The Attack of the Unimaginative Repeating Twat-Sloth
....

Bastard thing has struck 4 times this year so far...

I never usually stoop to this level.. infact I make a fucking POINT of NOT clicking, but if Scaryduck's Highest ever score can be a result of this questionable technique....

Click "I like this" if you want to see this vile beast eradicated.
( Humpty Dumpty was Pushed Is unaware of having any limits., Thu 24 Apr 2008, 15:20, 11 replies)

It's Thursday - Mods Take Note
.
When deciding what to ask for the new QOTW can I suggest you look at:

www.b3ta.com/questions/questionsyoudliketoask/

Just an idea.

Cheers
( Legless Mister Stabby - shanks for the memory, Thu 1 May 2008, 3:47, 7 replies)

Bullocks..
.
Many moons ago, in the 80's, I was living in Alnwick, Northumberland. And this one day, I acquired a kite so I headed off to The Pastures to try it out.

The Pastures is the land overlooked by Alnwick Castle. A picturesque meadow full of butterflies and flowers. And bullocks.

Now bullocks are fairly sensible. They're peaceful male cows who've had their wedding tackle removed and are more interested in eating than attacking humans. I'd been down to The Pastures many times and had absolutely no trouble with them. Until today.

So, there I was, wandering across The Pastures with my shiny new kite. Bullocks looked at me and then ignore me, as is their wont.. (BTW - have you noticed how I start to ramble after a couple of glasses of wine and take ages to get to the point? Thought not..)

Anyway. So I found a nice little hill and started to unpack my kite. My big *blue* kite. Pay attention at the back, the colour is important. So I lay my kite out on the ground and started to slot the rods in. And noticed something. The bullocks.

The whole herd had gathered at the top of another rise, about 50 yards away, and were staring at me intently. I was a little freaked by this but thought they were just curious. So I carried on with my task. Rods inserted, string attached, I was ready to go. And those fucking bullocks were a lot closer now. They were sniffing the air, pawing the ground and looked distinctly unfriendly.

Bugger them. So I took my kite in my hand and started to run down the hill and threw the kite up into the air. The wind caught it and it soared joyously into the sky. And the bullocks went spastic. They let out a mass "MOOOOOOO" and charged down the hill towards me.

Now picture this if you can. Me, running down a hill, towing a kite, and, very close behind me and getting closer all the time, 50 very pissed off bullocks. About 20 tons of beef-on-the-hoof intent on catching me.

Fear gives you wings.

So I let go of the kite and legged it for the river. It was too far and the bullocks were too fast. I thought my time was up as the first bullocks caught up with me. And then, a miracle. They parted like the Red Sea and galloped to either side of me, now ignoring me and trying to catch the kite that was blowing away towards the castle.. WTF?

So I slowed to a stop and, lungs heaving, watched them all stop at the river and gaze wistfully at the departing kite. And then I heard the broom-broom of an approaching motor vehicle. It was a quad-bike, and sitting on it, tears rolling down his face, was Rory, an old farmer who I knew slightly.

It turned out that he'd watched the whole thing and knew why the bullocks had went apeshit.

"It was the colour of the kite" he said "It's exactly the same colour as the feed sacks that I use for their cattle cake. Silly buggers though that you were there to feed them and, when they saw their cattle cake taking off into he sky, thought they'd better try and catch it"....

And then we went for a pint. Me, to calm down, Rory, to tell as many people as he could about what he'd seen.

Cheers
( Legless Mister Stabby - shanks for the memory, Mon 28 Apr 2008, 13:08, 8 replies)

Evil
I'm sat in my room next to the window, overlooking the back garden and road next to our house. I'm sat here working on my thesis, now due in exactly three weeks and beginning to prey somewhat on my mind. I have been living, eating, sleeping (and possibly sh*tting) my thesis recently. As you can imagine life has been very, nay, ultra boring. To top off the fandango of enjoyment that has characterised my grey and dull existence the girl I love is not interested, making the whole past month or so an exercise in heart-wrenching academic futility.

So, to set the scene, this is the somewhat despondent, possibily even pessimistic, frame of mind that I currently inhabit. Next to a window.

Through this window I can see a tree in our back garden. This tree is not a paragon of trees. In fact its rather nonedescript. The tree equivalent of Alastair Darling, rather than a racy sycamore, or a hippy willow. In the tree live a family of grey squirrels. The squirrels are in the habit of frolicking in the garden and generally doing squirrely things. I'm sure that Squirrel Nutkin himself would be proud to call these squirrels his compatriots, proud in the knowledge that for nose twitching, acorn burying, tree climbing and general bushiness of tail these squirrels are at the forefront of the squirrelverse.

Anyway, I digress. My housemate just came back from class. As usual he brought his bike into the back garden, rolled it over to the squirrel tree, and started to lock it in place.

At which point a squirrel dropped out of the tree, like some squirrel version of rambo, and clung on to his bike helmet with all its tiny tiny might. My housemate was somewhat perplexed by this unforeseen turn of events, and began flapping at his own head to remove his new squirrely appendage.

This merely enrages the Die Hard Squirrel, which began attempting to chew through the helmet. My housemate takes this somewhat amiss and, becoming slightly concerned, begins to scream oh so softly. The squirrel doesn't really like this shrieking mannikin it appears to have attempted to bring down, and so redoubles is effort to gain unlicensed access to his brain. Now panicking, my housemate, with an audible toot of the sphincter, drops to the ground and rolls around the wet grass, trying to crush the squirrel. This, fortunately for him, works. The squirrel abandons ship post haste, and retreats, probably swearing, back up the tree. My housemate staggers inside covered in grass and mud, swearing he will kill the squirrel.

I'm pretty sure I can see the thing now, on a branch at the same level as my window. My bored mind posits that its sat there, a rolled up cigarette dangling from one corner of its mouth, swigging from a can of stella, flexing its arm muscles... the crazy Begbie squirrel of our garden.
(Zapiola zip-zap-zop, Mon 28 Apr 2008, 15:17, 10 replies)

Rocky, RIP
This topic reminds me, painfully, of Rocky, my prize fighting whelk. Rocky was raised on a whelk stud in North Ferriby on the banks of the Humber. We always knew he had the look of a killer, even when he was small. He'd be first to the trough at feeding time, shoving the others out of the way to get to his dinner.

We trained him well, exercising him every day. He shone amongst the other whelks - he was twice the size and five times as brave.

We got him in the ring for his first fight and he just floored the other opponent. I'd never seen a whelk move so fast. I was so proud of him.

Together we toured the country, fight after fight. Rocky would always triumph, always give everything he'd got to win the prize. He was unstoppable!

Then, one day, we saw an advert for the Mollusc Ultimate Fighting Championships. I was dubious, but I knew I couldn't hold him back, not if that was what he wanted. He rose through the ranks to the cheers of the spectators.

It came to the final. Rocky... didn't make it. His opponent, a shifty looking bivalve if ever there was one, battered him to the ground. Rocky didn't get up. He'd been beaten. It turned out that he was a great whelk warrior, but when it came to the Mollusc Ultimate Fighting Championships, he just didn't have the mussel.
( crackhouseceilidhband Fuck off back to Mumsnet, Thu 24 Apr 2008, 14:58, 16 replies)

This story is LONG
a long time ago, in a land far, far away...

There lived a beautiful princess, called alerella. She was an energetic, young sort, with flowing, golden locks, a skip in her step and a tune in her warm and caring heart.
She lived with her father, King Enzyme, who, despite losing his first wife during the birth of his gorgeous daughter, still loved her dearly. So much so, in fact, that he decided to re-marry another single parent, CHCB, so that little al could still have a mother-figure and a couple of siblings to play with.

Unfortunately, as the story goes, the new Mrs Enzyme was a tad too rigorous in the sack, and during a night of sex play (involving a winch, and several large, Barrymore-esque implements), the good King Enzyme had his pelvis broken in several places. Though, fortunately he'd lost consciousness during the act, because he was being smothered by CHCB's killer pussy at the time, and couldn't breathe, but sadly passed away later from internal bleeding and organ failure.
It was then that Queen CHCB revealed her true nature, and poor little alerella was locked away in a very high tower by her evil step sisters, Kaol and Bob Fossil, who then took her place as the heirs to the throne of the magical kingdom.

In her towery prison, little alerella started to lose her mind, she found that without company she could only keep herself entertained by muttering the most base jokes that she could think of, and eventually her madness descended into a coma, filled with dreams of bestiality, scat and the hope that some day a shining prince would come and rescue her.

Meanwhile, at the other end of the Magical Kingdom, the Brave Knight Sir Bert Monkeysex sat in a Goat Brothel, The Horny Nanny, regaling the legend that had been passed on to him by his mother and father. The tale of a beautiful princess locked away in a high tower who possessed a ring tighter than that of any goat the land had ever known.

'Nonsense!' The other mead drinkers mocked, 'Everybody knows that there is no such thing as a human being tighter than a goat.'
But Sir Bert knew in his heart that some day he would find his true love and they would live happily ever after.

Just then, as if purely to further the somewhat slightly lost point of the story, a strange man by the name of K2k6 entered, his whole appearance a shabby mess, and he was clearly out of breath, 'Someone must help! I have heard news of a beautiful princess trapped in a high tower by her evil step-mother and wicked step-sisters to the east!'

Sir Bert knew that this was his destiny calling him, he got to his feet, thanked the stranger, and left the stunned occupants of the goat brothel to their devices. Outside, he hopped upon his trusty steed, and lover, Billy the Kid, one of the finest goats the land had ever seen.
He rode off with the setting sun to his back at a steady gallop, with the sound of Billy's hooves matching the beating of the renewed passion in his heart, and the throbbing in his codpiece.

Upon arriving at the foot of the mighty tower, Sir Bert despatched of the evil queen and her two hideous offspring with one fell swoop of his dripping baguette, leaving their headless bodies for the likes of PJM and the PenguinOfDeath to have their wicked, necrophiliac way with.

The Brave Knight Sir Bert Monkeysex scaled the tower with ease, and awoke his beautiful princess bride with a one man bukkake marathon, that lasted several hours and left alerella looking like a plasterers radio in June.
The pair fell in love immediately, and bert set about trying to discover whether the legend was true, could she really be tighter than his faithful steed Billy the Goat...?

With al on her knees, Bert slowly began to insert his pulsating cock into her puckered anus, using no lubrication whatsoever.
By God! It was true! He couldn't believe what he was feeling as the inner parts of al's poo chute gripped him tighter than anything he'd ever felt before, and the orgasm built inside of him quickly.
At the moment of climax, al let out a small involuntary cough, causing his unbelievably snug sphincter to twitch, snapping off Bert's nob at the hilt.

'OH NOES!' He cried in agony, and began dancing around holding his crotch like a cowboy at a barn dance.

Al stitched up the wound, and the pair agreed that despite the fact that they would never be able to sexually satisfy each other properly again, they would still be married in the morning.

Unfortunately, on climbing back down the tower, they were both butted to death by Billy, who'd gone into a psychotic, jealous rage, and he stomped them both into the dirt, before sticking his horns into the evil sister, Kaol's lifeless bottom, and ending his own life with a quick snap of his neck.

Bloody animals, eh? Tragic.
( Bert Monkeysex is waiting for the mods to delete him, Fri 25 Apr 2008, 11:06, 57 replies)

In which Our Hero barks for his life.
For freshman orientation in college* we were split into groups of about a dozen and sent off into the woods with a pair of seniors to have a small adventure. You could choose to go hiking, climbing, or any number of things. I chose canoeing.

The group is seven dudes and seven gals, all of us young, fresh-faced, horny, and excited to be college students. Did I get laid on this trip? Did I, fuck. This is not the proper QOTW for that story anyway.

So on the way to the river the seniors are briefing us on the rules and the general plan for the trip. I have a bit of experience and the guy from Alaska has some, too, but otherwise the rest are mostly from small suburbs in the Midwest or big cities like Manhattan. We are in The Middle of Nowhere, New Hampshire, which means mountains, trees, oh - and moose. LOTS of moose.

Here's the thing about moose: they get aggressive when they're in heat, and they're bigger than any animal needs to ever be. HUGE. Yet they still have natural enemies. Or rather, HAD - before the local wolves were all killed off. So, how do you stop a moose from charging? Bark. You bark like a dog. This will trigger the beast's innate fear of wolves and scare it away. Not that we were likely to meet any on our trip, mind you, but it's useful information to have just in case.

The first day we head out and make camp at a makeshift air strip, which was really just a quarter-mile clearing in the trees. We stack the canoes like a log cabin and throw a tarp over top. Ta-daa! Something for all of us hot, tight-bodied teens to sleep under! You know, next to each other. At night, in the dark.

Follow dinner, frisbee, chatting on and such. One thing leads to another, and there we are all snuggled in our sleeping bags and Our Hero begins to doze off...

[whispering]"Jesse... wake up."
"Wha-"
"SHHHHHHHH! There's a moose!"

My first thought is of the blonde next to me. I can be brave and valiant in the face of danger! Surely I will get SO laid after all of this - WAIT. WE ARE UNDER SOME HEAVY CANOES.

[more whispering]
Is everyone awake?
Wait, I see it!
Where?
By the trees! I see it too!
There's two of them!

Finally, one of the seniors:
You guys - we may have to start barking. If they get close we should all bark at once.

Um. It got close. We barked. Loudly. All 14 of us (12 freshmen and two seniors). For our lives. FOR OUR LIVES.

*ruff! ruff!
*yip! yipyip!
*grrrr arf arf arf!

For at least 60 seconts, which is a long time to be doing something like that. Trust me. We eventually quieted down.

[whispering] (for no reason)
Are they gone?
Did it work?
Does anyone see anything?
I think they left.

Next thing I know, in the moonlight between the canoes, there is a tall and skinny leg DIRECTLY in front of me. I believe I am the one that started the second round.

*barkbarkbark!
*woof woof!
*[howling]

As I am barking my lungs out and bracing for the canoes to collapse on top of us, a large snout pokes through the tarp. A flashlight beam hits it, and it narrows. Eyes. Small. Antlers... pointy?

Suddenly there's multiple flashlights from outside the tent, and the senior holding the antelope head ducks into the tarp. GOTCHA!

Sons of bitches. Sons. Of Bitches.

The seniors pranked us BUT GOOD. It was an extra crew of seniors brining us some supplies for the next day. And from the beginning it was all a farce! They had to pull the Alaskan guy aside and tell him to play along. He told us later that the whole time we were whispering he had his head in the pillow and was ready to die from holding it in! To this day it's a better prank than I've ever pulled, and the best I've been victim to.

But they brought us homemade brownies and beer to make up for it, so we all had a small party there in the night. Um, I never got anywhere with that blonde girl. But wait, this is my story, right? What I meant was, I nailed her a week later and her roomate the week after. So all's well.


*You bet your ass I'm 'Merkin! "Color!" "Dollars!" Wanna fight about it?

*pop*!

Apologies for length, but I'm compensating for my short penis.
(jessemoya, Wed 30 Apr 2008, 6:34, 16 replies)

If you insist.
..I was racing against a friend during a late-night Thrash around the hills on our moutainbikes. We were riding through a stretch of fast and downhill field. We did it all the time.

This time was to be different: This time we were stoned, and it was dusk.

Leering at each other like slavering hounds with their heads out of the car window at 70mph, we pounded on the pedals and hurled ourselves onwards into oblivion.

We were moving at warp speed into the darkness. Scotty had nothing on us - He was right - His engines couldn't take any more - ours however were pushing us faster and faster until the world was a blur
- We were going faster than humanly possible
- We were laughing like maniacs
- The feeling of speed was stupendous
- the wind tore at our faces and clothes
- our own howls of delight were lost to the Rushing air
- the rushing air was ..... GONE!

And so was my mate.

And so was my bike.

And I was flying... and it wasn't deliberate. *Oh dear*
*mental shrug* "What goes up must come d..."

*Thud*

I was in pain. Really serious pain. I was alone in the dark, on the ground and clutching at my nuts which only a few seconds ago had been quite happy. Now they were drawing a lot of attention to themselves.... I was a bloody and mangled heap of hurt.

It was then that I heard the noise. A deep guttural gurgling-wheezing noise that had no right to exist. It was scaring the pap out of me until I realised where it was coming from... It was coming from me.

I tried to stop it, but failed. The biggest thing on my mind was that I was making an embarrassing wheezy gurgling noise and was powerless to stop. I was still wondering how to stop this incessant bubbly groaning, when the cause of my pain made itself apparent. Suddenly something considerably bigger and a lot more worrying took pole position in my brain:

Thundering towards me though the murkiness was a particularly irate Bull. It was making a noise that's hard to describe. "pissed off Bovine" doesn't quite cover it.
Try imagining the noise that a Gorilla would make if he had his hands cuffed to his ankles, was wearing a Ball-Gag, a pink tutu and nipple-clamps, as you shove a Giant, Freshly-boiled and steaming-hot Pineapple up his tightly puckered tea-towel holder, and knock it home with a croquet mallet... Make it louder, and then add Thundering hooves as a background noise....

Un-nerving? You don't know the half of it.

The Bull arrived in the same space that I was occupying roughly 2 seconds after I had first sighted it. It wasn't "just passing though".

*********

I can assure you that if you're going to ride hell-for-leather through a field in the dark, your pre-flight check-list should probably involve a cursory glance around for standing-and-sleeping cows.

Ride around them. Do not under any circumstances ride INTO them.
Especially if they are large bulls.
Especially if you're doing 40mph.

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

I was caught in a one-Bull stampede. I rate this experience quite near the bottom on my scale of "bad experiences". Those who know me will confirm that this probably means it wasn't that enjoyable. You'll have heard the phrase "Better than a poke in the eye with a sharp stick" On this occasion they'd have been wrong. Very wrong.

Eventually I managed to crawl away from my impromptu bovine lap-dance and found my mangled bike just as my mate re-appeared.

The damage list was surprisingly small
1 Kona bike frame bent out of shape (but still able to ride home)
1 snapped handlebar. (bull arse)
2 broken ribs, (initial bull impact)
1 fractured finger, (bull stampage)
2 bruised nuts, (handlebar stem)
1 torn Scrote. (see above)

During the one-on-one stampede I was convinced that I was going to die.
The Pain in my scrote for the next few days made me wish I had.

Apologies to the Farmer for arse-raping his bull with A mountain bike.
( Humpty Dumpty was Pushed Is unaware of having any limits., Wed 30 Apr 2008, 11:49, 4 replies)

Slow Motion Mugging...
.
I was mugged by a goose once. In slow motion.

I was happily fishing one day, rod out in the water (stop sniggering Tourettee's!), enjoying a calm Autumn day. I was sitting on my wee fold-up stool, fishing bag to the left of me and plastic tub of maggots to the right. Then I heard it.

taptap-rattle-rattle-rattle...

And I looked over. Standing next to me was an enormous grey goose with a couple of maggots wriggling in it's beak. It was staring straight ahead and pretending not to see me. So I looked back at the river.

taptap-rattle-rattle-rattle.

Beak straight into my maggots again. As soon as I looked at it, it stared straight ahead with a

"wasn't me" look on it's beak.

Sigh.

So I got up and moved about 20 meters down the bank, set-up my gear, and sat back down on my stool.

Out of the corner of my eye I could see Mr Goose. He took one slow step sideways towards me. I looked at him and he froze. I looked away and he again took one slow step sideways.

It took him about half an hour to sneak 20 yards and then:

taptap-rattle-rattle-rattle

Head in my bait box again.

Enough was enough so I swung my plastic bag of sandwiches at his head and the bastard exploded into goosey fury. Hissing and snapping and flapping his wings, the bastard chased me up the tow path with me trying to run in chest waders. Then he went back and polished off my maggots and, to add insult to injury, nicked my sandwhiches as well.

Cheers
( Legless Mister Stabby - shanks for the memory, Sun 27 Apr 2008, 2:38, 7 replies)

I brought it upon myself.
I once bit the cat on the stomach. Think facehuggers from alien.

CLAMP.

Mum couldn't get her off because she was laughing too hard.
( ClanSoul, Sun 27 Apr 2008, 16:22, 3 replies)

Fight! Fight! Fight!



Apologies to whoever I ripped this off from....
( Gleeballs is mostly made out of chocolate and hate., Thu 24 Apr 2008, 14:48, 6 replies)

Free lunch
The question doesn't specify what the animals are attacking - so I'll give you a story about how our cat attacked someone's lunch.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

It was a Sunday in the early(ish) 1990's, around about lunchtime. You may remember it. Mum was in the kitchen doing something kitchenworthy when there was a clattering sound at the back door. Something was happening to the catflap.

She put down whatever she was doing to see the rear end of Python, one of the cats we had at the time, struggling to get through the catflap. This was odd: he was not a large cat. Inspection revealed that he was attempting the task backwards.

Cats do not normally go backwards through catflaps. Curious.

He wriggled a little. He was trying to drag something into the house. Something, by the looks of it, large and heavy. Mum grabbed the cat by the midriff and pulled. Python kept hold of whatever he was trying to bring home, but growled. He wasn't letting go.

The only thing to do was to open the back door, into which the flap was built, around the struggling feline to see what the fuss was about.

In his mouth, Python had a joint of beef. (Remember it was Sunday lunchtime.) It was nicely cooked and hot. It was as not far off as big as he was. Clearly, someone had taken it out of the oven, put it on the side to relax, looked away, and... WHOOSH! Gone.

Ah.

What to do?

We got on well with the neighbours on one side, but not so well with those on the other. We didn't really know those whose gardens backed onto ours all that well at all. All the same, Mum is an honourable sort. Starting with the neighbours we liked, she decided to start on a round of door-knocking.

"Um... were you having beef for lunch?"
"No. Why?"
"Oh... er... nothing. Bye!"

On to the neighbours on the other side. Same response. A quick walk around the block, then, to get to those round the back. Same response again.

The cat must have dragged the beef through the neighbours' gardens to get it back home, though. And my parents' back garden is, by suburban standards, reasonably large; the same applies to the neighbours' gardens. This means that he had managed probably about 30m at the shortest - and, likely as not, more - with a large, hot, beef joint in his maw.

Mum didn't ask at any of the other houses in the area. To this day, it's a mystery whose lunch Python attacked.
( Enzyme is powered by sunlight, Fri 25 Apr 2008, 14:40, 14 replies)

On the same camping trip that I mentioned earlier in this QOTW
My friends and I stumbled upon the Monkey World sanctuary, and decided to enter.
Basically the sanctuary is a clearing in some woods with a few Spidermonkeys in it somewhere near Dorset/Devon/Cornwall (I can't bloody remember, it was 10 years ago).

We decided to attach ourselves to a group of tourists and follow their guide around, he was an amiable chap and didn't mind us tagging along, even though we clearly hadn't paid for it.
Before the tour began, we were told not to make any form of eye contact with the monkeys, as this is taken as a sign of aggression. We were also told not to smile at the monkeys, as this too is a sign of aggression (incidentally, did you know that showing teeth as a sign of happiness is unique among humans? All other animals see it as the bearing of weapons). We were warned that if we saw a monkey making direct eye contact, showing it's teeth, attempting to make itself seem bigger by raising it's arms and standing upright, we were to look away.

So, the tour consisted of a two minute walk around the clearing, and an introduction to Alfred. Alfred, we were told was the most docile little Monkey in the sanctuary, apparently he was half-blind, extremely old, and half dead. We liked Alfred, he had a cute, fuzzy little face.
But Alfred DID NOT like us. Alfred was mean. He swung down from the canopy of trees above us, and fixed me with a mad, steely stare.
Remembering, but ignoring, the instructions we were given, I stared back. He showed me his yellow, rotten teeth, I showed him mine.
He raised himself up, stood upright, still staring his mad, scary grin at me, and raised his arms above his head.
I raised my arms and stood on my tippy-toes, there was no way I was backing down to Alfred, he was half-dead, what possible harm could he do?

He ran away, ran like the little simian coward that he was, and I laughed like a Hyena at my superior place in the ranking of the species of the world.

Til he came back later and threw shit in my Pimms.

Damn you Alfred..!

*shakes fist*

Monkey 1 - Human 0
( Bert Monkeysex is waiting for the mods to delete him, Wed 30 Apr 2008, 10:00, 19 replies)

Greyhound flesh stripper
Oooh I love telling people this one.

I didn't see it coming up behind me, but it must have been running full tilt when it jumped me, punch of paws on one shoulder, claws into the back of my neck on the other side.

We had been waiting for a club to open, enjoying the August evening, the year I left school.

Now I was sprawled brokenly on the pavement with a stinking, sweat-streaked greyhound astride my chest, snapping at my face and tearing through my clothes.

Wee Johnny bottled it. Crunch. Right between the eyes.

In the ambulance I kept shouting about my face, my left eye was an impossible boiling ant-hill of pain and I thought the dog had torn my cheek away.

One of it's paws had cracked the orbit of my eye. Heavy dog. But my scraped and swollen face was not what prompted the hospital porter to grey, sway, and leave the room. I looked across the trolley-bed to where my hand should have been. The dog had lopped off my thumb.

Not neatly, not the punctuated shock of an absent digit, the bite had laid my palm open and pulled my thumb bones out like an anatomist's frog.

The metacarpal bone protruded from a stripped and splintered mess of flesh and pulpy, ruined muscle. They can't stitch a wound like that. It looked like a chicken thigh, pulled apart and positively marinated in claret.

Doctors don't like to amputate a thumb. Thumbless people have all sorts of difficulty. Thumbs fascilitate such varied tasks as typing, playing with an etch-a-sketch, and peeling an orange independently. I begged them not to amputate.

And that's how I ended up with the recognisable pieces of my thumb bound in sterile gauze, and sternly warned that if it started to rot, it had to come off.

I cleaned it, dressed it, wept over it, swore at it, cleaned it again aand after several weeks I was able to start physio. Rehabilitation for moveing and stretching. My favourite exercise was one I re-named the 'Pick it, flick-it, stick-it' manoeuvre.

It didn't fester, and have a truly Frankenstein-esque scar where the flesh knit naturally. Never got the feeling back though. Numb as a thumb.

Next time you walk past the bookie's window and see a glorious photo-finish poster of slavering, razor-jawed psyco-hounds closing in on the hare; think of my poor bloody thumb... and look behind you.

Length? It could have ended up just a little bit shorter.
(hahasnakes, Tue 29 Apr 2008, 20:06, 4 replies)

Raped by a bee
Having gotten home from work late, then having had a lengthy telephone conversation with my lovely girlfriend (with whom I shall soon be moving in - yay!), I found myself taking my evening bath at the unusually late hour of 01:30.

Being a short sighted person my contacts were nestled safely in their case, so my eyesight was soft, blurry and most definately not in focus as I probed the pedal of the pedal bin with my foot, nicely softened up by my long hot soak in the bath.

I felt a pinch on my big toe, which rapidly turned to a masive burning sensation and about 2-3 minutes of white hot agony before the adrenaline kicked in.

Two things of importance then occurred to me:

1) What the hell sort of bee was awake and ready to sting at bloody half one in the morning?! (By now it was crawling around dying on the bathroom floor, its guts attached to my toe via its sting - karma is a bitch for bees, I guess...)

2) What do I do with the sting?

The first question remains unanswerable, but for the second I turned to that portal of infallible knowledge (wikipedia) and, alongside the answer of what to do (pinch it out), some interesting info about bees and beestings.

It turns out that a bee sting is the malformed genitalia of a bee, since only the queen bee can reproduce. The sting is the tube down which eggs would roll if the bee it was attached to happened to be the queen.

So, the bee stuck its genitals, violently and unbidden, (definately without my consent) into my toe.

In short, I was raped. By a bee. In my toe. And it bloody hurt.

It could at least have used some lube...

Length and girth? Why thank you I have both, blessed as I am with an enormous schlong.
(Stuffed Chimp, Mon 28 Apr 2008, 22:24, 4 replies)

in a vision I beheld
four riders: grim-visaged War, Famine, plucking his own flesh, foul Pestilence, and last of all was Death himself.

And lo! Each did ride a llama, of purest white.

It was the Alapcalypse.
(apeloverage committed the vile act of onanism on, Thu 24 Apr 2008, 18:08, 5 replies)

Bangladeshi wildlife
My friend John and I were in Bangladesh. We had planned on poking around a temple and then walking back to town, but we got lost in rare style. We found ourselves in a jungle (a jungle!) as the sun was setting. We decided that the only thing to do was cut down a bamboo tree with my two inch Swiss Army knife and use the foliage as a blanket. That was a bizarre night.

The next day was fairly nightmarish. No food, our 500ml bottle of water had been empty for a day, no change of clothes, no map, no compass, no real clue on how to survive in a strange country or indeed in anything other than an urban environment. We gave messages to each other to relay to our families if either of us didn't make it.

To cut a long story short, two days later we, thank goodness, were in a hotel in Chittagong. We splashed out on some luxury, and even managed to receive Indian MTV. I was watching a particularly fine advert for shampoo when I decided to inspect my shoulder to see why it was so itchy. There was an ugly looking brown spot. Scratching it caused it to flake off, but one corner tenaciously clinged to my skin. Growing suspicious, I examined it with the lens in my knife. The thing had legs. I was supporting a tick. John and I compiled a tick inventory. I was infested on my shoulder, just above my nipple, the soft spot between my earlobe and my head and a few other places.

Tugging them with tweezers didn't work, as their heads gripped very tightly. John, damn him a thousand times, at that point "remembered" that the way to get rid of ticks is to burn them off. Out came the matchbox.

You know that little sulphurous puff you get when you light a match? It was an appropriate signal for the hell that was to follow. Holding a lit match to your skin is never fun at the best of times, but holding one under your earlobe is simply awful. The worst moment came when I thought I had finished, but then realised that a tick was in fact sucking on my scrotum. I was being teabagged by an insect, and the only way to stop its advances was to hold a lit match to my balls. The bathroom filled with the smell of singed pubic hairs (and howls of laughter from John).

The story isn't finished yet. The next day we happened to come across some doctors, to whom we told our story. They smirked and shook their heads. They told us that burning a tick leaves its head buried under your skin. We could look forward to some nasty infections, and sure enough for months to come the bites were gushing pus. The one above my nipple wept so much that one day four months later someone pointed out that I appeared to be lactating.

Just for reference, you twist and pull at the same time. Hurts, but you remove the head. Bear that in mind the next time you visit a temple.
(I grew it myself, Thu 1 May 2008, 8:26, 5 replies)

It wasn't a rock...
A few years back I was out snorkelling with a friend of mine, on the hunt for abalone and rock lobsters, known locally as crayfish.

Click here for a picture of one such beast.

My friend spotted an especially large cray under a rock and decided that it would do nicely for dinner.

Now, most people around here who catch crayfish do so by means of a craypot, which is basically a large wicker basket with a funnel shaped opening that allows crays to get in, but not out. However, us divers regard this as cheating, and hold that the only honorable way to catch a cray is to dive beneath the surface and do battle with the creature yourself. Since crayfish tend to lurk in crevices under rocks, and retreat at the slightest sign of danger, they are quite hard to catch, especially when they're six metres down and you have to hold your breath while carefully extracting them.

My friend took a deep breath and dived down. I waited on top. And waited. And waited. Just as I was about to dive down and see if he was alright, he surfaced nearby, completely out of breath and with a large cray leg clamped tight around his index finger.

As he got his breath back, he told me what had happened. Most crays, when they sense that you're reaching for them, will simply shoot to the back of their hidey-hole and lurk there out of reach. This one, however, clearly pissed off with some bastard reaching into his home and trying to eat him, decided to fight back, and lunged at my friend's hand as he made a grab for it. Firmly latched on, it then used its tail to wedge itself even more firmly under the rock. This had the result that my friend was unable to remove the crayfish from the hole, and he was also unable to remove his hand from the crayfish. Running short on air, and faced with the embarrassing possibility of death by crustacean, he braced himself on the rock, and with an almighty heave tore the leg off the cray and made his escape.

After swimming back to shore, we were able to prise off the death-gripping claw, which my friend now keeps on his desk as a memento of the titanic struggle.

Yet somewhere out there, in the ocean deep, the cray with the missing leg still lurks, growing in size and hatred year after year, awaiting the day that my friend returns to the water, so that the two old enemies may join in their final battle...

...a battle to the death.

Apologies for length, but you're only allowed to take them if the carapace length from horns to rear is over 110mm.
(oball needs Satan more than he needs me, Thu 1 May 2008, 3:21, 1 reply)

Penguins can be mean little bastards, too.

( The Resident Loon Not a demographic. Do not measure., Mon 28 Apr 2008, 19:31, 6 replies)

The love that dare not speak it's name
My mate D spent some of his gap year working in a wild animal sanctuary in Malaysia.

One day he was happily cleaning the area next to the orangutan enclosure when suddenly a huge hairy orange hand reached through the bars of the enclosure and grabbed him round the back of head.

D froze, having been told the best thing to do if grabbed by one of the animals was not to struggle as most would then think you were dead and drop you.. However this didn't seem to have much of an effect as the orangutan then slowly but surely began to pull him towards the cage. D twisted his head round to come face-to-face with Omar, the biggest and most bad-ass of all the male orangutans in the sanctuary.

Now in fear of his life, either from being crushed against the cage or by simply being ripped apart, D then noticed something worse.

Omar was only holding him with one hand because he was furiously wanking himself silly with the other.

With the new threat of being horrifically raped, or at least getting a load of monkeyspunk in his hair D redoubled his efforts and managed to break free.

Apparently Omar just sat there and carried on but did have a rather disappointed look on his face.

D steered clear of the orangutan enclosure for the next few weeks.
(Milo Minderbinder, Fri 25 Apr 2008, 15:32, 2 replies)

Evil passion killing bunny
Seeing as this is a reposted QOTW, I'll grace it with a repost. It's bit like BBC2, without the license fee.

A year ago I was seeing a lass who had was babysitting a cute ickle bunnywabbit called "Rabbi", as named by his Jewish custodians. She invited me back for coffee and groping post date, so as the front door opened I was introduced to her temporary charge. Rabbi was a free range house rabbit, who'd been trained to use a cat litter tray and with his little twitchy nose and fluffy bunny tail was as cute as cute gets.

There is one issue though. I fucking hate rabbits. They never live up to their cute billing. As a general rule, they're grumpy, smelly and thick. Kind of like a rodent version of Sara Cox.

Not Rabbi. Oh no. He jauntily bounced over to me and sniffed my hand before jumping into my lap. Rabbi enjoyed being petted, so I made a fuss of him much to the delight of the lass, I felt my prejudice melting away as I ticked Rabbi's little bunny jowls.

More primal urges were calling however, so as my lady companion relaxed on her sofa I edged over and kissed her. Hands were grasping and caressing the backs of heads as the kissing grew in both intensity and promise. Oh yes. I was scripting a tale to rival the best of Mr Spencer when I felt a soft, furry "plop" in my lap.

Yes, hello Rabbi. Yes, you're very cute. Have a fuss. Amid some fawning giggles, Rabbi jumped back down to forage on the floor, bless his little furry socks.

Where was I? Ah yes...

A few snog-laden minutes later there's another warm furry presence in my lap and not the one I had in mind. Rabbi again.

Showing a multitasking ability far in advance of what can be reasonably expected for my gender, I carried on kissing and caressing. I felt a draught of cold air round my neck as the top button on my shirt was popped open.

Rabbi was seemingly most put out for he jumped into my lap a good five times while the kissing tempo increased. I did the honorable thing and ignored him, hoping he'd get the hint.

My hand brushed my thigh as I felt an urgent need to adjust my clothing in the face of such a pheromone induced assault.

What the fuck?

My hand brushed some hard, round marbles and I knew instantly why he'd been so keen to get into my lap. As passion was replaced by surprise and disgust, the mood changed sharply.

Rabbit shit isn't the most offensive substance known to man, but Rabbi had planned for this. Not only had he been shitting on me, he'd also been pissing on the cushion next to me, enraging my date a tad and utterly ruining the mood. Passion evapourated amongst a fluffy of disinfectant spray, wet cloths and oaths.

As I bade a chaste farewell half an hour later, I swear I heard sniggering from the furry little bastard.
(Bicycle Repairman "you're also a bit of a wanker", Thu 24 Apr 2008, 15:40, 1 reply)

Less of an attack, more a case of harassment
A few days ago, I was peacefully sitting in my room, reading the entire internet in an attempt to avoid doing the work I was supposed to be doing. My window was open a crack, enough to let out fag smoke, but not nearly enough for any winged beasties to find their way in.

So I thought.

At 9.13 a fly buzzed in. I immediately opened the window fully to allow the little git out. It did not immediately take me up on this offer of non-conflict and instead angrily circled the light fitting.

I decided to offer it a five minute period of grace to remove itself from my presence. Here I made a terrible error: negotiating with terrorists. It decided to flaunt my weakness by buzzing around my head. So I did what any reasonable human being would do and declared war. This fly would die.

I grabbed the two most important tools that any fly-hunter will need: a rolled-up newspaper and a can of deodorant.

But the bastard is clever. I am five foot three, and crap at jumping. Although my arms are disproportionately long, there was still no way I could reach the unreasonably high ceiling. The little bastard knew this, it was clever. So it stayed up there, and I waited for it to make a mistake.

Finally, it flew to the space on the ceiling just above the bed. I clambered up, and it was now within reach. It sat, knitting its little front legs, and I moved in for the kill.

It was fast, too. Riduculously fast. I succeeded in bringing down some of the Artex on the ceiling.

I considered combining a lighter with the can of deodorant, to fashion a flame-thrower. I think my airborne enemy must have developed psychic powers--perhaps it was a genetically modified military experiment--as it immediately retreated to a convenient spot at the top of the curtains.

Thankfully, it was within reach of the spray, so it was time for me to breach international law and use chemical weapons. I pressed the button, and my quarry began to fly erratically, suddenly dropping out of the air.

I rejoiced! It was dead! I had won! But where was its hairy little corpse?

I made possibly my silliest mistake. I did not look for the body, assuming it had dropped into the nether region of mess behind my desk.

Ten minutes later, it was time for the sequel. My fuzzy foe had faked his own death and was now severely pissed off. He returned to the onslaught of buzzing in my face, then retreating to higher ground.

It stayed on the ceiling for a while; perhaps it was asleep. By now blind with fury, I wheeled my wheely chair to beneath it, and climbed up, armed with my trusty copy of the Guardian. Wielding my weapon like a baseball bat, I took a swing.

And fell off my chair. Hands up if you could see that coming. With hindsight, I definitely could. So now I was angry and with a sore foot. I vowed that this winged demon would die a peasant's death. I would catch it, and pull its legs off. Perhaps its wings too. And I'm usually a pacifist.

I wish I could tell you that I succeeded in my plan for revenge. Or perhaps that the fly and I settled our differences and embarked upon a plan for world domination.

But the most depressing part of this tale is that there was no resolution. The two-hour battle had made me work up a thirst (not to mention that constantly spraying solvents around tends to dry out the old mouth a little), so I toddled off to the kitchen to grab a glass of water.

My nemesis followed me out of the room and left via the kitchen window.

I suppose this would be equivalent to all the Nazis moving to the moon.
( Queen of Cheesecake, Thu 24 Apr 2008, 17:43, 3 replies)

"Please don't poke the turtle"
More a combination of a grumpy animal and customer stupidity, but I thought I'd share.

I'm a fishkeeper and general fan of slightly more exotic pets (currently researching how to acquire an octopus)

As such, for several consecutive summer holidays I took a job in the Aquatics Department of a garden centre.

This aquatics department had (amongst other things) a large and extremely cantankerous snapping turtle who we'd acquired from someone who thought it was a terrapin until he neatly severed the last joint on her little finger.

Old Snappy used to like to wander a bit. He was deceptively strong and could lift the hood off his tank, but usually failed to haul his armoured ass over the side. Very occasionally you'd come in in the morning and he'd be sitting in the middle of the floor. Looking for stuff to maim, I assume.

On one memorable occasion I was opening up but had been beaten into the department by some cuntstomers. Cuntstomers who had found Snappy on one of his infrequent jaunts. Cuntstomers who had decided to poke and film Snappy with A FUCKING MOBILE PHONE.

Me: "Please step away from the turtle, sir"

Knob: "Why?"

Me: He's a snapping turtle. He's got a beak like a pair of bolt cutters and could happily shear your thumb off."

Knob: "Turtles can't hurt people and he's enjoying the attention" (WTF, it's a REPTILE, not a border collie for God's sake)
(To horrible children): "Look at the silly turtle!" *poke, poke*

SNAP.

Cue one utterly fucked mobile phone (straight through the screen. Good job, Snappy).

Cue one angry chav, and Snappy being gingerly returned home.

Cue one manager paying for replacement phone. And demanding bricks on top of Snappy's lid.

Snappy was eventually sold (after about 10 years in the shop) and now lives in a garage somewhere, I believe. Good old Snapster.

Apologies for length. Would have been shorter if Snappy had got hold of it properly....
(pharmatron Death or Scunthorpe? CHOOSE!!, Thu 24 Apr 2008, 18:32, 4 replies)

eels: not as bad as camels
For a few years in my mid-to-late 20's I had a saltwater aquarium, 75 gallons, quite nice. After I'd had it a while, I bought a snowflake moray eel. We fed the vegetarian fish little globs of algae and fish food, and we fed the lionfish live goldfish.

The moray was probably 10" when I bought him. A few months later he's doubled in size, and he knows that when the top of the tank opens, food is coming. So instead of waiting like a good little eel, he starts *darting* at the hole in the top of the tank. And he can launch himself a good six or seven inches out of the water. So I'm reduced to flinging open the top, dropping pellets and live fish in and withdrawing as quickly as possible. Until one day I was too slow, and that little fish-fucker sunk his needle-sharp teeth into my finger and just hung on. It hurt like fuck and all I could do was flail my bleeding finger around until he got annoyed and dropped off.

So after that, we netted him, bagged him, and took him back to the fish store, which bought him back for three time what we'd paid for him.

Also, he ate our hermit crab.
( madrabbit is fully prepared, Tue 29 Apr 2008, 5:49, 4 replies)

Result!
OK, so not precisely on topic but this has just made me almost punch the air:

news.bbc.co.uk/1/hi/england/lancashire/7370637.stm

When animals attack, it seems that sometimes, just sometimes the justice system does the right thing...

I hope they fucking rot, the lot of them.
( Davros' Granddad a voice of calm reason in a world of spastics., Mon 28 Apr 2008, 16:56, 30 replies)

my next door neighbours dog
RIP.

called Jake, an german shephard cross.

He always would go mental when the postman walked up to the front door, as most dogs do.

Then one day, the postman approached the door - no noise, where was the dog he thought?

As the postman turned around there was a large crash. glass and wood flying everywhere... Jake had ran through the house, down the hall, skidded and ran straight through the front door, and was now standing between the postmans legs, looking somewhat bemused. Jake did nothing but turned around and walked back through the hole in the door lookiing a little sorry for homself. It seems now he had the postamn he didnt kknow what to do with him.
(Dan dan dan They tik urh jerbs!!!, Fri 25 Apr 2008, 14:19, Reply)

My sister...
...was bitten by a møøse. Møøse bites can be quite painful.


Olaf Prøt
( jim_bob can herd cats., Thu 24 Apr 2008, 22:57, 3 replies)

Nearly mauled to death in India / sexual Predators
Okay a few years ago, me and the then Mrs-Lizard had taken a few months off work to visit India on a bit of a backpacking mission.

Lots of things went wrong (but most are for another QOW), but I have to mention the bit were I came off my scooter and nearly broke my hip.
I braved it and was left with a deep gash in my hip/stomach area, skinned knees and elbows, battered ankles and bruised bones, the worst being my hip bone. AGONY!
But I roughed it and refused to visit a hospital (stupidly/bravely?)

So anyhow, a few weeks later I was still limping along quite badly, but was capable of carrying my rucksack and could get about... so we found ourselves in a town called Gokarna, which is quite an amazing place, but was filled with the usual cows, scruffy cats and dogs, mosquito's and hornets.

At first they weren't the problem, it was a certain bookstore owner who invited us into going back to his house and eat with him and his family. So we go back (we'd known him for two days and he seemed friendly enough).
We ate with him, his brother and cousin, and all was good, until I realised I was the only one who was talking.
They had all taken a big interest in my girlfriend after getting us VERY stoned with an after-meal joint.

I mean very stoned off ONE joint (it was something called afghan charas!), and then I got the fear (as if being thousands of miles from any semblance of your own culture, not knowing if these guys were just being friendly or trying to take advantage...) and I was in no position to fight any of them, what with my injuries.
Anyway, the brother and the cousin left the room and locked me, her and the bookstore guy alone.

So to cut a long story short, he started telling me he had a gun... we were locked in his house!
He was a nutter.
But somehow after we insisted that we had to leave (for maybe the twentieth time of asking) and he embraced my girlfriend in a Loooong hug, he unlocked the door and let us go....

Very stoned, injured and paranoid and now lost.

Because he originally walked us to the house, we were walking back alone, in a strange Indian town at 2AM in the dark.

The bookstore guy even went one step further to fuck things up for us by giving us fake drections back to the guesthouse, but i trusted my instincts and ignored his directions and luckily limped back to the main road.
So all was good, we breathed a HUGE sigh of relief and shuffled on home...

along the dark and empty streets....

Except for the distant sounds of barking, and strange black shaped crawling from the shadows in everey direction, from gutters and alleyways...

Wild street dogs.

During the day, thes poor bastards are baking in the heat, living on scraps of food and generally being beaten and pushed away by the busy Indians.

But at night... these fuckers ruled the streets.

And there we were, already freaked out, stoned and injured and we were being followed and circled by a dozen of these fuckers.

My first instinct was to find a rock or a branch or anything, but we just so happened to be in the only place in India that contained no stones...

That was it... I'd go down fighting, cos just one bite would have given me rabies... So as they got within a few feet, growling, teeth-baring distance...

We were suddenly engulfed in white light and a large crash and a yelp and chaos.
We looked around and the dogs had scattered, and there were big bits of wood and a stunned dog next to us... we turned to the light.

Nope it wasn't an angel, it was hotel porter who had come out to see what all the barking was about, to find us two about two seconds away from a good mauling. So being the legend that he was, he whacked on all the lights and threw a wooden chair into their midst.

Our hero.

We were th-is far from death.
(mr-lizard Hell's teeth man!, Tue 29 Apr 2008, 22:06, Reply)

non existent snake attack
when i was a nipper i wasn't allowed any pets, my mum was a bit of a Hyacinth Bucket type. We were the only people on our council estate that had a 'cloak room' everyone else had a a 'loaby press' or hall cupboard to you.

So when i trotted off to college I shared a flat with two other long suffering blokes who were at best 'indifferent' to pets. i quickly turned into a veritable jonny morris - greatly encouraged by the future Mrs Spimf who bought me two kittens, then an aquarium then one fine day...

an Argentinean red tailed boa constrictor quickly followed by a Burmese python. i should stress that these creatures were docile to the point of dull and more importantly entirely NON venomous

in my final year Mrs Spimf and i were spending more time together and one of the flat-mates was getting on my tits so i got my own place (see my post : annoying spotty prick )

As i was moving in to my new flat this guy approached me, now allow me a moment to describe this bloke: dull green velour tight fitting long-sleeved top, black jogging pants tucked into boots. sideburns cut to a v shaped point. it took me all of two seconds to realise this bloke was dressed as captain kirk.

he shook my hand and proclaimed with great pride "hello, my names Chris and I'm an artist" for that my internal babel fish translated "hello. I'm your neighbor and I'm as mad as a fucking battenburg"

we got to know the chris 'the artist' a bit better and realized 'delusional piss artist' might have been a better moniker - but he seemed harmless enough. I should add the only time i ever saw him paint was when he had become a bit maudlin about his ex - got pissed and wrote in 8 foot high letters along our street (NAME OF EX BINT) I STILL LOVE YOU! he would come up for a beer and a chat now and then and was most interested in my snakes, who had got quite large by now - Coco the burmese python being around 7 feet long by now and as thick as your forearm, Basil the Boa a fair bit smaller. so not exactly 'monster snake man-eating size' we discussed at length that they were NON venomous which seemed to satisfy chris the artist particularly when i showed him some defrosted rats bought from the pet suppliers being fed to them.

Anyhoo one fine summers evening i was enjoying more than a few beers at home and mrs spimf decided to retire to bed. pissed and bored i decided to mist some water using a plant sprayer into the snake vivarium - which i had built myself, was as large as a chest freezer and had some nice smoked glass sliding doors.

next thing i know I'm coming round with this Chris 'the artist' standing over me with a huge fuck off hunting knife clutching an SAS Survival Handbook

"what the fuck are you doing in here and what the FUCK are you doing with that knife"

"looking for puncture wounds" he said quite calmly. I should point out i was also only wearing a pair of boxer shorts (warm summer evening) and was beginning to feel quite perturbed by events.

"WHAT!!!" what fucking puncture wounds?

then mrs spimf intervened

she had heard a loud thud and came in to find me out cold with the snakes nosing their slithery way out of the tank and over me. she gave me a shake and couldn't wake me so had panicked somewhat and decided to go and get "Chris the artists help".

I turns out somehow in my pissed up state i managed to get some water on the lighting or heating electrics and got a slight belt. however when i recoiled i must have battered my noggin on the edge of the vivarium and knocked myself out. (big bruise on forehead and shorted out lights in tank - sherlock)

so our self styled bohemian star trekking survivalist nutter of a neighbour - presumably who had long been prepared for such an emergency had sprung into action with a bloody rambo knife and some camouflage fetishists handbook open at the page on dealing with venomous snake bites.

like i say mad as a fucking battenburg
( spimf ™ is whoever you want him to be, Mon 28 Apr 2008, 14:03, 6 replies)

You know that bit with the facehugger in Aliens
It amazes me how many different habits people have when sleeping, some like the windows open, doors closed, doors open, no pillow, big pillow, no light, little bit of light, music on (a friend of mine used to fall asleep to Megadeth on his walkman), pyjamas, nightie you get the idea... For me, I like complete darkness and everything closed tight. I used to have the window open a little bit, but since that time I woke up with a giant (5cm) cockroach on my chin that ain't happening no more. I also sleep as God intended: Omnipotent er I mean in the nudie. So anyway the whole house is dark, all doors are closed and the only thing stirring is my bladder. It is rather upset that I've turned it into some sort of pikey hot water bottle through the night and it is demanding to be emptied.
Now I know my house quite well, as you'd expect. It's a single floor and the bathroom is right down the other end of the house. Why would I bother turning on the light eh? The house is free from random chairs, shin killing coffee tables and upturned plugs. Only people in the UK are nodding knowingly at that one: sometime in the late 30's a guy came to see the government and said "right chaps we've got these smooth two prong round things that Johnny foreigner uses or I've got this flat backed three pronged beauty, and look I've sharpened the ends to dull points, England: we have a winner".
Right where was I, yeah so I use my internal memory map of the house to navigate to the bathroom: out of bedroom door, pace, pace, pace, squeaky floorboard, four more paces to the door to the lounge, open door...and then...and then something happens which doesn't usually happen. You know that bit with the facehugger in Aliens? As it runs about trying to hug face it makes a funny noise halfway between a pattering of a lobster on steroids and the sound of skin being cut open. Not generally a welcome sound, even less when you hear it accompanying a dark shadow moving quickly on the other side of the room. Now I don't really live in a rough area, but it used to be, so all the windows have bars and the doors are deadlocked. The only weak point is, you guessed it, the one bathroom. It sits on the other side of the main rear door in a little sort of added on annex which has a flimsy patio door to the outside. Now I'm not a big brave person or anything like that, but I was half asleep and I do have guinea pigs which live in the house (in hutches) so I figured one of two things had happened:
I'm imagining it or:
one of the piggies has got loose and is doing it's best to make me crap my pants (ha - tough luck piggy, I sleep nudie), at no point do I assume there is a facehugger in my house. So 'bugger it' I think, and walk through the lounge...through the open plan kitchen, unlock the big dead bolt door into the annex and go into the loo.
I have a lovely wee.
I walk back through kitchen into the lounge, no point in putting the light on. When I get to the hallway I hear that weird scritch scritch sound as before but this time it's ahead of me. Hmm odd, I turn, check the animals are safely in there hutch (there is a little bit of twilight in the lounge), they are. So I walk back to the bedroom and stop at the doorway peering into the gloom. The noise has now changed. It's no longer the scritch scritch, it's more of a scrabble scrabble, and it's loud, I mean LOUD. I am now severely freaked with a complete case of 'The Fear'. My partner has woken up with the noise and is wondering how I can be standing in the bedroom doorway but making a noise from the other corner.
This is it. I turn on the light. For a moment we're all stunned. None of us can see a damn thing because of the bright light. Slowly the high contrast fades and my eyes hurt as the pupils contract to pin pricks. I can see the walls, the bed, and my partner staring up at me with a very concerned (angry) face. Oh, also there is a honking great rat sat on top of the covers. It’s the size of Belgium. It's looking at me. It's not looking happy. It looks like it wants to eat my face. Fortunately my partners face is much closer. Hey, I didn't say it was fortunate for everyone.
So what do I do? I'm blocking his only exit and my partner is still looking at me and not at the creature 8 inches away. You know when you say to someone "Don't turn around" or "don't move while I get this thing of your head" or "Don't freak out but I think its fangs are in you" they invariably turn round or move or like scream incoherently about not liking fangs. So I don't say a thing; I move my eyes and lift my eyebrow to indicate that I'm staring at something of considerable interest. My partners gaze follows.
Then there's like this giant rat eating my face.

My partner contests that a simple knee jerk reaction to pull on the duvet caused the creature to be catapulted in my direction. I know better, he had taken a liking to my pretty eyes. I like my eyes too, admittedly I don't use them as often as I should, like going to the toilet in the middle of the night, but all in all I like my eyes in my face and not in a rat.

Ratty or ARRRRRGGGHGHHGJESUSGETIMOFFGETHIMOFF as I like to call him, made a bolt down the hall and is currently hiding out somewhere in the lounge. Quite frankly how we can't find something of his size is stupefying.
...it's the next evening now; I have a humane trap set up in the lounge. I'm wishing this desk had a glass surface so I could see if anything was coming near my feet. When I've finished typing this I'm off to eBay for a bedpan.

no apologies, for size is important

edit: now with extra carriage returns!
( KittyWaste lives at Sleepingplanet.com, Sun 27 Apr 2008, 23:27, 5 replies)