not so much seaguls attack
This isn’t my story but one of my friends.

They were on a stag doo and decided to go beach fishing, with a roaring fire, cook what they caught etc.

Now, on of the lads wasn’t really the fishing kind, sort of disagreed with the whole thing.

Anyhow, he decided to give it a whirl for the sake of the stag.

His first cast, flies through the air, wraps round a seagull mid flight, and plunges to the sea.

"SHIT! SHIT!" he screamed.

The seagull was now in the water and struggling to stay afloat. All that could be heard was gurgles of Seagull cries. Meanwhile the seagulls mate had decided to float next to the commotion.

The weights used in sea fishing are pretty heavy to accommodate tide forces etc.

"What do we do? he’s nearly going under" my mate shouted.

"erm Cut the line" one lad shouted...

Which they did

And as they did the seagull plunged under...

it turned out the only thing keeping the seagull slightly afloat was the line itself..

Then it was silent, apart from the cries from the seagulls mate...

My mate threw his rod down and has never picked up one since.
(Dan dan dan They tik urh jerbs!!!, Thu 1 May 2008, 12:32, Reply)

thats nothing
I saw a dog driving a big american train the other week, picking up pooches and dropping them off at various cities.

yeah, twas an animal Amtrak
(Halfy By light alone, Thu 1 May 2008, 12:23, Reply)

Another clever moggy I know...
... has managed to produce a high-quality music compression format based on psycho-acoustic modelling and lossy coding techniques for Sony.

Tsk, when animals ATRAC, eh?

/reallyreallysorry
(JohabMorelli is spenging merrily away, Thu 1 May 2008, 12:19, Reply)

I once caught my dog
looking confused with his head in the Guiness Book of World Records. I guess that's what happens When Animals Meet Facts....
(CptCoatHanger performed his last back-street abortion on, Thu 1 May 2008, 12:18, Reply)

feel free to groan
Mustafa Kemal ******** (b. 1881 in Selânik, Ottoman Empire – d. November 10, 1938 in Istanbul, Turkey) was an army officer, revolutionary statesman, and founder of the Republic of Turkey as well as its first President.

But he had terrible eating habits, he was an animal, Ataturk.
(Halfy By light alone, Thu 1 May 2008, 12:17, 2 replies)

The 'eel'
Whilst in Majorca when i was a kid we were sunning it on the beach one day, suddenly there was some commotion to the right of us. It was coming from a Stream flowing from the mountains down to the beach. Sort of like a Storm drain. A few lads were running up the stream, there was lots of splashing and shouting, like they were chasing something.

We sat back down again and ignored them. Then there was a great Cheer.

We looked over again to see one of the lads holding what looked like a length of Rope in the air. I ran over to get a closer look, by which time the guy was walking over (with loads of Kids and mates in tow) As i approached he had just walked up to the beach bar.

“Hay mate” he shouted to the barman, “how much will you give me for this eel?”

The Barman laughed as he walked over, as the barman got closer his face turned to a shade of horror, he yelped and ran back out of the bar and took shelter on the far side of the bar... he then shouted things in Spanish and pointed at the lad...

An old man on the end of the bar, leathery face with a cigarette in his mouth, spoke in broken English,

" Hehe, the barman no like you, that is no eel, it is how do you say - water snake..."

The young lads face broke, as he looked upon the snake in his hand writhing away mouth opened looking to bite.

He didn’t know what to do with it, if he let go it could get him.

Deadly poisonous don’t you know...
(Dan dan dan They tik urh jerbs!!!, Thu 1 May 2008, 12:16, Reply)

When I lived at teh parents
I was astounded to walk into my room and find 2 of my mothers cats on my decks recording the mix on an old school tape player.

A clear cut case of When Animals 8-Track

/sorry
(never-right -getting it wrong since '78, Thu 1 May 2008, 11:27, 7 replies)

Duck & Lover
Many moons ago, I rented a great little farmhouse that came with it's own colony of large Muscovy ducks.

Mad little fuckers though they were, we soon learned to love them and them us. They'd run (literally) to us whenever we got home for some bread and to hiss at the cat, stand on the window sill outside the kitchen eye-balling us or just wander in through the door to shit on the carpet.

After gaining their trust they let us hand feed them the precious stale bread they so coveted or, on special occassions, cornflakes.

Me being a man and that, I decide that the only thing left to do was to feed one... by mouth.

I broke off a tasty crust and stuck it casually between my lips. Had I been more vigilant, I'd have noticed 'Edgar' - the biggest, greediest and obvious King of the ducks - giving me the lifeless one-eyed, cocked-headed stare.

No sooner had I bent down Edgar seized his chance; in a swift single stroke he struck - pecking at the bread with suck force that he burst both my lips and very nearly broke my front teeth.

I stood dazed and bleeding while Edgar stared at me, eating his prize while mrs tinpixel pissed herself laughing.

I spent the next week with purple Betty Boop lips, explaining to clients that asked that No, I'd not been fighting, I'd been attacked by a duck.
(tinpixel, Thu 1 May 2008, 11:23, Reply)

A friend's cat...
... munched her way through a box of drawing pins.

A clear case of when animals eat tacks, I think.
(JohabMorelli is spenging merrily away, Thu 1 May 2008, 11:18, Reply)

no so much attack as offend
When my Mr and Miss friends decided to become Mr and Mrs friends they had to get the vicar around a few times to convince him of their piety and devotion to the lord . . . so they could get married in the church they wanted.

So the vicar turns up, and lo is confronted by a great big chocolate Labrador bounding up and down on his feet. Vicar doesn't like animals, really really not liking any animals at all and is practically sitting on top of the door to keep away (even though they are gods own creatures, fucking cunty hypocrite) and so is ushered into the lounge quickly before the dog drools all over him and the door is shut.

After a little bit of small talk they settle down on the sofa and started to talk shop, the Vicar opens his briefcase and passes some religious guff to mr & miss friends to study and he asks a few more questions.

As this goes on mr and miss friend notice a little bundle of fur wandering around behind vicar. its the cat, and its not so much got a screw loose as one or two holding the whole thing together. Cat likes guests so jumps on the vicars lap and goes to make puddings. Vicar freaks and the cat is deposited on the floor and attempted to be shoved out without letting the dog in, this fails so they just get on with it.

Cat decides that she has seen a very comfy spot indeed, climbs into the vicars briefcase, splays her back legs as wide open as possible and starts licking her arse. Vicar has not noticed yet but Mr and Miss friend are in puddles on the sofa trying not to howl with laughter yet surrepticiuosly trying to oosh the cat out. Vicar bends down to get another leaflet and is confronted by a pussy pussy, the look of absolute horror and disgust on his face will be enough to send that little cat to hell for a long long time!
(Halfy By light alone, Thu 1 May 2008, 10:48, Reply)

when small fish attack
Well, quite a while ago, when I was much smaller and teenage mutant hero turtles were all the rage, I went on a short break with my family to Jersey.

It was decided that we would all go down to one of the beaches; in this case, a particualy nice little "bay" which you get to by climbing down quite a few (steep as I remeber) stone steps.

So after messing about in the sea for a little while, I spot a silvery fish darting about in the shallows, so queue me bounding about trying to catch it. Well, suffice to say I didn't manage it. What was strange was it simply "disappeared"; this should have sent alarm bells ring, but being young and inexperienced, I thought nothing of it. That was until two minutes later there is a horrendous pain in my foot.

That little fecker of a fish was a "weaver fish". They have an interesting habit of buring themselves in the sand. Infront of its dorsal fin is another fan shaped fin which just poke out of the sand; the formost spines in this fin are like hyperdermic needles, and one of which, when stood upon, injects the unexpecting victim with venom.

I had to walk up all those damn steps to get to the lifeguard (which was an insane arrangement by any means - why the hell was he not on the actual beach?) and submerge my foot and most of my lower leg in REALLY hot water for 20 minutes to neutralise the poison.

I did not go back into the sea for the rest of the holiday.


Length? It was [---- THIS ----] big, honest!
( theoriginalsteve <this space intentionally left blank>, Thu 1 May 2008, 10:05, 7 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'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)

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)

And
A partidge, whilst in a pear tree

I am soooo sorry
(Harleif Skankhammer II was killing time at, Thu 1 May 2008, 2:20, 1 reply)

Mew
*POP*

My cat bit the property manager when she came round for the quarterly inspection.
Bitch deserved it, she's not done anything she promised she'd do.
~_~
My cat also attacks people's heads. He hides and waits for someone to wander by. Nothing like having your head hugged by a furry pin cushion to wake you up in the morning...

Be careful with me, it's my first time...
(FubarKibble, Thu 1 May 2008, 0:33, Reply)

Cows are not that clever
Way back when (it was legal), and when I was a bit less apathetic, I'd occasionally go foraging for magic mushrooms up on the south Downs, generally with little success.

Apparently you're supposed to do it before dawn's early light. Well, being the thick twats we were, we thought late afternoon was probably just as good.

So there we were, tramping round fields on a cold October afternoon, when we got into a bit of a boggy bit. The going got slow, the light started to fail, so we thought sod it, time for home and made a beeline for the first recognisable landmark.

As we tramp, a few of the more athletic looking cows in the field decide to trail behind a bit... and as we keep going, the cows come closer and gain in number. So we pick up speed - they pick up speed, and almost instantly their number doubles as all their compatriots hear the rumble of hooves across the field. They're close now, and me and my friend Bob Skeng are getting pretty shitted up, seeing as it's dark and we've got 10 tonnes of beef behind us at 7mph or something. We decide to peg it... and quickly realise the cows can not only easily keep up, they're getting EVEN CLOSER.

At this point, 'cos I'm not much of a runner, I think my best course of action is to turn round, face them head-on and try to sneak through a gap rather than be mown down from behind.

The sight of a dozen cattle all attempting to put the brakes on, feet skittering as they skid about in their own shit, trying to avoid each other (and me) and then pelt it away in sheer panic will stay with me for ever.

Next time no doubt, I will actually get seriously trampled.
(JohabMorelli is spenging merrily away, Wed 30 Apr 2008, 23:53, 2 replies)

fuck it, might as well list them all
i've been bitten/attacked by:

dogs
cats
2 bees
1 wasp
hornets
ladybirds
mosquitos
a snake
giant hissing cockroaches
rabbits
chipmunks
ferrets
one very large eel

aaaaaaaand that's about it, i think.
(LIMES, Wed 30 Apr 2008, 23:38, 4 replies)

One last note
After a crafty fag in the woods with one of my close friends we return to our school chums in the canteen

Chum: Ellie ther's a slug on you

*glances down to look at my arm, covered in a very long slug trail with the tiny little offender perring back at me*

Myself: ARRRRRRRRRRRRRGH! ARRRRRRRRGH! GETITOFFGETITOFFGETITOFF!!!!

I hate slugs.
(Ellytots Last thought of chocolate on, Wed 30 Apr 2008, 23:29, Reply)

SLUGS!
After a bit of a sesh last night me and a mate ended up kipping at our friends house, him on the sofa and me in the spare room.

When I came down stairs the next morning I discovered my jacket that I had (in the previous nights stupor) left on the living room floor; now criss crossed with shiny, slimy slug trails...

Who the hell has slugs in their front room? It's like something out of Black Books

Either that or my wasted mate attempted to ejaculate his name onto my coat.
(Dok Zombie Cash, gash, pie and mash., Wed 30 Apr 2008, 22:46, 3 replies)

Oh, and on the subject of Legless' 'waay haay' crabs...
Until fairly recently, crabs in the seaside village of Newbiggin (in Northumberland, and apparently Brian Blessed's favourite holiday destination - God know's why, it's picturesque, but shit) had developed the art of bungee jumping.

Eventually, the lasses of the village got fed up with this and resorted to cutting the strings off their tampons.


I'm really sorry for the poor taste. However, anyone who has been to Newbiggin will probably understand. Dear God, it is a shithole. I went to support a mate's band at a pub gig there a few months ago and it was probably the grimmest experience of my whole life. He sacked his bass player not long after for booking the gig in the first place.
( Davros' Granddad a voice of calm reason in a world of spastics., Wed 30 Apr 2008, 22:42, 5 replies)

Mosquitos are bastards! Fact!
I hate the little whiney buggers with a vengeance, as do many others it appears this week.

I've never had much bother with them, until the last couple of years. We've been to Greece four years in a row. First two years, fine, not really a problem - a couple of bites, but nothing to write home about (or post on b3ta about). But the last two years... Jesus fuck! I seem to have become a mozzie magnet. Last year was particularly bad.

We'd only been on the island for less than 24 hours, but by the end of the first night I had a couple of bites that became particularly inflamed and itched like fuck. Cue the antihystamines, and all seemed OK. Plus, I donned a couple of citronella wrist bands for good measure.

Didn't work at all. I awoke the next afternoon (heavy night with the natives) to find every part of my body that had been left uncovered utterly ravaged by little red marks. After a couple of days, these had swollen to enormous proportions, but the three on my forearm were especially impressive. By day three, from below the elbow my right arm resembled that of Popeye after a marathon spinach-assisted wanking session...

I don't know if it's the stuff they feed on over there, but it would seem that I am massively allergic to Greek mosqitos. The bite I received on one of my toes was particularly irksome as it coincided EXACTLY where the strap of my regulation desert welly came into contact. This happened in August 2007. The swelling on my toe eventually disappeared circa February 2008.

The bites I received on my right ankle and right hand still itch to this day...

I really don't like Greek mosquitos...
( Davros' Granddad a voice of calm reason in a world of spastics., Wed 30 Apr 2008, 22:21, 22 replies)

Nation of Korea vs Shitty Dog (2007)
A mate's mum and sister recently bought a creature I don't even consider a dog...A nasty, patchy-haired little sod of a Pug/Poodle cross; suffice to say it fills all the yappy stereotypes of small dogs. Being possessive as hell, it goes absolutely mental at anyone who walks into the house and threatens its monopoly on attention (no problems are had with the Labrador cross that also lives there).

So whenever I glide through its bitchy deluge, I take great pleasure in its ineffective, ballistic rage at the recitation of the following cheerful mantra:

"Season oil; garlic, one clove, ginger, 5 centimetres. Add bean sprouts, water chestnuts, mixed fresh vegetables, stir fry over medium heat. Add dog. Serve over egg noodles."

When animals attack: break out the wok. I'm above you in the food chain, you little shit.
(Cheesecake Like a cake...But cheese, Wed 30 Apr 2008, 21:40, Reply)

*burp*
that cow is repeating on me
( SkUG >_O i got a couple of stitches in my eyeball... ow, Wed 30 Apr 2008, 21:24, Reply)

when our cat's companion died
she obviously thought we'd done something terrible. to avoid a similar fate, she kept leaving us little presents...

skinless, headless mice
(ladyintheradiator, Wed 30 Apr 2008, 20:51, 3 replies)

When Animals Attack
Friday, 7:00pm.

Savanna based pap!
Lacking in gorey close-ups.

Length? 30 minutes of my life wasted
(Daveth Koresh is jesus, but welsh, Wed 30 Apr 2008, 20:26, Reply)

Bloody Seagulls.
A couple of years ago I was swimming out to a big rock about a mile off the coast down here. When I finally got out there, me and some friends climbed to the top when all of the sudden, about a hundred seagulls took flight.

Each and every one then took it in turns to try and dive-bomb us, and scare us off 'their' rock.

After almost taking hits from a fair few, I decided to fight back, so twatted one with a bodyboard. Hit the fucker for six, right out to sea, and he/she/it didn't get up for round two.

Now I still feel slightly guilty about this today, but then I remember that I was actually aiming at another kamikazee feathered fiend when I swang. Therefore I didn't mean to twat it, and I can live my life guilt free. Good stuff.
( Harold Bishop's Love Child some sort of terrifying sex magician., Wed 30 Apr 2008, 19:00, Reply)

that damned duck
My son loves to feed the ducks at the local park so we go down there regularly with bags of old bread or a few handfuls of grain. Now most of the ducks are your laid back, passive quacking little buggers, but there is one evil, steam train hissing, psychotic bastard of a muscovy duck (ugly buggers they are). This one decided he wasn't getting his share of the bread so he reared up, flapping his wings, knocked my 2 year old flat on his arse and proceeded to peck him with malice aforethought. I did what any self respecting father would do and taught that evil little duck that he could fly without using his wings, thanks to a kick up the clacker.

A week or two later we were back at the pond and saw that someone had spray painted the duck bright green. Can't say I felt sorry for it.
( SteamedCleaner, Wed 30 Apr 2008, 18:09, Reply)