a new one and I got his old one, and finally brought a bed a few years later.

One of the odd things was that I kept pouring bleach on my toolbox, then coming back "ARGH eggs" then pour more bleach on. Took me a few weeks to realise it was the dried up bleach I was seeing, not more cockroach eggs.

Last summer, now I am well and truely far away from my parents and have been for over a few years, I bring up the subject. My mother starts laughing.

"It was a water beetle. There's a nest under the house. We only said it so you would tidy up the room."

"so you let me go without a bed for 4 years because you wanted me to tidy my room?"

"well, it worked, didn't it?"

Cow. But fair play.
(mmmm curry doesn't really understand this sig lark, Thu 19 Jul 2007, 14:21, Reply)

Those were the days
Back in the days of real chemistry teaching, I found the delights of "vigorous exothermic reactions".
Having made my "vigorously exothermic device" I found the ideal place for it, a 6" pipe which ran under the school pond which was a 3' square concrete affair, shunned by all aquatic life due to the cleaners regularly tipping their mop buckets full of bleachy water into it. With the delay set at approximately 10 minutes I waited, watching from my chemistry lesson, for the gout of flames from the pipe I was expecting.


There was a deep thud, felt through the floors of the whole school followed by a VERY loud bang as the whole pond blasted off into the air, over the chemistry block, over the main hall, over the swimming pool and landed on the all-weather pitch, some 150 yards away. I was impressed, my teachers and the bomb squad less so.

This was merely one of the incidents that prompted my headmaster to brand me "a charming, witty and erudite thug" in my final report.






Git.
(Captain Placid 24/7 ball gags, brownie mix and clown porn, Fri 20 Jul 2007, 9:03, Reply)

The stealing game
Sixth year was our best year at school. The teachers were a bit more lax, and you cared a bit less.

One of the best things that happened during our sixth year was the invention of 'the stealing game'

As simple as it sounds really.

You got one point for stealing something (trivial - like pens and rulers from the meticulously counted supply)

Two points for stealing something that had the department written on it ('ENGLISH' or 'COMPUTING' etc)

five points for getting that particular theft used in a different department.

and a whopping 50 points for stealing a teachers id badge


some of the best steals include:
-all 8 of the computing departments doorstops (hidden in a cupboard) which i believe to this day are holding up the piano in the music department.

Cue weeks of 'Who steals doorstops? seriously!' from the head of IT.

-the theft of the signs to point and announce entrance to specific departments, and the re-arrangement of the entire school. (you'd follow the sigh to 'maths department' and end up in the 'geography department' which was actually the cafeteria etc.

-same as above but with the names on the doors of all the teachers offices.

-teachers shying away from us in corridors, because we went all teary-eyed 'oh i cant believe we're leaving this year' *sob* trying to give them a hug (to steal their id badges).

-stealing all the balls from the mice in computing and putting them in the fish tank outside the headteachers office.

-moving clocks between classrooms, so that each classroom still had a clock, just it was a different clock to the one they were used to. a lot of quizzical looks by teachers towards their clocks.

good times
( newg rum n coke, Sun 22 Jul 2007, 13:55, Reply)

Thirst
I once decided to leave home after a screaming argument with the parents.

However, they outwitted me. I arrived downstairs having packed my bag (where I was going I don't know), to find the doors locked!

Cunningly, I filled up three bowls full of water and began to scream at the dog to drink them all. Dog looked confused and wandered off.

'What the hell are you doing?' asked Mum.

'If the dog drinks all the water,' I yelled through tears, 'you'll have to let her out to go toilet and then I CAN ESCAPE.'
(Waspard has your wank bank account details, Fri 20 Jul 2007, 11:32, Reply)

Naively thinking the phrase "To Lick Out" referred to French Kissing...
... tongues, you see... I nearly caused a fatal family car crash by bragging to my Dad, Mum, Brother, Sister and Grandma "that Mandy in Maths, I'd well lick her out."

One sudden screech of wheels, scream from Mum, Sis and Nana, burning smell from brakes and stunned silence later I was asked.

"What exactly do you mean by that?"

I was eleven years old. Twenty years later I realise fully what I'd said to them and no, we have never discussed the matter again.
(Error 404 - Username Unknown, Sat 21 Jul 2007, 22:34, Reply)

The Sixth Form Revue
I was the youngest and most obnoxious kid in the year, basically an irritating little fuzzy-haired shit who often did things to show off but rarely even got a laugh from my peers because, frankly, I wasn't funny.

Aged sixteen I included myself in the cast of the end-of-year sixth form revue: a collection of sketches, impersonations and general school in-jokes that only occasionally held any humour to anyone else. Having written several terrible sketches, most of which were rejected, I decided I needed my moment of fame some other way. I wrote a sketch in which the leading character gets electrocuted off-stage and runs across the stage with his head on fire. Like all my other sketches it was rubbish, but the stunt appealed to the upper-sixth producers and it was accepted.

Because I usually got in the way of things and there were plenty of actually funny things to prepare for the stage, my sketch was never rehearsed. Thus, on the night, we all realised it was my sketch but nobody knew their lines. The curtains opened, there was a pause and the others involved decided to abandon the sketch.

Undeterred and ever attention-seeking, I promptly poured about half a can of lighter fluid on the top of my head, soaking my fluffy hedge of hair, put a match to it and ran shouting across the stage.

Apparently it was quite a spectacle. The audience genuinely screamed at the sight of a short spotty, be-spectacled kid with four-foot flames (lighter fluid) and black smoke (burning hair) billowing from the top of his head, and I earnt my few seconds of infamy running around the stage in a state of very convincingly growing terror. The watching teachers were completely aghast but I ran off-stage before anyone attempted to intervene.

Mercifully, we had plenty of fire extinguishers backstage and I grabbed a CO2 can and promptly froze my remaining hair to my scalp. Through another miracle of fate, my remaining hair was booked to be cut the next day (a Saturday) and the barber somehow managed to produce a messy style that covered my bald spots and burned blisters.

Monday morning, I ambled into my form room and was greeted by a massive round of applause for probably the only time in my school career. The later bollocking for irresponsibly using fire on-stage was probably harsher because I didn't appear to show any injuries, however it was worth it for the few moments of utter panic I appear to have caused.
( sanityclause is waiting until, Thu 19 Jul 2007, 17:13, Reply)

Football trip to Venice
When I was 17 our football team went to Venice – by coach! It took 18 hours and on the way back we were doing stupid teenage things to pass the time. One guy was telling the story of how he saw someone stick a condom up their nose and pull it out of their mouth. Being the boastful twat I was at that age I loudly declared that I can do that.

The only girl on the coach (the managers daughter) produces a condom from her handbag and says ‘go on then’. Bollocks. Everyone’s gathering around and there’s no way I can get out of it. Obviously I’d never done it before and I wasn’t even sure how to do it but I couldn’t admit that now and was faced with the onerous task of performing this stunt.

I took it out of its wrapper, unraveled it and proceeded to snort it up my nose. The pain was excruciating and soon the taste of spermicide kicked in started making me gag. My eyes were streaming as I put my fingers into my mouth and tried to grab the little bit of latex that was now dangling in the back of my throat. I managed to snag it whilst my gag reflex was going into overdrive.

I flossed my nasal cavity a couple of times before whipping the condom back through my nose. I was in a lot of discomfort – too much to enjoy the rapturous applause I was receiving from my team mates. The worst thing though was the constant nasal leakage that I experienced all the way from the Swiss Alps back to London. I can’t explain why but my nose was leaking like a blind lesbian in a fish shop the entire way home. I didn’t have any tissues so had to make do with the curtain on the back window.

By the time we got back to London the curtain was as stiff as a board and you could have broken it over your knee.
(Creamy Discharge Freeze Motherstickers, this is a fuck up, Fri 20 Jul 2007, 5:30, Reply)

Suicide Is Painless....
I know I've told this tale before - just can't remember where or when.

This wasn't a teenage shock thing. More of a drunken adult shock thing.

Many moons ago I lived in a small town near Manchester. For reasons I forget, I was in the pub one Saturday night and in a bad mood. I think Newcastle had lost or something. Anyway, one guy said:

"For fucks sake stop looking so miserable - or kill yourself"

And an idea was born.

So next night I was in the bar again and, again, I was looking miserable. Only this time I was putting it on and hamming up for all I was worth. Same guy rocks up and says:

"Jesus! - Will you just kill yourself so I don't have to look at your ugly face anymore"

And so I stood up. And, from the inside pocket of my jacket, pulled out a wickedly sharp blade.

"So you want me to kill myself? Always happy to oblige.." and I pulled the razor-sharp knife across the tight, white t-shirt I was wearing.

It was like watching purse being unzipped. As the knife dragged across my stomach the contents spilled out in a bloody mass. I dropped the knife, clutched my stomach and fell, first to my knees and then to the floor.

Panda-bloody-modium!!

There was people screaming, crying and, somewhere, I could hear someone being sick. It was all rather distant to me as I was concentrating very hard on not moving. Then, after about a minute, I couldn't help it anymore. I started laughing.

You see, what I'd actually done was prepare the whole stunt in advance. I'd got a load of offal from a mate who was a butcher. Minced some of it up ( I kept the intestines intact) and added a load of tomato ketchup mixed with water. Then I glued a bag onto my stomach and filled it with all this shit. T-Shirt was safety-pinned to my jeans to keep everything tight and I was ready to rock and roll. Only person who knew was the pub landlord.

Good gag and everyone was suitably impressed except for the police and the ambulance guys.

Cheers

"Rebel without a clue"
( Legless Mister Stabby - shanks for the memory, Wed 25 Jul 2007, 13:01, Reply)

This is the story...
I used to enjoy hanging around after school as a teenager playing basketball with my buddies on the playground at the end of the day. This was great most the time, until that day where some twats came on and started harrassing us while we were having fun.
They started by taunting me as I made shots at the basket, jeering everytime I missed. I shrugged it off as normal behaviour. They continued over the week creating as much nuisance as possible with graffiti and intimidation etc. I dealt with it a lot from them for a while.
But soon enough it took on a more violent character. I was getting shoved around. Normally I back away, but this was simply not on, to come to where I was while enjoying myself and generally harrassing me. I then decided I had to stop this shit.

I got in one little fight and my Mom got scared
she said "You're moving with your auntie and your uncle in bel-air"

I whistled for a cab and when I came near,
The license plate said 'Fresh',
And had dice in the mirror,
If anything I could say that this cab was rare,
But I thought 'Nah, forget it - Yo, home to Bel-Air!'

I pulled up to the house at bout seven or eight,
I yelled to the cabbie 'Yo home, smell ya later!'
I looked at my kingdom,
I was finally there!
To sit on my throne as the prince of Bel-Air!

Yours sincerely,
W. Smith.
(I have a face also had a sig on, Wed 25 Jul 2007, 1:23, Reply)

Not rebellion, exactly
After taking my final A level, I got all nostalgic for that period of my life (the last time I was afraid of exams) and wrote an eloquent letter to the college director asking if could buy the desk I sat my final exam at. I had remembered the number of the desk, so I knew which one.

The director was so touched by the letter that she read it out to the gathered teachers and I was invited to the school to pick through the hundreds of folded desks to find mine. I paid them a fiver for it and carried it home. That was 17 years ago.

It sits at home now with a laptop on it. The graffiti has faded, but there are the marks of decades of exam-sitters still on it. Can anyone else boast that they still sit at their A level exam desk after almost two decades? Or am I the only one with no friends or life?
(frankspencer, Tue 24 Jul 2007, 10:30, Reply)

GCSE Cider Fest
Upon completion of my GCSE's in 1988, my mate and I bought four litres of cider from a cornershop in Carshalton and went and drank them in the park within about two hours.

From there, we went to Sutton, purchased another two litres of cider each, and sat outside the station drinking it. By this time it was about 4pm. Twice I razzed in a phonebox whilst drinking it and had a couple of pisses behind the Evening Standard box. No one said a thing.

Come six o'clock completely mandrillised. Meet up with two girls for a "celebratory" Pizza Hut (as you did in those days). Carried on trying to work through a pitcher of Heineken in the restaurant...talking shite etc. Cue delivery of two large pizzas to table and I am gripped by an earth shattering razz convulsion. Body violently trembling, I remember desparately trying to hold my lips together to swallow the broth. And then, my sinuses and nostrils gave way under the pressure. Extreme high pressure cider vom all over the girls and the grub. A real Mr Creosote effort. To the girls credit, they mopped the spew off their pizza and still ate it.

Eventually we got chucked out after I spewed again on the floor.

To top things off nicely, I logged my pants on the bus on the way home and then slept for twelve hours in my clothes. Come morning I was in the most disgusting state I have ever been. Naturally I kicked the day off with a nice relaxing hangover wank.
(Mandrill, Tue 24 Jul 2007, 3:25, Reply)

This, as the French may say, "prenez le biscuit" in terms of pointlessness
Whenever the "piracy is a crime" messages appear on the screen at the cinema, me and my mates always shout;

"Y'argh matey"

in slightly peeved-sounding pirate voices.
(tarbin tarbis, tarbit, tarbamus, tarbimus, tarbant, Mon 23 Jul 2007, 13:30, Reply)

allah akbar
I was a teenage jihadist. I figured that my parents and teachers were going to be unimpressed with me drinking cider and spitting, so I converted to Islam, joined the extremist organisation Allah Akbar Jihad and started to wear a tea-towel on my head (I couldn't get one like Yasser Arafat, so I used one with touristic scenes from Edinburgh).

I perfected my thousand-yard stare and learned some Arabic so that I could scream with spit-flecked insanity at anyone who questioned my loyalty to the cause. I visited the school's chaplain and accused him of being an infidel. Soon, the Special Branch were tapping our phone at home and my dad was having his mail opened.

Imagine my surprise then, when I was contacted personally by Badr al Soqtadr, the main jihadi recruiter in my town. He asked me if would mind strapping a couple of kilos of semetx to my body and then run screaming into the local shopping mall shouting "Die infidel! Die, in the name of Allah Akbar Jihad!" before blowing myself into vapour.

I became a Quaker shortly after that. It was only years later that my dad told told me that the shady character calling himself Badr al Soqtadr was my uncle Kevin with boot polish on his face and a funny accent.
(Fothermucker, Mon 23 Jul 2007, 10:19, Reply)

Good old Mum
I went to a boarding school but was a day pupil there. It was a small town and the school pretty much was the school. The boarders were not allowed to the local pub. We,however, could do what we wantwed after 4pm.
So Sat night I was down in the pub with some friends and a long comes a teacher. Tries to get us to leave, calls over the landlord (a good mate of ours) who laughs and brings us a ll a free drink.
Teacher goes back and writes a letter to all our parents (so and so was seen drinking at the pub, blah, blah, blah).
My mum writes back saying: "thank you so much for letting me know. I'm always so worried that when he says he's going down to the pub he's really going to the park and taking lots of drugs. So glad he's safe at the pub and not lying to me."
Leg end.
Length? for my first post I thinkniig it's quite impressive. It'll shrink with time.
(ab1kenobe, Fri 20 Jul 2007, 16:30, Reply)

Literally shocking
I'm one of those people who seems to hold a charge of static electricity easily. I get a shock when I get out of the car, and that sort of thing.

Anyway, at school I discovered this "feature" of myself, and used to be able to build up a fair charge by running down the stairs rubbing the sleeve of my parka (yes, it was green with an orange quilted lining and faux fur trim on the hood!) on the plastic handrails.

I would then discharge myself on some exposed part of the anatomy of a passing pupil, frequently the face.

(the above sentence should not be read out of context)

Funnily enough it didn't make me many friends.
( K2k6 has a proper job these days, Thu 19 Jul 2007, 14:15, Reply)

I used to have violin lessons
an I was supposed to practice 10 min a day. So my parents got me a digital timer, however I always set it to 9mins. Deal with that!
(fluffytail, Thu 19 Jul 2007, 12:35, Reply)

true story

my friend told me that when he was 2 or so, he went down to the very bottom of his garden and whispered "bum bum poo". He told me he "thought he was Al Capone" after that.
(apeloverage committed the vile act of onanism on, Tue 24 Jul 2007, 12:47, Reply)

Rules are there to help control the fun...
Rebel? Me? I crave the pat on the head you get from behaving well. I LOVE authority. I’m the annoying Monica Geller-like girl in the class who’s the first to volunteer to organise the rota for cleaning out the class hamster cage.

But I wasn’t always like this. Oh no, somewhere deep in my past there was an enfant terrible, a little revolutionary giving two fingers to the system and sticking it to the man.

Or so I’d like to believe. What’s closer to the truth is…

I left school and had my nose pierced. It went septic. I looked like a twat.
I dyed my hair pink. The dye ran. I looked like a twat.
I cut all my hair off and peroxided what was left. I looked like a boy. And like a twat.
I started smoking. I now have the lung capacity of an 80 year old and was informed by my friend Stig that smoking made me “look like a twat”.
I had a drinking competition with my friend Claire that left me with a 3 day hangover and if I could remember I reckon I’d remember looking like a twat.

So I gave up. I went to Uni, got a good degree, a PhD, diligently worked towards furthering my career and being a responsible member of society.

Sadly, I still manage to look like a twat. Regularly.

Hey ho.
(Rakky (forgot her password) The muffin maverick, Sat 21 Jul 2007, 19:34, Reply)

The Second Coming
I always looked older than my age, and at 18 I had long hair and a beard. The summer I turned 18, a couple of friends and I had an evil plan, since we all agreed that religion was piffle.

We went to the local beach on Long Island and found a sandbar that was quite far away from the main bathing area. One afternoon, when the tide had risen a bit above the sandbar, I dressed up in just enough robes to look Christ-like and took a stroll along the sandbar for a few minutes.

The Jesus sightings made the papers and the local sermons that week.
(countertroll, Sat 21 Jul 2007, 13:07, Reply)

Ouch
The various pellet gun stories on here have just brought back a rather painful memory.

After a typical teenage night of drinking vodka on the street, I went back to a male friend's house with another male friend. After rolling a particularly horrible spliff with a piece of A4 paper, pritt stick and no tobacco, I proceeded to pass out.

My wonderful, wonderful friends decided it would be appropriate to wake me up by SHOOTING ME IN THE VAGINA WITH A BB GUN.

I think I am one of the few girls who can honestly empathise with the pain men feel when they are kicked in the balls.
(clumsyeloquence is a girl, Fri 20 Jul 2007, 22:26, Reply)

not teenage, but anti-authoritarian
I was also a cocky child, precociously bright.

I was six years old and acting up. My infant school teacher loudly asked me in front of the class why I couldn't be more mature.

I giggled and said, "mature, ha, that sounds like manure."

My classmates dissolved into laughter, as did the teacher. I won that one. :)
( sanityclause is waiting until, Thu 19 Jul 2007, 17:15, Reply)

Liquid nitrogen and the Leidenfrost effect...
Reminds me of my sister, when she was teaching high school biology. She had gotten a flask of liquid nitrogen from our dad (who's a dermatologist and keeps the stuff on hand for freezing warts) and was demonstrating what happens when you put something like a stalk of grass or a flower in it, how it will shatter at a touch.

One of the Beavis types standing in the back said, "Wonder what would happen if I stuck my dick in there. I bet it would get stiff. Huh huh huh."

My sister didn't say a word. She took a carrot and put it in the flask for a few seconds, then smashed it violently on the desk sending fragments spraying everywhere.

Beavis flinched and shuddered and visibly held his crotch...

I bet he had little to no length after that.
( The Resident Loon Not a demographic. Do not measure., Tue 24 Jul 2007, 19:16, Reply)

somehow, without meaning to, I went from dux of the school to outcast overnight.
I'm still not sure what happened. One week I was asked to design a presentation to the whole school on the evils of smoking - the next I was expelled.


(apeloverage committed the vile act of onanism on, Mon 23 Jul 2007, 13:11, Reply)

The curious incident of the flare in the night time.
Many years ago my younger brother nicked a naval flare from a boat and kept it in a drawer in his room for months. Being young and bored my mates and I thought it'd be a jape to steal it, launch it and see what happens. We waited until dark and climbed onto the roof of the local pavilion. The foot-long plastic tube was handed to our somewhat gullible pal and waited whilst he read the instructions out loud to himself and carried them out.

"Unscrew End Caps, Pull lever down, then push lever u..."

There then followed an ear-splitting whoosh accompanied by a huge cloud of foul white smoke as the projectile shot off toward the heavens. A split second before he'd launched it my other mate and I had (quite sensibly as it turned out) jumped down and started running like the clappers.

Somewhat panicked and now blinded by smoke, our gullible pal jumped off the roof, twisting his ankle and hobbling away from the scene as fast as he could. He caught us up very shortly after as there was absolutely fuck all point in trying to hide anyway.

The flare had lit up a sleepy area of Norfolk about a mile across, as if it was the midday sun.

As we were inland, no Sea King helicopters attended. In fact, nobody other than the three of us mentioned seeing it. ever. But then, that's Norfolk for you.
(toomanydecibels has bleeding ears on, Mon 23 Jul 2007, 12:48, Reply)

Shutting the fuck up
I once decided to not speak for a year.

My dad allowed it, despite finding it confusing and a bit upsetting (which, years later, I feel like an arse about). My mum, ever the practical one, secretly set herself to breaking me.

I lasted one month, carrying a notebook with me everywhere and so on. My mum eventually waited til I was really tired and playing on a computer, therefore distracted, and yelled from the other room "Paul, do you want a cup of tea?".


I was undone by my own loud "Yes".
( Mockingbird Practitioner of SCIENCE, Fri 20 Jul 2007, 10:07, Reply)

Sex
I didn't actually do it to shock. I was (still am) with the right guy at the right time. But my mum found out and tore me a new one. Wouldn't let me go out. When I was out I was on a curfew.

8 years later and she's mellowed to the idea (even "allowed" me to buy a house with him). However, was going through old family photos and found my parent's wedding photo. There I am. 6 Months old. Front and center!

Cheeky Funkster!
( Joliet, Thu 19 Jul 2007, 13:08, Reply)

How to (almost) kill an OFSTED inspector
Not entirely on purpose mind...
Going back a few years, A-level physics. Me and a mate conducting a "lift" experiment whereby we calculated the lift generated by a propellor by the negative weight it generated at differing rpms. Unsure how it all worked now, but we were dead chuffed and our physics teacher was dead proud of us. Until one day...
Due to the fact that the prop motor we used was unrated, we had to think of a way of knowing the rpm of the prop another way - and we found an old strobe light, the theory being that if the strobe flickered at the same rate as the prop span, the prop would appear "still" (which it did - cue much hilarity when forgetting if the motor was on or not).
So there we are, darkened room, prop spinning, strobe light flashing. We hear a voice outside our cramped dark room saying "and in here we have two of our most promising students". Door opens, teacher sticks head in, followed by OFSTED inspector. Who was, previously unbeknownst to us or any of the school staff, epileptic.
(animal252 last activated his kitten hammer on, Thu 26 Jul 2007, 0:33, Reply)

Things I did to shock: I pretended to be gay...
It all happened about a million years ago, when I was forced to work in grandad's greenhouses and I wasn't too happy about my slave labour status:

When I think of dirty old men, I think of Ike Thomas and when I think about Ike I get a hard on that won't quit.

Twenty years ago,I worked in what was once my Grandfather's Greenhouses. Gramps had died a year earlier and Grandma, now in her seventies had been forced to sell to the competition. I got a job with the new owners and mostly worked the range by myself. That summer, they hired a man to help me get the benches ready for the fall planting.

Ike always looked like he was three days from a shave and his whiskers were dirty white under the brim of his battered felt fedora.

He did not chew tobacco but the corners of his mouth turned down in a way that, at any moment, I expected a trickle of thin, brown juice to creep down his chin. His bushy, brown eyebrows shaded pale, gray eyes.

Old Ike, he extended his hand, lifted his leg like a dog about to mark a bush and let go the loudest fart I ever heard. The old man winked at me. Ike Thomas is the name and playing pecker's my game.

I thought he said, "Checkers." I was nineteen, green as grass. I said, "I was never much good at that game."

"Now me," said Ike, "I just love jumping men. . ."

"I'll bet you do."

". . . and grabbing on to their peckers," said Ike.

"I though we were talking about. . ."

"You like jumping old men's peckers?"

I shook my head.

"I reckon we'll have to remedy that." Ike lifted his right leg and let go another tremendous fart. "He said, "We best be getting to work."

That summer of 1971 was a more innocent time. I learned most of the sex I knew from those little eight pager cartoon booklets of comic-page characters going at it. Young men read them in the privacy of an outside john, played with themselves, by themselves and didn't brag about it. Sometimes, we got off with a trusted friend and helped each other out.

Under the greenhouse glass, the temperature some times climbed over the hundred degree mark. I had worked stripped to the waist since April and was as browwn as a berry. On only his second day on the job and in the middle of August, Ike wore old fashioned overalls. Those and socks in his hightop work shoes was every stitch he wore. When he bent forward, the bib front billowed out and I could see the white curly hairs on his chest and belly.

"Me? I just love to eat pussy!" Ike licked his lips from corner to corner then stuck it out far enough that the tip could touch the tip of his nose. He said, A man's not a man till he knows first hand, the flavor of a lady's pussy."

"People do that?"

He winked. "Of course the taste of a hard cock ain't to be sneezed at neither. Now you answer me, yes or no. Does a man's cock taste salty or not?"

"I never. . ."

"Well, old Ike's willing to let you find out."

"No way."

"Just teasing," said Ike. "But don't give me no sass or I'll show you my ass." He winked. Might show it to you anyway, if you was to ask."

"Why would I do that?"

"Curiousity, maybe. I'm guessing you never had a good piece of man ass."

"I'm no queer."

"Now don't be getting judgemental. Enjoying what's at hand ain't beiing queer. It's taking pleasure where you find it with anybody willing." Ike slipped a handside the side slit of his overalls and I could tell he was fondling and straightening out his cock. Now I admit I got me a hole that satisfied a few guys."

I swallowed, hard.

Ike winked. "Care to be asshole buddies?"

***

We worked steadily until noon. Ike drew a worn pocket watch from the bib pocket of his loose overalls and croaked, "Bean time. But first its time to reel out our limber hoses and make with the golden arches before lunch."

I followed Ike to the end of the greenhouse where he stopped at the outside wall of the potting shed. He opened his fly, fished inside, and finger-hooked a soft white penis with a pouting foreskin puckered half an inch past the hidden head.

"Yes sir," breathed Ike, "this old peter needs some draining." He exhaled a sigh as a strong, yellow stream splattered against the boards and ran down to soak into the earthen floor.

He caught me looking down at him. He winked. "Like what you're viewing, Boy?"

I looked away.

"You taking a serious interest in old Ike's pecker?"

I shook my head.

"Well you just haul out yourn and let old Ike return the compliment."

Feeling trapped and really having to go, I fumbled at my fly, turned away slightly, withdrew my penis and strained to start.

"Take your time boy. Let it all hang out. Old Ike's the first to admit that he likes looking at another man's pecker." He flicked away the last drop of urine and shook his limp penis vigorously.

I tried not to look interested.

"Yer sir, this old peepee feels so good out, I just might leave it out." He turned to give me a better view.

"What if somebody walks in?"

Ike shrugged. He looked at my strong yellow stream beating against the boards and moved a step closer. "You got a nice one,boy."

I glanccd over at him. His cock was definitely larger and beginning to stick straight out. I nodded toward his crotch. "Don't you think you should put that away?"

"I got me strictly a parlor prick," said Ike. "Barely measures six inches." He grinned. "Of course it's big enough around to make a mouthful." He ran a thumb and forefinger along its length and drawing his foreskin back enough to expose the tip of the pink head. "Yersiree." He grinned, revealing nicotine stained teeth. "It sure feels good, letting the old boy breathe."

I knew I should button up and move away. I watched his fingers moving up and down the thickening column.

"You like checking out this old man's cock?"

I nodded. In spite of myself, my cock began to swell.

"Maybe we should have ourselves a little pecker pulling party." Ike slid his fingers back and forth on his expandingshaft and winked. "I may be old but I'm not against doing some little pud pulling with a friend."

I shook my head.

"Maybe I'll give my balls some air. Would you like a viewing of old Ike's hairy balls?"

I swallowed hard and moistened my dry lips.

He opened another button on his fly and pulled out his scrotum. "Good God, It feels good to set 'em free. Now let's see yours."

"Why?"

"Just to show you're neighborly," said Ike.

"I don't think so." I buttoned up and moved into the potting shed.

Ike followed, his cock and balls protruding from the front of his overalls. "Overlook my informality." Ike grinned. "As you can see I ain't bashful."

I nodded and took my sandwich from the brown paper bag.

"Yessir," said Ike. "I just might have to have myself an old fashioned peter pulling all by my lonesome. He unhooked a shoulder strap and let his overalls drop around his ankles.

I took a bite of my sandwich but my eyes remained on Ike.

"Yessiree," said Ike, "I got a good one if I do say so myself. Gets nearly as hard as when I was eighteen. You know why?"

I shook my head.

"Cause I keep excerising him. When I was younger I was pulling on it three time a day. Still like to do him every day I can."

"Some sayyou'll go blind if you do that too much."

"Bull-loney!" Don't you believe that shit. I been puling my pud for close to fifty years and I didn't start till I was fifteen."

I laughed.

"You laughing at my little peter, boy?"

"Your hat." I pointed to the soiled, brown fedora cocked on his head. That and his overalls draped about his ankles were his only items of apparel. In between was a chest full of gray curly hair, two hairy legs. Smack between them stood an erect, pale white cock with a tip of foreskin still hiding the head.

"I am one hairy S.O.B.," said Ike.

"I laughed at you wearing nothing but a hat."

"Covers up my bald spot," said Ike. "I got more hair on my ass than I got on my head. Want to see?"

"Your head?"

"No, Boy, my hairy ass and around my tight, brown asshole." He turned, reached back with both hands and parted his ass cheeks to reveal the small, puckered opening. "There it is, Boy, the entrance lots of good feelings. Tell me, Boy, how would you like to put it up old Ike's ass?"

"I don't think so."

"That'd be the best damned piece you ever got."

"We shouldn't be talking like this."

"C'mon now, confess, don't this make your cock perk up a little bit?"

"I reckon," I confessed.

"You ever seen an old man's hard cock before," asked Ike.

"My grandpa's when I was twelve or thirteen."

"How'd that come about?"

He was out in the barn and didn't know I was around. He dropped his pants. It was real big he did things to it. He saw me and he turned around real fast but I saw it."

"What did your grandpa do?"

"He said I shouldn't be watching him doing that. He said something like grandma Ôwouldn't give him some,' that morning and that I should get out of there and leave a poor man in peace to do what he had to do."

"Did you want to join him."

"I might have if he'd asked. He didn't."

"I like showing off my cock," said Ike. "A hard-on is somethng I always been proud of. A hard-on proves a man's a man. Makes me feel like a man that can do things." He looked up at me and winked. "You getting a hard-on fromall this talk, son?"

I nodded and looked away.

"Then maybe you should pull it out and show old Ike what you got."

"We shouldn't."

"Hey. A man's not a man till he jacked off with a buddy."

I wanted to but I was as nervous as hell.

Ike grinned and fingered his pecker. "C'mon, Boy, between friends, a little cock showing is perfectly fine. Lets see what you got in the cock and balls department."

In spite of my reluctance, I felt the stirring in my crotch. I had curiositythat needed satisfying. It had been a long, long time since I had walked in on my grandfather .

"C'mon let's see it all."

I shook my head.

"You can join the party anytime, said Ike. "Just drop your pants and pump away."

I had the urge. There was a tingling in my crotch. My cock was definitely willing and I had a terrible need to ajust myself down there. But my timidity and the strangeness of it all held me back.

Hope you don't mind if I play out this hand." I ke grinned. "It feels like I got a winner."

I stared at his gnarled hand sliding up and down that pale, white column and I could not look away. I wet my lips and shook my head.

Old Ike's about to spout a geyser." Ike breathed harder as he winked. "Now if I just had a long finger up my ass. You interested, boy?"

I shook my head.

The first, translucent, white glob crested the top of his cock and and arced to the dirt floor. Ike held his cock at the base with thumb and forefinger and tightened noticably with each throb of ejaculation until he was finished.

I could not believe any man could do what he had done in front of another human being.

Ike sighed with pleasure and licked his fingers. "A man ain't a man till he's tasted his own juices."

He squatted, turned on the faucet and picked up the connected hose. He directed the water between his legs and on to his still dripping prick and milked the few remaing drops of white, sticky stuff into the puddle foming at his feet. "Cool water sure feels good on a cock that just shot its wad," said Ike.

***

"Cock-tale telling time," said Old Ike. It was the next day and he rubbed the front of his dirty,worn overalls where his bulge made the fly expand as his fingers smoothed the denim around the outline of his expanding cock.

I wasn't sure what he had in mind but I knew it wasn't something my straight-laced Grandma would approve of.

"Don't you like taking your cock out and jacking it?" Ike licked his lips.

I shook my head in denial.

"Sure you do. A young man in his prime has got to be pulling his pud."

I stared at his caloused hand moving over the growing bulge at his crotch.

"Like I said," continued Ike, "I got me barely six inches when he's standing up." He winked at me. "How much you got, son?"

"Almost seven inches. . ." I stuttered. "Last time I measured."

"And I'm betting it feels real good with your fist wrapped around it."

"I don't do. . ."

"Everybody does it." He scratched his balls and said,"I'll show you mine if you show me yours." Then, looking me in the eye, he lifted his leg like a dog at a tree and let out a long, noisy fart.

Denying that I jacked off, I said, "I saw yours yesterday."

"A man has got to take out his pecker every once in a while." He winked and his fingers played with a button on his fly. Care to join me today?"

"I don't think so."

"What's the matter, boy? You ashamed of what's hanging Ôtween your skinny legs?"

"It's not for showing off."

"That would be so with a crowd of strangers but with a friend, in a friendly showdown, where's the harm?

"It shouldn't be shown to other people. My Grandma said that a long time ago when I went to the bathroom against a tree whan I was seven.

"There's nothing like a joint pulling among friends to seal a friendship," said Ike.

I don't think so." I felt very much, ill at ease.

"Then what the fuck is it for," demanded the old man. "A good man shares his cock with his friends. How old are you boy?"

"Nineteen almost twenty."

You ever fucked a woman?"

"No."

"Ever fucked a man?"

"Of course not.

"Son, you ain't never lived till you've fired your load up a man's tight ass. "I didn't know men did that to each other."

"Men shove it up men's asses men all the time. They just don't talk about it like they do pussy."

"You've done that?"

"I admit this old pecker's been up a few manholes. More than a fewhard cocks have shagged this old ass over the years." He shook his head, wistfully, "I still have a hankering for a hard one up the old dirt chute."

"I think that would hurt."

"First time, it usually does," agreed I ke. He took a bite from his sandwich.

I looked at my watch. Ten minutes of our lunch hour had already passed.

"We got time for a quickie," said Ike. "There's no one around to say, stop, if were enjoying ourselves."

He unhooked the slide off the button of one shoulder-strap, pushed the bib of his overalls down to let them fall to his feet.

"Showtime," said Ike. Between his legs, white and hairy, his semi-hard cock emerged from a tangled mass of brown and graypubic hair. The foreskin, still puckered beyond the head of the cock, extended downward forty-five degrees from the horizontal but was definitely on the rise.

I could only stare at the man. Until the day before, I had never seen an older man with an erection besides my grandpa.

Ike moved his fingers along the stalk of his manhood until the head partially emerged, purplish and broad. He removed his hand for a moment and it bobbled obscenely in the subdued light of the potting shed. Ike leaned back against a bin of clay pots like a model on display. "Like I said, boy, it gets the job done."

I found it difficult not to watch. "You shouldn't. . ."

"C'mon, boy. Show Ike your peckeer. I'm betting it's nice and hard."

I grasped my belt and tugged on the open end. I slipped the waistband button and two more before pushing down my blue jeans and shorts down in one move. My cock bounced and slapped my belly as I straightened."

"That's a beaut." Ike stroked his pale, white cock with the purplish-pink head shining. "I'm betting it'll grow some more if you stroke it."

"We really shouldn't. . ."

"Now don't tell me you never stroked your hard peter with a buddy."

"I've done that," I finally admitted,. "But he was the same age as me and it was a long time ago." I though back to the last time Chuck and me jerked each other off in the loft of our old barn. Chuck wanted more as a going away present and we had sucked each other's dicks a little bit.

"Jackin's always better when you do it with somebody," said Ike. "Then you can lend each other a helping hand."

"I don't know about that," I said.

Ike's hand continued moving on his old cock as he leaned over to inspect mine. "God Damn! Boy. That cock looks good enough to eat." Ike licked his lips. "You ever had that baby sucked?"

I shook my head as I watched the old man stroke his hard, pale cock.

"Well boy, I'd sayyou're packing a real mouthful for some lucky gal or guy." He grinned. "Well c'mon. Let's see you get down to some serious jacking. Old Ike's way ahead of you."

I wrapped my fist around my stiff cock and moved the foreskin up and over the head on the up stroke. On the down stroke the expanded corona of the angry, purple head stared obscenely at the naked old man.

Ike toyed with his modest six inches. "What do you think of this old man's cock?" His fist rode down to his balls and a cockhead smaller than the barrel stared back at mine.

"I guess I'm thinking this is like doing it with my grandpa."

"You ever wish you could a done this with your grandpa?"

"I thought about it a lot."

"Ever see him with a hard-on."

"I told you about that!"

"Ever think about him doing your grandma?"

"I can't imagine her ever doing anything with a man.

"Take my word for it, sonny, we know she did it or you wouldn't be here." Begrudgingly I nodded in agreement.

"Everybody fucks," said old Ike. "They fuck or they jack off."

"If you say so."

"Say sonny, your cocks getting real juicy with slickum. Want old I ke to lick some of it away?"

"You wouldn't."

Ike licked his lips as he kept his hand pistoning up and down his hard cock. "You might be surprised what old Ike might do if he was in the mood for a taste of what comes out of a hard cock."

And that is what he proceded to do. He sucked me dry.

Then he erupted in half-a-dozen spurts shooting out and onto the dirt floor of the potting shed. He gave his cock a flip and shucked t back into his overalls. He unwrapped a sandwich from its wax paper and procede to eat without washing his hands. He took a bite and chewed. "Nothing like it boy, a good jacking clears the cobwebs from your crotch and gives a man an appetite."

***

The following day, We skipped the peliminaries. We dropped our pants. Ike got down on his knees and sucked me until I was hard and good and wet before he stood and turned.

"C'mon boy, Shove that pretty cock up old Ike's tight, brown hole and massage old Ike's prostate.

Ike bent forward and gripped the edge of the potting bench. The lean, white cheeked buttocks parted slightly and exposed the dark brown, crinkly, puckered star of his asshole "Now you go slow and ease it along until you've got it all the way in," he cautioned. "This old ass craves your young cock but it don't want too much too soon. You've got to let this old hole stretch to accomodate you."

"Are you sure you want to do this?"

"Easy boy, easy," he cautioned. "You feel a lot bigger than you look. Put a little more spit in your cock."

"It's awfully tight. I don't know if it's going to go or not."

""It'll go," said Ike. "There's been bigger boys than you up the old shit chute."

I slipped in the the last few inches.. "It's all in."

"I can tell," said Ike. "Your cock hairs are tickling my ass."

"Are you ready," I asked.

"How are you liking old Ike's hairy asshole so far?"

"It's real tight."

"Tighter than your fist?"

"Might be."

"Ready to throw a fuck into a man that reminds you of your grandpa."

"I reckon."

"I want you should do old Ike one more favor."

"What?"

While you're pumpin my ass, would you reach around and play with my dick like you would your own? Would you do that for an old man?"

I reached around and took hold of his hard cock sticking out straight in front of him. I pilled the skin back amd then pulled it up and over the expaded glans. I felt my own cock expand inside him as I manipulated his staff in my fingers. I imagined that my cock extended through him and I was playing with what came out the other side of him.

"C'mon, boy, ram that big cock up the old shitter and make me know it. God Damn! tickle that old prostate and make old Ike come!"

I came. And I came. Ike's tightened up on my cock and I throbbed Roman Candle bursts into that brown hole as I pressed into him. His hairy, scrawny ass flattened against my crotch and we were joined as tightly as two humans can be.

"A man's not a man till he's cum in another man." said old Ike. "You made it, boy. But still, a man's not a man till he's had a hard cock poked up his ass at least once."

Every time I think of that scene, I get another hard-on. Then I remember the next day when old Ike returned the favor.

I never have managed to come that hard again. If only Ike were here.
(apologies_for_length, Fri 20 Jul 2007, 20:40, Reply)