» Evil Pranks

Teddy
One more.

When I first left home, I figured it was time I threw away the teddy bear I'd owned for as far back as I could remember. I was a grown man (well, teenager) for god's sake, I'm never gonna need it again, so it's going in the skip! And it did. And it looked at me, and I relented. Teddy was saved.

Some time later, whilst living with my mate and his mum, I decided that enough was enough. The possibility existed, no matter how small, that a real live woman might one day see the inside of my bedroom, and no way was that bear gonna put me off my stroke (or, more accurately, put her off shagging me). In the wheelie bin he went, first thing in the morning on my way out of the house, before anyone else was up. He looked up at me as I covered him with another bin bag.

Got home that evening, everything was normal until I went upstairs, and there, on the bed, was the bear. Like he owned the place. And he was looking at me. I near shat myself. The guilt of throwing away my childhood companion coupled with the sheer incredulity upon him somehow (obviously) climbing out of his rubbish-filled grave to hunt me down for vengeance made me feel a little wobbly.

My landlady had spotted a little bear paw when she went to add another binbag to the wheelie bin and decided that I couldn't possibly have wanted to throw him away, so pulled him out.\

Cut to a few months later. It's a party, I'm kinda drunk, somebody mentions the bear. I decide that enough is enough, and this time he's not coming back. Into the kitchen, and off with his head courtesy of the bread-knife. Into the bin and finally, the fucker's dead.

Cut to about eighteen months after that. Another party, drunk again, and as I lurch into my bedroom there, on the bed, is teddy. With a series of Frankenstein like stitches holding his head on. My bastard mate had kept the thing for that long just so he could fuck with me. Thankfully he stopped short of the red LEDs he'd wanted to install in its eyes.

That night the bear was doused in lighter fluid and burned. It was the only way to be sure.

Insert length here.
(Thu 13th Dec 2007, 20:31, More)

» Evil Pranks

Evil Dad
Not me, but a dear mate of mine. His father is one of those people termed "a character". He's a bit weird by normal standards, but I really like the guy, and sometimes even envy my mate a little for the great relationship he has with his dear ol' Pa.

This is the guy who enjoys nudging his son in the ribs, pointing at his mum and saying in a conspiratorial whisper "I've had her." Followed by "She was great."

He's also fond of pranks. The one I found most horrifying was when my mate clawed his way towards consciousness (typically late in the day) and turned over to find his dad lying in bed with him, stark bollock naked. "Hello son," he said, looking down into his son's confused and bleary eyes, in his very best impression of the Kurgan. (I should point out that my mate is very much an adult, not a kid, so although it would be a lie to say that there was nothing freaky going on, at least it's self-inflicted freakiness - he deserves what he gets for still living at home).

His dad also enjoys rabbit every once in a while, and like eskimos and whales, he needs to use every part of the rabbit. Which is why my mate has woken up to a dismembered rabbit's head on his pillow, like some bizarre homage to The Godfather, and one memorable morning found a rabbit's head in his coffee. Staring at him, and bobbing up and down faintly.

His dad also enjoys using the word c**t in front of his mother-in-law, who just accepts this as normal these days and calls him "a bit rude". I find this *fantastic*.
(Thu 13th Dec 2007, 17:58, More)

» Misunderstood

Head and Shoulders
Next time you see the current "Head and Shoulders" advert ("Would you put dandruff in this picture?"), allow your brain to cut off the last few syllables of the phrase "... with a splash of sea-minerals".

First time I watched it, the filthy side of my brain was in ascendance, and I'd spluttered my drink all over myself before they'd finished speaking the last word.
(Fri 7th Oct 2005, 15:51, More)

» Shit Stories

Cat's are clean my arse...
About six months ago I got made redundant, and moved into my girlfriend's temporarily in order to live cheap whilst looking for a new job. This was made slightly awkward due to the fact that I own a cat (a twitchy neurotic little fucker called "Baggy"), and my girlfriend owned two. In order to introduce him to the other two gradually, we kept him shut up in the spare room, from which he escaped one day via a daring leap from the upstairs window.

The search for Baggy is a story unto itself (involving daring treks from one side of town to the other and back, and a cast including most of the stars from "The Aristocats"). But come back he did, about a week later. After a brief period of fuss, we fed him up (he was ravenous) and sat with him to settle him a bit. Now, because he was shut in the spare room, we'd had to rig up a litter tray for him, as he couldn't get out (at least, that was the idea - grr...). Straight after eating several times hiw own body weight, his stomach rumbled and he trotted off to the litter tray to shit.

Trouble was, in the absence of humans to feed him, and because he's an incredibly inept predator, he'd had pretty much nothing to eat for a week except grass. And cats can't digest grass. So as he squatted over the litter tray, what should emerge from his arse but a thick, tangled rope woven from shit, grass and digestive juices. That's not the worst bit - the worst bit is that he only got it halfway out, then got stuck. So he was trailing this shit-rope around behind him, scared and confused by this smelly extra tail he'd grown. So I had to grab him, grip him firmly and then (using wads of paper towels as impromptu gloves/forceps) pull the shit-rope out of him. He didn't like this, no sirree. He didn't like this one bit. There was yowling, and squirming, and the absolute worst bit was that I could feel the instant at which my cat let go of it - the instant he gave up and stopped clamping his feline sphincter against this unwarranted anal attack.

Poor little bastard. I'm sorry, Baggy, but you stank.
(Fri 7th May 2004, 15:01, More)

» Terrible Parenting

Sprout torture
My Dad's cooking is legendary in my family, and has left me and my three siblings (one sister, two brothers) with various food phobias throughout the years. He was a military man, and very firm - we ate what we were given, and that was *it*.

Unfortunately what we were given was, on occasion, fucking disgusting. I remember when my parents first got one of those new-fangled blenders - my Dad's idea? Blend a metric fuck-ton of sprouts, boil up and serve. Voila! Sprout Soup! My little brother gagged, and eventually had to eat it cold.

He had a taste for hot and spicy food, which he tried to emulate himself. He made some dish called Nazzi Goreene (or something like that, I've never really been inclined to find out what it's *really* meant to taste like), but accidentally made it much hotter than it was meant to be. He stoically munched it down. My other little brother cried his way through the pain. Tomato ketchup sandwiches were also often considered to be an appropriate meal.

He also called my brother stupid for years, until he found out he was actually dyslexic. After that he still did it, just less often.

However, the worst came when I was relatively old (but still young enough to be permanently emotionally scarred). I was about 15, I guess, so that would make my sister 11ish, and my brothers about 9 and 7. My Dad had recently remarried, and my stepmother was a character most unlike most adults I had ever met. I was used to his RAF buddies, his family (all sons of an RAF granny and grandad), and my mum's family (daughters of another RAF grandma and grandad). I dunno how many of you are military brats, but there's a kind of atmosphere, a kind of person you tend to encounter, on average if you like, in the forces. You live on bases, your friends are kids on the base, and your only other real contacts are via another institution - school. Extended family is usually distant. There's definitely a feel to these kinds of communities that's different to civvie street.

My stepmum was very different. I've gotten to know and respect her over the years, but at the time she was something dangerously out of my sphere of knowledge. Small town family, all living in each others' pockets, wildly different... interests. These are the people who vote on reality TV shows, who see each other in town every Saturday morning, who know and care about "local issues" and so on. Lived in the same area their entire lives, back through generations. Add to this terrifyingly new mix the fact that my stepmum adored musical theatre. I think the fact that she was so different was one of the reasons my Dad fell for her.

I couldn't understand it myself, at the time. Nor could I understand why it was so important, when we went camping with one of my Dad's oldest RAF buddies and his wife (so they could get to know the new most important woman in his life), that my stepmum dress us up in home-made yellow corduoroy dungaree shorts - all four of us - and make us sing "Doe, a deer". In front of a camcorder. My siblings were young enough to not be horrified by this, but I was mortified. Especially for having to do this in front of his mate and his wife, whom I'd always got on with really well (his mate was a dude - took me on my first ever driving lesson when I was about 14-15, getting around the age thing by waiting until the base's airstrip had been shut down for the night and letting me loose on the vast expanse of tarmac - non-public!). Their eyes watered in sympathy as they watched us drone our way through our rendition of the Von Trapps.

Funnily enough, they kind of dipped out of my Dad's life (and therefore the lives of me and my siblings) shortly after that incident.

What horrifies me most is that somewhere, that video still exists. Somewhere secret, somewhere safe. I've never been able to find it, and I'm occasionally still threatened with having it carted out (usually for the benefit of my girlfriend, of course). I did look for it once, slinging suspiciously unlabelled videos into the VCR in the hope of coming across it and destroying it forever. Instead, I came across my Dad's porn stash. So not all bad then.

My mum, though. She was ace. She single-handedly turned me on to sci-fi and fantasy by getting excited by cool sci-fi and fantasy, being unable to enthuse (I assume) with my Dad about how cool they were, so showed me key cool scenes from things she'd just watched (Dune and Highlander stand out for me), exclaiming about how good they were, and then telling me I couldn't watch the whole film 'cos I wasn't old enough. Very canny, mom. It worked.
(Fri 17th Aug 2007, 23:24, More)