New house, new flatmates, best make a good impression ...
So they were all out one night and I wasn't feeling great, so I decided to stay in. Noticed the mountain of washing up and decided to score some points and do the lot.

It was while I had my entire hand inside a pint glass, doing that twisty-cleany motion you do to clean the inside of glasses, that it cracked and I twisted my hand fully onto the new razor-sharp edge, right down to the bone. The sink turned red in an instant.

Looked around for a towel and only saw filthy, brown, moulding ones. There's one in the downstairs loo! Walked calmly to the loo (which is right by the front door - this detail is important later), a thick trail of blood in my wake. It was bleeding a LOT. Wrapped my hand in the towel in the loo. Got blood everywhere, including on the mirror. Walked back to the kitchen, still dripping blood. Thought for a second and decided to drive myself to hospital.

Car keys in hand, I thought I'd better leave a note for my housemates should they return to explain the gorefest and my absence. With my left hand I started detailing the entire history, starting with "I decided to do the washing up..." However, since I cannot write well with my left hand at the best of times and I was losing blood at an astonishing rate from my right hand, I crossed it all out and scrawled "CUT MYSELF" I even put a "x" at the bottom. Placed the paper, complete with bloodstains in a prominent position on the table and left.

A&E was the usual 7 hour clusterfuck. When I finally got home at 4 in the morning, I found my ashen-faced housemates all sat in silence in the front room. They almost fainted with relief. All they knew is that they returned home at 3am, still speeding their tits off, found a trail of blood that they saw led FROM the toilet to the kitchen. Found the note. And assumed their new flatmate had performed some kind of self-castration operation and had then left the house to bleed to death in the streets.
(Tarka_the_Frotter, Mon 11 Aug 2008, 10:09, 1 reply)

gravity + human = ouch
Was about 10 years old at the time. I fell out of a tree near missing a rubbish bin and landed flat on my back. It was all so sudden that I felt no pain...that is until my mom inspected my ripped shirt.
I started bawling at the sight of my own blood. On the way down a sharp branch caught my chest as if in attempt to remove my damn nipple. Cried till i got to hospital. i still have the scar 12 years later
Length: about 4 metres from the ground
(Tilde, Mon 11 Aug 2008, 8:54, Reply)

Best Parent Award 1985
When I was around one year old I was crawling around the back yard while my father was felling trees a la leatherface. He popped in doors a second with the thing still winding down outside and I had to be rushed to hospital after my valiant baby attempt at stopping this foul machine with my face. Of course I can't remember this myself, being so young, but I do have a nifty (thankfully faded) little scar on my nose shaped a bit like the letter W. I'm unsure what that could stand for, but mishaps like this create supervillains.
(Mephs should get a bloody job, Mon 11 Aug 2008, 7:12, Reply)

Pool of blood
One of the things I like to do in my spare time is play underwater hockey, which despite sounding incredibly fruity, is actually one of the more violent "non-contact" sports there is. This is partly because when you're underwater and low on air with your vision restricted by a mask, it can be hard to see exactly what you're kicking off to get back to the surface, and it often ends up being somebody's face. The other part is due to the fact that the refs can also see bugger all, and with underwater hockey players being the pack of amoral psychopaths that we are, we take full advantage of this to inflict vast amounts of pain on the other team.

Anyway, one night I was playing, and it fell to me to attempt to stop an opposition player from scoring. I positioned myself between him and the goal tray, and prepared to tackle him for the puck. Trying to score regardless, he flicked the puck (a 1.5kg piece of lead covered in rubber) at the goal. Unluckily for him, I heroically intercepted it with my face. Play went on, although I noticed that I was getting a few funny looks from people as I swam around.

At half time, one of my teammates mentioned to me that there was a bit of blood in the nosepiece of my mask, and that maybe I should get out of the pool. I hopped out onto the side, and removed my mask. This was when I discovered that rather than my nose having bled a little bit, it had actually been bleeding profusely for the last five minutes. Since my mask was blocking any route of escape, the blood had been backing up in my sinuses, and when I removed my mask it came out like Niagara Falls, partially filling the mask and spraying over me and the side of the pool.

Ignoring the looks of horror, I wandered off to the changerooms to rinse out my mask, leaving a trail of gore. I cleaned myself up a bit, stuffed some toilet paper up both nostrils, put my mask back on and jumped back in to finish the game. As I was leaving the aquatic centre, I noticed a lifeguard hosing my blood off the tiles into the pool. I though this was a bit odd, given paranoia over bloodborne diseases, but apparently this is their standard protocol for dealing with blood spills, as the chlorine kills anything that's likely to be in the blood.

Length - 50m, your standard Olympic-sized swimming pool..
(oball needs Satan more than he needs me, Mon 11 Aug 2008, 3:59, Reply)

Rugby (Current)
When not running myself stupid up and down hills I've been known to participate in the odd game of rugby (odd in this context being VERY odd, for those of you who know me from OT) and play for an expatriate side here in deepest darkest Honkers.

In fact, if truth be told, the only thing I think I'll miss about this place when I get to come home (woo!) if the rugby. How awful's that?

Anyway ... two years ago I was playing in London for my local club and, as a wing-ist, got the ball and was racing up the wing list a greased racing ferret when I ran headlong into one of the opposition team.

Reasons for this are manifold and include:

(1) I normally wear glasses which for obvious reasons I don't wear when playing
(2) I had my head down in full on "I'm going to run like the wind" fashion
(3) I didn't see him

The blood bit of this story is fairly simple.

I'm a fairly big chap, 6ft1, 14.5st but I ran into this bloke and he didn't move. I've no idea how big he is or whether or not he even noticed, I merely remember running into what appeared to be a brick wall and my nose breaking (for the third time) in a characteristically amusing fashion.

Got up - thought nothing of it until felt myself getting to my feet and blood all over my shirt and bits coming out of my nose.

Attempted to get on with the game but was blood-subbed.
(Eds Meds Mathskillz=1,Socialskillz=0, Mon 11 Aug 2008, 2:49, Reply)

Once when I went to give blood...
I was lying down and the nurse was shoving the needle into my arm, I calmly informed her that I had partaken in the drinking of several pints of Guinness, and was in fact quite drunk... she replied "well then, whoever gets your blood will be rather happy eh?"
(BeardedChimp, Mon 11 Aug 2008, 2:34, Reply)

does anyone know why we faint at the sight of blood?
is there some kind of biological / primitive survival explanation? seems to me like the least useful thing you could do when bleeding to death is be unconscious
(ladyintheradiator, Mon 11 Aug 2008, 1:14, 4 replies)

Whenever people have talked to me of tasting their own blood
they tell me it's salty.

I'm confused - mine isn't salty, it's rather rich and savoury and tastes quite nice. Is it meant to be? Do you all have salty blood? Please tell me I'm not the only one!
( Hampster Squared has stuff at www.tilla.co.uk, Mon 11 Aug 2008, 1:13, 5 replies)

Broom handle insertion
Haha, not in that way you Foul depraved b3tans

Whilst working as a forklift driver for a well known leading DIY store (which rhymes with pricks) i was in alot of bother for running over brooms and breaking the handles.
After many a warning i was told i would get points on my license if i broke another..

A Few hours later the inevitable happens, 'crunch' some tossbag has left one in the warehouse again and ive broken it in half.
I panic....points are bad...
I come up with a brainwave, replace the broomhandle with a new one.
Problem, the broken half wont come out of the brooms head,

I solved this problem in my head by standing on each side of the head and pulling hard

unfortunately, the broken end was mighty sharp

yup you guessed it, i stabbed myself in the belly, really deeply.

Blood everywhere, then i passed out

Moral of the story? Im an idiot



Length? just long enough to bend over and plunge into myself
(Crayzswan is neither a swan nor crazy..., Mon 11 Aug 2008, 1:08, Reply)

i found im allergic to non-precious metal
my ears bleed if i wear earrings all into my hair. it crusts. yummy.
(ladyintheradiator, Mon 11 Aug 2008, 0:55, Reply)

Shock is funny.
Working a day labor job, I managed a nice puncture into a leg, two-inches below the inside of the knee joint. I tied a direct compress onto the bleeding wound and hobbled about, telling all I'd be alright.

A another worker moved the compress and said, "You should take a look at this."

I saw some bone and went out like a light.

When I surfaced a minute later, I was ready to visit the hospital and, mirabile dictu, the pain had completely ceased. Cool.

The visit to the emergency room was typical: I had to wait for the employment service doctor and it was me and my expanding pool of blood under my chair and the horrified patrons on the opposite wall, watching it turn into a big, flat clot.
( tromboner cherophobia is my kind of fun, Mon 11 Aug 2008, 0:33, Reply)

The Thames is red and so is the Trent
In fact, I can see Rivers of Blood.

Yours truly,

Enoch Powell

(yes, I know it's tasteless)
( disasterprone "Pyjamas caused the Holocaust", Sun 10 Aug 2008, 23:36, Reply)

doing my ladyfriend
she was on her period, not too bad as i knew before hand, and figured it just meant it was a bit messy, until i finished and realised that the finger i had been putting into her ass had been lubricated by said period blood
( wjh31, Sun 10 Aug 2008, 21:46, Reply)

That'll learn me...

At the tender age of nine, a doctor hacked me up and half inched my appendix.

I didn't really need it, and it was close to being a bit bursty, so I was fine with him taking it.

Afterwards, to ensure the nurses earned their pay I insisted on fidgeting a lot and frequently pushed down on my hands to sit myself up.

This was fun for all the family as blood would shoot up the tube and block the whole thing up, meaning the nurses had to come and change it, which I reckon they loved... and who wouldn't?

Not long after being hastily discharged I was sat in front of the telly with my mum, fiddling with the covering over my gash when I felt something a bit damp and sticky.

Pulling my hand away I turned to my mum and, in my squeaky wurzelness, wondered aloud whether I should have such a bloody mess all over my hands.

Seems as though the docs at Bath hospital were much better at cutting people up than they were at stitching them back together again.
( Moey, Sun 10 Aug 2008, 21:08, 3 replies)

Dredging up old stories
That didn't seem all that funny at the time and probably aren't all that funny now either, but hey...it's b3ta...

So there was the time my mum ran over my foot and then forced me to walk to school by forgetting to give me bus fare (google maps tells me it's 3.5 miles and approx 1 hr walking time). Three hours later I arrived at school in no great amount of pain, went to the secretary's office to let them know I was late. One asked why I was limping, so I said my mum was in a hurry and accidently ran over my foot, so I walked. I reassured them I was fine while they exchanged 'what's going on in her home' looks, then to prove it removed my shoe. Foot promptly swelled up like a watermelon in two minutes and there was quite a bit of blood from where a blood blister had been forming, then popped when I took my shoe off. Secretaries fainted, mum was called and I got to wear trainers for 6 months.*

Then there was the time I got stung by five wasps by chatting to a fellow group leader at Daycamps and putting my hand down to grab a bin bag without looking. Hand swelled up again to the size of a watermelon, only this time in about 30 seconds and it rather hurt. Cue me staring at it for a few seconds, trying to comprehend the pain, failing and collapsing into a dead faint on the only bit of concrete (gravel path) there - was all fields far as the eye could see - then coming round to find one of the bits of gravel has penetrated my knee and left an unsightly gash in it which is now pissing blood. Luckily the kids were all further up the fields as it scared the first aider (but not enough to call for proper medical help). Two bandages later (first two just soaked up excess blood and turned red) and I was ready to rejoin my group to go home for the day. We mopped up the blood with super soakers and told the kids when they enquired the next day that we'd spilt one of the vats of blackcurrent juice.**

Since we watched the 1988 winter olympics and cheered on Eddie the eagle edwards and the Jamaican bobsled team, my brothers and I would play indoor sledging as there was never enough snow to go tobogganing and we had a long enough staircase growing up. So we'd start out with a tray, one person sitting on it and the other three to steady it on a pivot and do the bobsled chant. So far so good, three seconds of YEEEEAAAAAHHH and then crash into the solid chest at the bottom. We were equipped with the latest BMX elbow pads, helmets and knee pads, so figured we were fine. That became less of a challenge, so we decided to make it more fun. When my parents came home, my eldest brother was still trying to wash out the blood stains from where I'd gone down the stairs fully encased in a sleeping bag, no safety pads and strapped to two trays and gone feet first into the wooden chest. Quick trip to hospital later revealed I'd broken three toes one one foot and almost lacerated my achilles tendon on the other.***

*was my fault we were late and she hadn't realised how bad my foot was as it didn't hurt until halfway through the walk and I was wearing toe caps, so I bear no malice, just makes an amusing story.

**This I did for 98p an hour as a teenager, but would still do again given the chance as there was no other job like it and I got to teach archery, so not a bad thing ,)

***Wearing converse saved my feet from further damage as I'd done the other runs barefoot.
( fuck shit up the best you never had, Sun 10 Aug 2008, 20:50, 1 reply)

Lunar Jim has reminded me
A friend when he was younger eventually realised he had phimosis. For those of you who can't be bothered to read it, it basically means that the hole in the top of your tadger is too small to pass over your erect cock. Which is understandably incredibly painful.

So, at the grand old age of 15, he decided that something needed to be done. But how do you alert your quite strict Yorkshire parents to your willy woe? Well, you don't. And this is how he came to operate on himself.

Apparently he got hold of a scalpel, and started trying to cut a larger hole. For those of you who have had this done, you'll know that without free movement of the foreskin, it adheres to the head of your cock, which means that it needed to be sliced away from his bellend.

Cue copious amounts of blood, and a first ever orgasm as he broke free.

To give him his due, there's not a scar in sight :)
( Madam Marlboro wonders if you've found her yet, Sun 10 Aug 2008, 18:25, 5 replies)

Two arseholes
I used to ride a lot of bmx, before I became fat and sloppy. Like many teenagers without a lot to do on a sunday, riding bmx bikes around deserted industrial estates was a lot of fun, and gave you something to do.

Me and my oldest mate rode out to an estate in the middle of nowhere to ride everywhere and try and jump over and off things. The only thing unusual about this weekend was that I had removed the seat post and seat from the frame, I can't remember why, but I wish I hadn't.

Removing the seat post had left the tube it inserted into completely exposed as it extended about two inches from the crossbar. For those who don't know, this would leave a circular steel tube with sharp edges poking up directly where your bum would normally sit.

The day was alright until I jumped down a set of maybe six or seven steps and landed. As the back wheel touched down I went to cushion myself with my legs, soaking up the shock in a crouch like movement. Not being used to the no seat arrangement, as I lowered myself rather rapidly the seat didn't signal to me the need to stop going down and to stand up on the pedals. By the time I realised I was too low I was moving too fast to avoid hitting the tube.

The sharp tube plunged into the gap between my bits and my bum crack with a substantial impact. I wouldn't like to say I was impaled, but it felt like it. There wasn't any sharp pain, just a throb radiating throughout the lower half of my body. Weak at the knees I got off the bike and fell over as the throb became more like the feeling you get when you get smashed in the nuts. My friend showed little concern, standing and laughing as I writhed about in pain.

Eventually I got up to feel trickles of blood down both of my legs. Aware something was quite seriously wrong, we got back on our bikes and cycled, very cautiously to my house. When I got there I told my dad, and he took me up the hospital to get it checked out.

I wont go into details but the positions I had to get into to show the hospital where I'd hurt myself would make a gymnast proud.

Not only that, the fact I had to cover the circular wound up with bandages strapped to my crotch like the male version with of a sanitary towel, did a lot of damage to my faith in bicycles and my athletic ability, as well as giving me a horrible fear that if I ever attempt to pro-create, the tubes will have been snipped by the bicycle equivalent of a vasectomy.
(Stevie Ruggling, Sun 10 Aug 2008, 17:49, 2 replies)

Bindun several times?
I take it everyone knows someone who has done this.

Whilst working at a quality drinking establishment many many years ago a friend of mine (no, honest!) took a young lady to a quiet spot on the local beach, for some shenanigans in the dark.

Some time later, said friend returns with what can only be described as a wet ginger beard.

Turns out the young lady had "fallen to the communists" whilst he was performing a spot of cumulonimbus.

Oh how we laughed, especially as it was a full thirty miutes in the pub before a passer by mentioned he had a large amount of congealed blood on his chin.

I believe the nickname "discharge" has stuck to this day
(magic the cat will someone please think of the kittens, Sun 10 Aug 2008, 17:48, Reply)

I hate my nose
It's been broken a couple of times, or rather broken once when I was a teenager and rebroken at the same spot a couple of times at the same spot.

The original beak-bending occurred when I was kicked in the face by a close personal friend in a minor dispute over the custody of a fourpack of McEwans Export.

I have also managed to modify my (at the time) youthful visage by getting out of bed, specifically a double bed set against a wall, in such a way that the wall-sider couldn't get out if the edge-sider was being a funny git.

She was, so I stood up on the boingy shagged out mattress, and with the grace and agility of a mountain goat caught my foot in the duvet and toppled face first over the recumbent laydee and smacked nose-first onto the floor.

*Crunch*

I could do tricks with it for a while after that, including really good crackly gristly noises that put people off their feed.

Anyhoo, I didn't really bother much about it for years, but I had a spate of nosebleeds for a couple of weeks, and was getting fed up of driving at speed with my head tilted back so the claret went down my throat and not my shirt as I was on a deserted road with no tissues available.

Plus driving up the A483 with a wad of Kleenex the size of Barrymore's Buttplug sticking out of my snotter was a sight that was distracting other road users, and may in fact be illegal under an obscure bit of the Road Traffic Act.

So, I hie me to the scab-lifter, who takes the blood pressure (yep, still got some), shoves a torch the size and power of a Nite-Sun up there (I swear if anyone had been standing behind me they'd have had an X-Ray view of what I laughingly call a brain while smelling my nose-hairs crisp and smoke into ash), and sez that he can see a busted blood vessel.

Well thank you Doctor Frigging Kildare, I'd worked that one out too. Referred to the Department of Lugs, Snotters and Pipes.

(Wavy Lines) (Look, it's the NHS)

Smiley Korean man can't see anything. Gives out a tube of stuff to stick up nose.

(Wavy Lines)

Back again. Smiley Korean man can see something. Like a diminutive Dalek in a fetching bow tie, he starts jabbering "Cauterise! Cauterise!" to his student who was staring with great interest up one's snout.

Your hero at this point is pinned to the chair with one nostril stretched to the size of a grapefruit, with torches, pointy things, other things that disturbingly recalled the thingmies they used to hoick the brains out of Pharoahs with during mummification all rammed up the poor tortured appendage. Did I mention the camera with the bendy probe thing that he shoved up there and into the sinuses? Did I mention that he fed about six feet of cable into my nose? How many people have nosebleeds originating in their buttocks, anyway?

Ahem.

I don't recommend cauterisation as a hobby.

What I really don't recommend is being left with a clot the size and hardness of Ayers Rock up there, acting as a snot-sieve, and being told under no circumstances to blow my nose for 4 days. Sorry folks, that is just not humanly possible.

I still get nosebleeds.*












*Especially when my angelic 19 month old 'Pits the Heid' onto Daddy like a drunken Hibs fan on a Saturday night.
(osok Rebel without a clue, Sun 10 Aug 2008, 17:14, 3 replies)

Jim has his foreskin tugged... Hilarity does not ensue.
For much of my youth, I suffered from throbbing pains in my manservant. Not the nice kind you get when you look at a picture of Jenna Jameson taking eight inches of African-American Bangstick up her tuna funnel, but the unpleasant kind that normally results after hitting one's manhood with a lumphammer.

By the time I reached 12 years of age, my parents decided it was time to seek medical attention as the pain had become more acute and regular.

A hirsute doctor manipulated my spam javelin with cold hands (why are they cold for gods sake?), and proclaimed that my foreskin was attached at 2 places on my shaft making a cavity in which infection had spread.

It was decided I would go to hospital as an outpatient and they would expose the cavity, and clean it up.

Now I laboured under the false impression that I would have some sort of anaesthesia for this escapade.
How wrong could I have been? I was strapped (actually I probably wasnt strapped, but this is a painful memory from 23 years ago and has been exaggerated in my mind for 2 decades now), into a stretcher and the consultant pulled my foreskin back snapping the connection with my love truncheon and exposing the lower connection and the gunk which caused the pain.

I made the mistake at this point of looking at my midriff.. It looked like the scene from Alien when the creature bursts out of John Hurt's chest, only this bloody, battered organ was poking out of my nether regions.
I gagged.. Up until this point It had never occurred to me that there was blood there. Naivety was stripped away in one bloody nob, and I threw up, copiously, all over the doctor, myself, the nurse.
And the more I threw up the more the blood pumped out.
Believe me, 23 years later I am still feeling queasy at the thought.

The bleeding stopped after a few days, and it scarted to scab over. I had to put some ointment or other on it for weeks afterwards, to help heal it. Milk races were off the curriculum for the next 3 months.
(Vic Flange, Sun 10 Aug 2008, 17:11, 7 replies)

One of my mates at uni
Had a bit of an incident with a window on campus a few months ago… heard it second hand, unfortunately I wasn’t there at the time, so apologies for the lack of particularly specific detail.

On the way to the usual Friday night out on campus, his alcohol addled brain apparently decided that the best way in which to find out if the people in the halls next door to his were also coming out was to jump through their kitchen window - this had the not at all surprising result of the window smashing into hundreds of tiny, very sharp pieces, which then imbedded themselves mostly in his arms and neck.

Despite the fact that I’m assuming this was rather painful, and he fast developed a semi crimson mask due to all the blood, he still apparently made it to the on campus club, leaving a tell tale trail of blood en route, before one of his friends persuaded him it might be a good idea to pay a short visit to A&E. Amazingly, considering he had absolutely launched himself at the window, he didn’t even need stitches, though he narrowly avoided having his night made even worse by a bloke with projectile vomiting issues in the waiting room…

He’s still got several scars from the incident, though thankfully he’s managed to keep his window molestation to a minimum since.

First post, so be nice!
(Captain Backfire, Sun 10 Aug 2008, 15:11, 1 reply)

My other half
Spent quite a lot of time in hospital as a nipper, and as such is not entirely comfortable with the sight of his own blood. However, this is something that bugs him, so he tries to confront it when he can. Which is not always a great idea.

Pretty early on in our relationship, we'd bought a load of oysters and were busy preparying them. To do this you stick a knife in the joint of the oyster, and twist the knife so that the shell pops open. We had a small knife and a big knife, and it was decided that I'm a clumsy fuck and should only be allowed to use the small knife.

All goes well, until his knife slips.

The end hits the bone in his thumb, and slices a bit 'ole gash down it.

Being the sensitive type, I see to it that he's ok, then go back to popping the oysters open. He decides that this is an appropriate time to face his fear of his own blood. By opening up the cut and having a look at the bone.

Him: Oh fuck.

Me: What?

Him: I think I'm going to faint.

Me: Yeah, okay, whatev....

*thump*

I had to drag his twitching body up and onto a chair and stick his head between his knees. At which point I was told off for waking him up because "he was having a nice dream".

Men eh?
( Madam Marlboro wonders if you've found her yet, Sun 10 Aug 2008, 14:04, 1 reply)

Donation
I'm a very slow bleeder and once while donating the blood in the line actually coagulated before it could get to the bag. Well, the tech sees I've been there forever and the bag's not filling so he starts having me squeeze a stress ball. No luck. So he calls another tech over and she pulls out a pair of pliers and starts milking the line. Well, I must have built up some pressure behind the clot because the line split and sent a crimson stream shooting across the two techs and nearly halfway across the room. Pity to ruin their nice, white lab coats.
( Furrymeatloaf 's name is a killing word, Sun 10 Aug 2008, 12:40, Reply)

Another Austrian experience
Happened to a friend of mine. He was coaching a couple of kids in a snowboard camp, when some pissed teens decided to go on a make-shift sledride with these basic fold-in garden benches turned upside down. (Think Octoberfest). Well, they all sat in a row with a girl in front. The lever for the lock was pointing in eyesight of her private parts and due to a beer-garden bench's nature, there wasn't enough rocker to lift them over the first hump. The whole row of teens slid forward and pilot-girl got all the goodness of the hook straight through the biff.
Outch. Blood on snow is a lovely colour-combo, thou.
(fatbob pfffft…, Sun 10 Aug 2008, 11:32, 1 reply)

noises like a chipmunk
This takes place some years ago.

It was dark and I was in bed with a lady, kneeling between her legs while she assumed the position with her knees in the air, making noises like a chipmunk.

Due to various chemicals consumed, my memory's a bit hazy, but I can distinctly remember thinking how wet she was and how that was a good sign that I was doing a rather excellent job.

She was very, very wet.
With an unfamiliar taste,
a metallic taste...

So I turned on the light.

I'd got menstrual blood all over my face, matted in my hair and running down my chest. Not to mention the bedclothes.

She was very apologetic. I said not to bother, it wasn't her fault etc.
After a quick swill of my upper body, I returned and messed up my lower body (I'm sure no-one needed to know that last bit).
( Duncan Disorderly, Sun 10 Aug 2008, 10:32, 3 replies)

my favourite euphemism for menstruation:
"she's fallen to the Communists"
(apeloverage committed the vile act of onanism on, Sun 10 Aug 2008, 10:23, 7 replies)

Facial fury
Once upon a time I was doing this girl. (Yes, it's going to be one of THOSE stories again.)
Anyway - we were getting down and dirty in bed, and this girl decided to give me some long needed mouth to wang treatment.
So here's the deal. This girl gave pretty decent head, so I didn't last very long. I almost yelled out to her that I was about to shoot, and she took it out of her mouth and continued manually (as she was no big fan of the taste of you-know-what.)
She then leans over to give me a kiss just at the same time that my body starts spasming.
Result: I throw my body upwards just as she leans downwards, ending up with her getting a bit of a swallen lump on her forehead, and me with a facefull of nosebleed and my own sperm.

Should have taken a picture...
(eikind, Sun 10 Aug 2008, 9:27, 2 replies)

Cosmetic surgery the low tech way
Woke up one morning, scratched my stomach and managed to remove a large mole with my fingernail. The blood was like that bit in "A Nightmare On Elm Street" where the kid gets sucked into his bed and a tornado of blood and guts comes back out: www.youtube.com/watch?v=aXEDB7Y7Dts

The mole never grew back though.
(rogerzilla, Sun 10 Aug 2008, 8:16, Reply)

oops! girl's bike!
When a lad I was at my mate's house, and I borrowed his sister's bike to ride up and down the cul-de-sac. Standing up on the pedals to get power, the hub gears went into neutral at the top of the power-stroke, and because there was no crossbar on the frame, as my foot shot down and backwards on the now-freewheeling pedal,my body fell downwards out of control and my right knee ground into the pavement, leaving most of its skin and tissue on the gravel, as I unceremoniously fell in a slithering heap with the bike on top of me.
I remember looking down at the damage and seeing white bone and connective tissue poking out from the 5 centimetre crater.
Weeks later, after quite a few days off school, (damn!) the scab had formed up nicely, I fell off my skateboard (that I wasn't supposed to ride on account of the knee) onto the same knee, wearing jeans. "Oh-oh, that can't be good" I thought, as i gingerly rolled up my jeans to see if the scab had survived. Nope, there it was, completely off its crater, loose in my jeans.
I was bloody scared of what mum would scream, so I gingerly went downstairs and promptly taped the scab back on, and pretended everything was rosy.
It healed up just fine! Wonders!
Now I can appreciate that I might have castrated myself had it been a boy's bike.
(mr locomotivator, Sun 10 Aug 2008, 7:56, 1 reply)