"Let's Take MDMA and go to a Harvester"
You can probably spot the bad idea here. Those title words were the doom-laden words my mate Flobbo uttered at me one sleepy Tuesday afternoon. And, as the first in a long line of bad ideas, I agreed. The font of my poor decision-making continued to froth and spew as I accepted a couple of pills and a glass of slightly cloudy beer. I threw back the pills and took a sip.

"This beer tastes funny," I said.

"It's Australian," he replied. I shrugged, and downed the drink. "Oh, and probably because I spiked it with a ground-up Viagra pill," he added. My face flushed with terror.

"Exsqueeze me?" I asked.

"Yeah!" he shrugged, and his giant stomach shrugged along with him. "It's called SEXTACY! It's gonna be wizard!" he yelled. I stared at him in horror. What was he planning?

An hour later we presented ourselves at the door of our local Harvester. We were definitely on the way up, and swaying slightly. I could feel my blood start to reassign itself. A young man in a Harvester uniform approached us. To my utter suprise, he offered us a table for two.

"I noshed a bean!" I exclaimed. He gave me a Look.

"Is that a sex thing?" he asked.

"Not in this particular case!" I yelled.

"... I'll show you to your table."

Time passed, and as we approached the salad bar I found it increasingly difficult to contain my excitement. "Sweetcorn AND bacon bits?" I thought to myself, "truly this is a kingly salad bar." I looked over at Flobbo, who was trying to understand a bowl. Shrugging, I prepared my feast. I do not understand how I came to be naked, but resplendent and rigid, I began to ritually daub myself in thousand island dressing as I chanted my own name over and over again in increasingly erotic tones. My moment of triumph grew ever closer as I methodically "probed" each salad offering.

"This one's for the blessed Duchess!" hooted Flobbo as he exultantly shat himself. That was just too much for me, and I yelled Great Heavenly Mustard Michael as I blew up my own end straight into the cloth sections.

And that's how I ended up Assistant Manager of a branch of Lush. It's fucking shit.
(Frank Snow, Wed 30 Jul 2014, 1:00, 6 replies)

WHAT?!
When I was a teen, there was a small newsagents that all us kids used to frequent, for sweets, football stickers and daring each other to shoplift. The staff turnover was pretty high for some reason (probably tiny wages). One day a new bloke (who looked like a very thin M. Night Shyamalan before anyone knew what M. Night Shyamalan looked like as this was the 80s) started in there. I thought it would be a whizz if, during the brief time this guy was staff, I pretended to be deaf. I would talk to him in my best "this is how deaf people talk" voice and stare fixedly at his lips when he spoke to me. My chums thought this was hilarious, as they were easily pleased.

Except of course this guy wasn't a temporary worker - he had just bought the newsagents and managed to turn it around. So, between the ages of 13 and 15 when in his shop I kept up the pretence that I was as deaf as a dead dog. It was fun for about three weeks. The other one hundred odd were an embarrassment. I was still applauded by idiotic friends for keeping up the pretence, but inwardly I hated going in there, scared that someone I knew would be in there who wasn't in on this pathetic joke and would blow my cover by calling to me. Some of the other school knobs would yell abusive names at me when I was in there, goading me to react. I just had to tough it out ... for some logic that now escapes me.

The summer when I was 15 involved me spending a lot of time away from home. I basically had six weeks of holidays with various relatives.

First day back at school I walked into the shop, chatting and yelling happily with my buddies. We'd all forgotten that in the shop, I was deaf. I even said "thank you" in a bright, clear voice when M. Night passed me my change. My insides went cold as I remembered that I should have been acting "hearing free" when in M. Night's presence. However, the smirk on M. Night's face told me two things: (1) he had never believed I was deaf in the first place and (2) I was an utter, utter, twat.

The irony of it all is I am now in my late 40s and have, according to my doctor's tests, the hearing of a 70 year old.
(jrd, Fri 25 Jul 2014, 19:36, 8 replies)

...
In a life littered with bad ideas, relentless failure and shattered dreams, I still find time to screw up on an industrial scale.

Last year, I spent a huge portion of my time and an even larger portion of my money, building Stoke's first genuine pizza-oven. My misguided dream was based around the 'if you build it, they will come' mantra of my favourite film - Field of Dreams. Unfortunately, nobody came and nobody cared, which when I think back isn't surprising. You see, no one wants to come to a decrepit ex-council semi in the shittest part of one of the shittest towns in the country - pizza oven or not.

So now I sit here alone again, finding solace in convincing a half-dead messageboard that I am in fact a multimillionaire international consultant, who invented the mobile phone.

Sometimes though, when I look through the kitchen window, beyond the bags of festering rubbish and my collection of local supermarket trolleys, sometimes, I see a raging fire in the oven, I see people, I see wine, I see friends and I see happiness. But as quickly as the tears cloud my eyes, the vision disappears and I return brokenhearted to my awful reality.
( Albert Marshmallow is a completely irredeemable cunt, Fri 25 Jul 2014, 11:10, 9 replies)

Life lesions
So what do you do if someone dares you to climb into an old oil drum and get rolled down a hill?

Top tip! You say "No" and then you say "Fuck off".

Because, you see, the thing is that whilst they make look all lovely and friendly, they're made of metal with the texture of a cheese grater inside. Plus, they're made of metal which means that they're quite loud when they roll. Plus they're made of metal and so have no padding.

I had expected to leap out, grinning and then have sex with Sarah.

What actually happened was that my friends started to drag me out and then stopped, terrified by the amount of blood. After I stopped crying, I realised that Sarah had gone home to watch Home and Away.

Women, eh? Fickle.
(csdaveuk, Tue 29 Jul 2014, 16:58, Reply)

When my nephews built a skateboard ramp on their very steep drive,
they didn't believe me when I said skateboards were around when I was their age. So I showed them.

Luckily I broke my fall with my chest, thus avoiding grazing my hands, although I did break two ribs and couldn't watch anything funny for six weeks without suffering excruciating agony.

That showed 'em alright.
( fred zeppelin II: Electric Boogaloo, Wed 30 Jul 2014, 18:46, 1 reply)

Gah.
In an effort to sooth my sore throat before an evenings heavy drinking, through the course of a day I went through five packets of sugar-free cough sweets (Warning: contains phenylalanine, excessive consumption may have a laxative effect.)

I then saw no issue in trusting a fart a few hours later.

I instantly forgot about the sore throat, on the account of having deposited a large quantity of liquidy shit into my underwear.
( Muns, Fri 25 Jul 2014, 10:46, 8 replies)

That 'story' below reminded me a bad idea from my youth.
~~~~~~~~~~wavy lines back to the early 90's~~~~~~~~~~~

It was Sunday afternoon and Ben and I were sat in his bedroom feeling very much the worse for wear from the night before, which had involved MASSIVE DRUGS, love, sweat and hard house.

Ben was moaning about the fact we would soon have to join his large family for a Sunday roast, and he felt far from up to it. I was generally agreeing when I had the most brilliant idea ever. I put it to Ben that if we split a gurner, it would perk us up, but due to the night before we would have built a little resistance, and we wouldn't be off our tits.

Ben agreed. We split the pill and smoked some fags out the window. Time passed and I did indeed feel much better, and better, and ohhh fuck this is good, I'm rushing like a twat.

And then it was time for lunch. I'm not sure what Ben's family thought of two teenage boys sitting at the table with them, both with a single spoon full of peas on their plate, as everyone else tucked into roast beef with all the trimmings. Ben was pushing his peas around with a fork as his jaw kept making a break for door, then changing its mind and making a break for the window. I, on the other hand, was keeping my face under control, but as I pushed that spoonful of peas around my plate with my fork, every minute or so, i would lean over to Ben and stage whisper,'Ben, you're a bad ass bastard shirking son of a bitch'. I'm not sure how long that went on for, but we were excused early and legged it up the road and into the woods.

To my great relief, none of Ben's family has ever spoken of it to either of us, which is nice.
( The Awful Puppy Bakery is still bored, Wed 30 Jul 2014, 2:51, 3 replies)

Last weekend It was sunny so I decided to leave my cardigan at home
But it turned out to be quite chilly
( cumquat may will not be commenting further on the allegations, Mon 28 Jul 2014, 8:26, 4 replies)

I thought it might be a nice idea for my son to wear some smart trousers to a Christening.

( Amorous Badger NAKED BEA ARTHUR PHOTOS 4U, Fri 25 Jul 2014, 11:40, 2 replies)

As a neo-soul/heavy metal fusion DJ
I like to mix the works of Erykah and Ronnie James.
( Happy Phantom has been to Hastings, Brighton, and Eastbourne too, Sat 26 Jul 2014, 14:45, 4 replies)

I wrote' I am a cunt horse' on a horse in orange paint

(sittingduck Attention seeking, bullshitting fuck-knuckle, Fri 25 Jul 2014, 11:43, Reply)

I was in a bar in the red light district of Amsterdam with a couple of friends.
While whiling away the day trying to achieve a state of advanced refreshment, the topic of conversation had turned to film.

It turned out that one of our group had never seen Blazing Saddles. Seeing as it's a film we knew he would find very funny, we started to tell him about it, specifically the scene where the sheriff is approaching the town, and the guy on the bell tower keeps shouting,'the sheriff is a nigger', but a bell keeps ringing, so the people of the town hear the sheriff is a near.

He was greatly amused by this story, and started saying the sheriff is a nigger in quite a loud voice. Meanwhile, a group of scousers had entered the bar, one of who was black. My other friend and I thought then would be a good time to leave, so we headed out to see what the day would bring.

As we walked up the street, we walked past a rather large dreadlocked black gentleman who was stood at the opening to a small alleyway in the business of trying to sell 'cocaine' to tourists. As we passed him, one of our group shouted out,'the sheriff is a near'. An American walking towards us answered this by shouting at the top of his lungs,'NO, THE SHERIFF IS A NIGGER'. The three of promptly legged it, but I looked back to see our colonial cousin being manhandled into the alleyway by the 'drug' dealer.

I've often wondered how his tour of Europe ended.
( The Awful Puppy Bakery is still bored, Fri 25 Jul 2014, 14:40, 8 replies)

Brothels in Lanzarote
About 3 years ago I went abroad with my uncles, they owned a villa in a rather nice area in Lanzarote they were selling it and I flew out with them for a week of sun, sand, beer and renovating and clearing out the villa.

It all started relatively well, on the beach front there was a kind of complex with restaurants and cyber cafés and little bars etc and also a strip club that just seemed to be in the middle of all the more family orientated stuff. It was always closed when we were out eating and having a few beers, most nights we were back at the villa for about midnight.

One evening after a superb steak with Roquefort sauce I had been chatting to a couple of young lasses from Newcastle and when the older folk headed back to the villa I stayed out with these two, only to discover they had a nice bag of shite coke. A few more sherbets and some dodgy coke and a good old dance...I didn't pull so decided to walk back to the villa. By the time I left the lasses I was a good couple of miles down the beach front from the local complex that was about 600 metres from the villa. I would have got a taxi but had about €20 to my name and I was saving that.

As I neared the complex I realised the light for the strip bar was on, all other bars in the locality were closed, as I neared the strip joint in my flip flops and combat shorts and dodgy primark t shirt (or saink) I realised there was a lady on a stool outside with a peephole bra on and the full stiletto suspenders get up going on. I was high, it seemed like a good idea I walked in, sat at the bar and enquiries to the price of a drink as lots of lovely ladies paraded around. At this point I bought a corona, at the price of €10 a bottle. The lone guy sat on the still next to me gave me a nod, I asked if they sold fags behind the bar and the barman just handed me about 6 loose fags. I sparked up. As I sparked a fag a beautiful blonde the likes of which I had never seen before sat next to me, I tried to explain I had only come for one last drink and a smoke. I glanced towards the door I had walked in and saw about 4 huge and I mean FUCKING MASSIVE black men in white best tops, it was also at this time I saw two women leading two men from behind a curtained area, the men were still doing their jeans and flies up.

Something clicked...I had walked into a brothel, the guy sat on the still had just placed another bottle in front of me, which he refused to accept payment for and telling me he was the manager and I could just pay afterwards, after what I thought...I was being eye balled after giving the blonde the brush off...I panicked, pretended my phone was ringing and headed towards the door. Only to be stopped by the men with the muscles explaining that I hadn't paid, I have them the last €10 I had and insisted I had to take the call.

I walked back passed the bondage woman (who was more scary than te guys in the bar) I walked out and started to pretend to have a long and boring conversation on the phone all the time being watched by miss fucking whiplash like a hawk. Her attention was momentarily distracted, I kicked my flip flops off and fucking legged it.

The next day we went down for breakfast to a cafe pretty much on the doorstep of this brothel, and there outside the door were my flip flops, a bottle of corona and 4 loose fags. Like some kind of mocking calling card.

I didn't go down there again for the next 2 days instead opting to hide in the villa with "a belly ache"

Tl;Dr get fucked
( spanishfly is so fucking sexy people impersonate him, Fri 25 Jul 2014, 13:32, 5 replies)

posting on /talk
in retrospect, if I'd actually looked even a few posts down that board, I'd have worked out that only truly special people are allowed to post without suffering a tirade of abuse from the resident trolls. This is also the main reason why qotw has declined. In essence, what made this site was funny is now just mildly amusing and soon there will be little left to come here for.
(gearanach #wankwankwank, Fri 25 Jul 2014, 3:30, 35 replies)

RT: Another pyromaniac chemical adventure
When I was about 12, we went to visit one of my Dad's friends, who was a research chemist. He had loads of good surplus chemical stuff.

Bored with the purple smoke from magnesium shavings + iodine crystals, his son and I decided to try to make gun cotton. This didn't work and we just ended up with messy, glutinous, carbonized crap all covered in concentrated acid.

So, what to do with this stuff?

My friend came up with the obvious answer (I'm sure you have, too): make a standard sugar+nitrate mixture, add some magnesium shavings, stick the acid napalm on top, light it, put a tin can over the top (open end down) and stand on it. OK, says I. The parents are out shopping, let's do it. So he does.

Cue an hour of alternately trying to alleviate hot acid burns by dunking his face in a sink of cold water, and combing the burned clumps of hair out. Once the parents returned, this was inevitably followed by a trip to casualty, while my mum gives me the standard "How can you be so *stupid*" lecture at volume 11 for another full hour.

No permanent damage though, but it was bloody lucky he wore glasses.

Kids - think once. Think twice. Think don't deliberately stand on home-made fireworks made of concentrated sulphuric acid.
( Amish Information Systems hates misplaced, commas, Thu 24 Jul 2014, 15:13, 3 replies)

Using the same name
On B3ta and OKcupid
(Pill Popper Thank you Sasha Shulgin, Thu 24 Jul 2014, 14:19, 1 reply)

the reply button on qftw

( Dr. Shambolic je suis charlie, Thu 24 Jul 2014, 13:23, 26 replies)

Golden Showers are a very bad idea.

Sure, it looks pretty straightforward in all those instructive magazines and videos - shave off all your body hair, speak German...then halfway through a perfectly good fuck, stop everything and unleash a stream of piss on each other. After the last drop of eye-stinging piss is delivered, carry on with some "normal" non-saline sex, until the partner's face is splurged with cock vomit.

With the benefit of hindsight, may I advise to never introduce piss into the equation. When it's sprung upon you without prior warning or agreement, it certainly puts you off your stride, it ain't pretty during delivery, it doesn't enhance the soft furnishings or compliment the mood.

Best leave it to the Germans.
( Ken Oath, Sun 27 Jul 2014, 12:56, 3 replies)

French fusion
I spent a weekend at an astronomical observatory with an eclectic group of international scholars, including two French astronomers very much in love. They were so cute and romantic. It was as if they were a single fused personality, with each completing the other's sentences.

I unwisely got into the back seat of a car with the French astronomers in the front seat, and we went driving around the mountain top. I thought the male half was driving, but he was only working the pedals. The female half was doing the steering, and in truth they really weren't a single coordinated person. Their lack of coordination caused them to lose control coming down a steep narrow washboard dirt road. We fish tailed back and forth and nearly flipped the car.

Love hurts, as they say.
(Perv With A Dog had his eyes pecked out by scrub jays on, Sun 27 Jul 2014, 10:12, 4 replies)

Repost - Wreckheads in minor misjudgement

Over the last two years I have delved in and out of a massive drugs problem (thankfully now done with). The drug in question was mephedrone which you may remember as being the subject of one of the biggest tabloid moral panics the UK has seen for quite some time. For those that don't know, the drug is somewhere between MDMA and crystal meth both in chemical structure and also in terms of the subjective effects.

As you might expect, there were many days where going to bed simply did not happen, and many occasions where good judgement went on an extended holiday, because after all, EVERYTHING is the BEST IDEA EVER.

After the drug was banned in the UK I continued using it quite prodigiously, and this story concerns a time well after it had become illegal.

I have a female friend (we'll call her R) who is somewhat eccentric, she's got dreadlocks in which she keeps interesting things she's found, such as pegs, springs, coloured bits of plastic etc. She likes finding absurdly tasteless '70s dresses and wearing them with enthusiasm, and she pretty much refuses to wear shoes.

One Saturday morning, after a Friday night on the mcat had bled through into the next day, it was decided that we should leave R's house and sit in the park in the sunshine. R decided that she would take an ornamental sword with her, because EVERYTHING is the BEST IDEA EVER. I was apprehensive enough to suggest it might not be wise, but not so apprehensive that I didn't pose like Conan the Barbarian next to a car I judged particularly manly.

So four of us wandered towards the park, R with no shoes, "individual" hair and multi-coloured clothes flapping in the breeze. My girlfriend and I took a detour to our flat, and met up with R and the other gentleman outside the Tesco convenience store. It should be noted that at this point R was sitting on the pavement with her legs stretched out halfway across the pavement, bare feet on display and the sword leant against a lamppost. Saturday morning shoppers milled around us as she explained rather too loudly how the other gentleman had successfully stolen some red wine from Tesco.

As we walked towards the park, she mentioned how the police never bother stopping her for drugs or anything because she looks so unusual that they assume she can't possibly be a miscreant.

Or so she thought.

So there we were, 10am in the middle of the park with stolen wine, some other booze, at least a gram or two of mcat on us each and a sword proudly sticking out of the ground.

Imagine my surprise when a policeman suddenly appeared, and made a lunge for the sword before grabbing it and throwing it well out of reach. Imagine my further surprise when I realised that he had several friends with him, three of whom were in full riot gear waving bloody sub-machine guns at us.

My natural response to coppers is to go into full cooperation mode, because I am fully aware that being a cocky twat results in unfavourable treatment. In this particular incident I'm also starting to brick it about the recently-illegal and very highly witch-hunted drugs in my pocket. However, this is not R's reaction. She initially started saying that we were going to do a photoshoot involving the sword, then she tried to say that it was harmless and they were wasting their time as it wasn't even sharp.

I did my best to make apologetic faces at the coppers and make a joke of it, but R kept on about her sword, despite the three MP5s pointing at her. Much to my exasperation and growing panic, she was trying to stop them taking her sword due to its sentimental value.

Eventually, and after I had said to her very loudly that there was plenty more extent of the law available if the police chose to use it, she agreed to let them take the sword in exchange for an agreement that she'd be able to pick it up later.

As I understand it you can potentially get five years for carrying a bladed weapon and fourteen years for intent to supply class B drugs (I had quite a collection at home).

So yeah, very fucking lucky that day. :-)
(Eukanuba, Thu 24 Jul 2014, 23:26, 8 replies)

Letting Ridley Scott do Prometheus. Never have so many people been employed to write
interesting points of view regarding the fact that - you did not get it. Oh, I got it alright. It was shit.
( d.r._and_quinch when will you be famous?, Thu 24 Jul 2014, 15:41, 16 replies)

RT: This will make your eyes water.
My wife was in the garden and had got some dust or grit in her eye, so she sat down in the chair in the living room and sent me upstairs for the Optrex.

No problem, I went to the cabinet, grabbed the distinctive little blue and white dropper bottle and went downstairs. She tilted her head back and I proceeded to drip the soothing fluid into her eye. It didn't seem to be working very well.

It was only when the smell hit my nostrils that I realised that I had picked up a bottle of Vicks Sinex nasal spray, and was happily squirting menthol and eucalyptus oil into my wife's peepers.

At this point, I ran back upstairs, found the real Optrex, used most of the bottle flushing her eye out, told her the amusing mistake and then ran away and hid.

Amazingly, all parts of my body are still intact, although it was a close run thing.
( Amish Information Systems hates misplaced, commas, Thu 24 Jul 2014, 15:15, 2 replies)

advertising PACT coffee on your site

( spanishfly is so fucking sexy people impersonate him, Thu 24 Jul 2014, 14:22, 2 replies)

Coffee
I had an idea of buying some coffee that was advertised on a well known website that used to be full of satirical images, humourous comments and very well talented photoshoppers. Whence it arrived, I found that I was strangely drawn to "fingering" the coffee granules, leaving a brown stain on my finger. Ever since, I have had a ginger cunt prancing around holding a dog, outside my home, my work and even fucking where I shop. He keeps shouting something that sounds like "My dog's bumhole feels lush", or something like that.
( Tesco Quality 60.825659, -0.788337, Wed 30 Jul 2014, 23:31, 5 replies)

Inappropriate
Those stories below remind me of a story told by my stepson.

Apparently he and a friend made the mistake of taking a guided tour of Auschwitz while still tripping from the previous night's massive drugs debauchery.

Not what you think though, they weren't freaked out by an LSD induced exaggeration of the horrors of the final solution or anything like that, it's worse - the entire party had to endure the tour sound-tracked by their barely stifled giggling.
(J H Christ began in Afrika ka ka ka ka, Wed 30 Jul 2014, 5:24, 15 replies)

I purchased some Pact coffee.
Unfortunately, it appears to be very popular with sex offenders, as they've all of a sudden starting hanging around outside my house.
( Muns, Tue 29 Jul 2014, 14:46, 5 replies)

In Egypt
I was at a spice shop, looking for some ras el hanout. The young lad who was working there showed me a bag, and offered to let me lick my finger and dip it in the the spice mixture to taste its quality.

What started as an enjoyable holiday rapidly descended into a very regular series of mad dashes to the toilet where I surprised myself at the volume and looseness of my stools, punctuated by flu-like symptoms as I lay exhausted on the bed in the hotel room. Being stuck in a small cubicle pissing rusty water out of your sore, over-wiped pucker in 35 degree heat is not anyone's idea of a good break.
( CaptainCrackerjack live trout, slow motion, Tue 29 Jul 2014, 13:13, 6 replies)

Hosting all my b3ta pictures on b3tards.com

(Plague Hedgehog 'posting crap', Mon 28 Jul 2014, 21:26, 1 reply)