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This is a question Things you can't unsee...

The Eightball Says Yes wimpers, "Waiting for a bus on Upper Street, Islington twenty years ago I was approached by a very old and very potty woman. She must have been 80.
"She was licking her lips salaciously and saying 'fuck me, fuck me.' She then lifted her skirt to show me her fanny. I looked, I ran, I wish I could rinse my mind out, but the image remains."

Tell us and the internet what you cannot unsee

(, Fri 13 Feb 2015, 13:42)
Pages: Popular, 5, 4, 3, 2, 1

This question is now closed.

Reverse swimming pool prank
A couple of years ago, my significant other, our son and I were at the seaside. My dear half noticed a chap allowing his dog to shit on the pavement and was about to admonish him roundly for his lack of civic endeavour; she was, however, stunned silent by a seagull.

The big bastard swooped down and took the steaming turd in its mouth before it flew off with its meaty snickers.

By the big bastard, I mean the seagull. Not my missus.
(, Sun 15 Feb 2015, 21:30, 3 replies)
I once walked in to the changing room at the local swimming pool,
to find two young men with Downs syndrome, stark bollock naked, cocking their legs like dogs and pissing on the floor. They seemed to really be enjoying themselves.

Probably a good metaphor for this board, now that I come to think of it.
(, Wed 18 Feb 2015, 16:54, 1 reply)
Holy Mary Mother of God
A gorgeous young lady once asked me along to a dinner party hosted by her boss. I reluctantly agreed because I wanted to be a good friend. A really good friend who would hold her tight and run his fingers through her long raven hair. An exceptionally good friend who would nuzzle her slender neck and whisper in her ear “ Cette sauce de haute qualite” etc. I yearned to fondle her velvet soft young breasts and gently stimulate her nipples. I was desperate to stroke the fine hairs on her lower back and to move my hand around to her soft warm belly; my fingers to explore the elastic around the top of her skimpy black satin panties. I could imagine our pulses racing as I slipped my fingers under the elastic and over her downy mound. My middle finger sliding down to the hot, slippery , soft … Er, mm, wait a minute what was the question? Oh yes.
Bernadette was a primary school teacher at a Catholic school. Her Headteacher was a nun and the Chair of Governors was the local priest. The priest was holding the dinner party for the Head and a few selected staff of the school. We arranged to arrive at the priest’s house at half seven. She would travel with her colleagues and I would arrive alone. I set off in good time because I wasn’t sure exactly where I was going and in pre-satnav days I had to rely on the old A to Z and asking passers -by for directions. As it happened, I arrived at the large Victorian house twenty minutes too early so I parked up round the back and had a fag. It was a late November evening and the rear of the house was shrouded in mist and darkness.
I’d hardly finished my fag when a light flicked on at the tradesmen’s entrance. If I could use that it would save me trekking round the side of the house back to the main entrance. Before my finger reached the doorbell though, I froze. Through the frosted glass I could see the Headteacher, in full nun’s garb, kneeling in prayer in the narrow corridor. Before her with his back to the wall stood the priest and he was resting his hand on her head. A touching moment of quiet religious reflection, I mused. Her head started to rock back and forth, very slowly at first but then increasingly faster. When she then moved her head back further, the black cloth thing on her head drew back like a curtain to reveal a very erect, and not one to be ashamed of, penis. I was in my twenties, they were both in their fifties. I was traumatised.
I beat a hasty retreat round to the front entrance and joined the other dinner party guests. I endured the following three hours bemused and bewildered as we all made polite small talk, not fully realising that the image of those two would stay with me forever.
And Bernadette? She dumped me after I had told her what I had seen because she was convinced it couldn't be true.
(, Sat 14 Feb 2015, 14:08, 4 replies)
Dirty foreign types
I had the misfortune to live in a shared house in Chester run by a rental agency who never bothered to check references and sent any old hoo ha to live with you without consultation.

One such delight was an overweight Belgian who we shall call Chris, for this is what his parents deemed fit to name him. He had looked a little bit like Private Pile from Full Metal Jacket and spoke like Michael Jackson.

He used to make his fried breakfast in a wok because he couldn't fit it all in a frying pan, and his lunch normally consisted of 14 slices of bread and an entire pot of jam. I have no idea how he washed... our shower cubicle was too small for me when I was 11 stone, how he fitted 28 stone in that cubicle I have no idea. We guessed that his belly probably made a water tight seal around the cubicle leaving him only minutes to wash his upper half before he drowned.

Anyway, he did many disgusting things like sawing at his in-growing toe nails with my cook's knife and leaving us to clear out his room of bin bags full of Black Lace novels and copies of Voluptuous magazine all smeared in cake when he left the country after being sacked for gross misconduct.

One event though is indellibly burned into my retina and I fear it may be the last image that flashes before my eyes when I die. As you can imagine, no one really gets to that size without being incredibly fucking lazy. He has Sky installed in his room and when he wasn't working that was all he did, lay on his bed like Jabba in his palace. TV. Cake. Porn.

My bedroom was sadly next to the upstairs bathroom. I came home early one day, climbed the stairs to be confronted with the vision of his enormous wobbly arse mid-wipe. He'd taken to having a poo with the door open because he couldn't hear the TV with it shut.

Someone, please. Burn my eyes!
(, Fri 13 Feb 2015, 14:30, Reply)
Not technically something I've seen
A mate of mine claimed defiantly in the face of great incredulity and cries of "bollocks" to only ever wank over porn mags whilst holding a passport picture of his girlfriend over the faces of the ladies featured.

But that was then.

What I can't unsee is the mental image I have of the modern equivalent. Namely him moving this passport picture all over the screen of his laptop, his cock presumably receeding in shame whenever he accidentally catches a glimpse of another woman's face.
(, Mon 2 Mar 2015, 20:13, 2 replies)
When tidying my dead parents stuff up
I found their "personal" Polaroids.


So, people, if your going to die, BURN YOUR PRIVATE PORN STASH FIRST. Save your kids money on therapy.
(, Tue 17 Feb 2015, 1:01, 2 replies)
i didn't actually see it myself, but i feel as if i did...
my brother has a friend who considers himself a bit of an old school gent. you know the type of chap - when you hear stories, he sounds like a total bellsniffer, but when you actually know him, he's an incredibly decent guy. this one has a real way with words, but only thinks he has a real way with women. let's call him rupert, for that is what he sounds like.

so last summer they were all in puerto banus on a mate's stag do. everyone had a few beers round the pool, but rupert had also knocked back an enormous number of large glasses of rioja and quite a lot of vodka (they later found 2 receipts for 800 euros for bottles of "absolut" in his pocket. history does not relate whether he bought them or got scammed). the afternoon's pleasant sunbathing was interrupted by a gigantic SPLASH as a fully dressed rupert plunged into the pool and swam over to try and charm a gang of girls who were sunbathing on the other side of it.

eventually my brother and 2 of their friends had to drag rupert away and back to their hotel room. by this point he was complaining about his stomach and letting off trouser trumpets like a brass band. they got him into the bathroom and deposited him on the toilet. he swayed dangerously and let rip with a volley of disgusting farts, and then suddenly sat bolt upright.

"get out of here, you perverts!!" he thundered. needless to say, they were happy to comply. they were just about to head back to the pool, when there was a godalmighty crash from the bathroom. then rupert's voice came out from under the door. this time it was much less thundery.

"jimmy?" he quavered. "jimmy, i'm hurt!"

when they rushed back in, they saw that he had fallen off the toilet, head first into the bath. bent over it like a great big ugly pyramid. with a chocolate point at the peak.
(, Mon 16 Feb 2015, 16:47, 11 replies)
Indecent Exposure
I was in a local pub with workmates in the early 1990s, for a pint during dinner break. It was hardly a horrible pub, but hardly a brilliant one. After a game of pool we chose a booth and sat down to finish our beers.

After a couple of minutes, we noticed a very dodgy-looking couple sitting in the booth opposite us. They looked to be mid 50s, and by coincidence, "mid 50s" probably described the last time either of them had had a wash.

The bloke was "portly" and had the face of a professional port-drinker. His clothes were held together by threads and sheer willpower. I was drawn to the crotch of his trousers which seems to have all the substance of a spider's web. I didn't look too much - but I could swear he'd decided to "go commando" ...

... and my worst fears were confirmed two seconds later when he slightly shifted position and his dick flopped out of one of the holes. I was not the only one transfixed by this sight - all my colleagues has seen and were muttering expletives as they couldn't believe what they were seeing.

The filthy bastard noticed that we were looking, reddened slightly and quietly shoved his dick back into the same hole it had just flopped out of, and then carried on chatting with his dirty-looking whore of a companion.

Dirty old bastard.
(, Sat 14 Feb 2015, 13:20, 2 replies)
Last year I spent a few weeks in the South of the US visiting my cousin, who lives in Charlotte.
While there I bought some gifts for the family back home, and a pair of cheap trainers for myself. They looked pretty good but after walking a few miles in them my feet started to ache. It turned out that there was barely any substance to the sole and I could feel every pebble.

That same morning I was heading back to my cousin's place, still undecided whether to take the shoes back and ask for a refund, when I met my relative coming the other way with a couple of his mates. They were headed off to their shift in the food canning factory up the road and invited me to have a look round. I was pretty bored so decided to tag along. The guys clocked in and I joined a visitor group about to start on one of their organised tours. A mind-numbingly dull two hours followed as we saw room after room of boiling hot pipes, conveyor belts and vats. The only thing that kept me awake was the constant pain from my soles, walking up and down the metal staircases. I promised myself that as soon as we were finished I'd take the footwear straight back to the shop.

And then we came to the tinned fruit room. The catwalk over the production line had a sharp, overly-pronounced anti-slip pattern and the minute I set foot on it the agony was unbearable. Thankfully I spotted a pair of workman's boots sitting unattended by a litter bin, next to the nearest control panel. I hung back a little and, when no-one was looking, limped across and swapped footwear. I took a good few steps after the group. As luck would have it the boots were comfortable and just my size! By this point I was so sick of the running shoes in my hand that rather than carry them home, I hurled them towards the bin. Stupid idea. They missed by a good six inches and went sailing over the guard-rail, bounced once off a pipe and disappeared into an open vat of steaming fruit.

I looked around quickly. No-one had noticed a thing, so I quietly rejoined the group and finished the tour. A week later my cousin read in the local press about a product recall. Two households had reported finding the mangled, boiled remains of a flimsy trainer amongst their mandarin segments. And both of those were my thin shoe canned, NC.
(, Fri 13 Feb 2015, 20:27, 10 replies)
Shanghai airport a few years back
I needed to offload some poo in the toilet.

The toilets were nice and clean - everything was nice and shiny... which made the tiles both on the wall and floor reflective.

So i sat down on the toilet and as you do - begin a thousand yard stare whislt all my brain bandwidth started to co-ordinate my bowel movement... in my absent stare - i noticed the light on the floor tiles began to move - I frowned with intrigue....as my focus sharpened on the light - I quickly realised i could see a very good reflection of a chinese man wiping his @rse in the cubicle next door.

Quickly aware of this horrible sight - and the expression of hard work on his face, i quickly looked away to the wall on my left... which was also very shiny, and merely reflected the floor tile and the man still scratching away at his @rse cheek with paper. completely unaware i was looking at him with his kecks around his ankles.

My teeth instantly started to sweat.
(, Tue 3 Mar 2015, 12:12, 6 replies)
Mmmmm Bisto...

(, Wed 25 Feb 2015, 14:31, 5 replies)
I've only told this story about 100 times before
Some years ago I was in a fairly shabby Copenhagen club with a few colleagues on the lash. Our boss, a Swedish guy called Sven was having a lovely time working his way through the top shelf of the vodka bar, so we left him to it and went off to dance to whatever passed for music in Denmark at the time.

As the lights came on around 3am, we went to find Sven but he was no longer at the bar and the barman said he'd seen him head towards the gents a good hour earlier.

I wandered into the toilets and was slightly concerned to see that one of the stalls was locked and someone was clearly on the floor inside... judging by the shoes it looked like Sven. I called and banged on the door to no response so started to panic that something was seriously wrong. I fetched a bouncer and the pair of us banged and hollered to no response so the only option left was to break down the door.

As the bouncer smashed through, the sight was something I'll never forget. Sven, face down, arse up, with a perfectly curled cumberland sausage resting proudly on his buttocks. The lime green y-fronts round his ankles were a nice touch too.
(, Tue 17 Feb 2015, 13:27, Reply)
Living in the Middle East you see some shit.
As you may know, in the Arabian Peninsula where cars and petrol are cheap you get guys doing crazy shit on the roads. Look up car surfing or Saudi driving skills on YouTube and you'll see what I mean. There are videos of guys taking the tires off of cars while driving along on two wheels. Another crazy bastard drove down Jebel Hafeet on two wheels in a Nissan Patrol, a drive that is challenging enough on all four.

One afternoon driving to Abu Dhabi I saw the cops arriving on the scene of an accident in the median strip of the highway. One car was lying upside down on top of another, a perfect roof-to-roof match that ended up being hood-to-hood. Apparently someone's Madd Driving Skillz were not as good as they thought.

Another afternoon a pickup truck came rocketing past me on the same highway, doing a good 180-200 kph. About ten minutes later we saw cops just beginning to arrive at the scene of tire marks going up an embankment to a palm tree severed about eight feet above the ground and a familiar looking truck on its roof.

But the best are the families that drive down the roads with a toddler standing on the console between the front seats, one hand on each seat. I've taken to referring to them as extreme late term abortions.

The Middle East: it's even madder than you thought.
(, Mon 16 Feb 2015, 18:48, 4 replies)
Not me, but a friend of mine.
Bill (not his name) was in the Special Forces during the Second Gulf War (Operation Enduring Our Freedom to Bomb the Living Fuck Out Of You) and was stationed in Afghanistan. Despite what Hollywood tells you, Special Forces does not go wriggling through the dust to assassinate the bad guys, but rather were there to get to know the locals and try to make a rapport with them to try to persuade them to back the western forces and push back the Taliban. He could never be sure if he was making progress or not, but hey, he did his job anyway.

As such their base was set up a half to three quarters of a mile from a village. There was a big perimeter around it, obviously, and it had to be monitored. Part of Bill's duty was to stay on top of that wall and keep watch through night vision scopes for any suspicious movement.

One night Bill and his partner for the shift were sweeping around with their night vision and spotted movement at the edge of the village behind a building. As they watched two local guys led a donkey out there, then one stood in front of the donkey holding it still while the other guy went behind it. After a time they traded places. In the distance they could hear the donkey braying.

Were those sounds of outrage or pleasure? Only the donkey knows for certain.

Bill relayed this story to me over a beer, and even ten years later he still shuddered as he described what he saw. Some things just should not be seen outside of certain establishments in Tijuana...
(, Mon 16 Feb 2015, 18:04, 3 replies)
142 bus in Manchester...
...shabby bloke drinking milk from a plastic milk bottle. Shabby woman eating some kind of fish straight from a tin. Their subsequent kiss was the kind of full fat tuna brine horror I never wish to see again. Worrying thing is, now I think about it, I'm not sure if the kiss ever happened. I think it did. I don't know. Memory is shabby too. The couple was real, the bottle was real, the tinned fish was real, but there is a 20% chance the milk fish kiss was my own sexy fantasy.
(, Sun 15 Feb 2015, 15:03, Reply)
In Hong Kong and China, buddhist monasteries often have dogs
These animals are kept on a strict vegan diet so that the monastery is kept all pure and stuff. I was visiting one, may years ago with my Dad; I can't remember where exactly, as we went to several.

Just by the toilets and bins was one of the monastery dogs, having a wonderful time savaging something, was growling and yipping excitedly. On closer inspection, it turned out to be a sanitary towel.

I told this story the other day at a party, several sheets to the wind. I imagined I was being quiet and just sharing it with my mate, but then there was a joint 'ewwwwww' from everyone in the room. Turns out I'm not very good at quiet.
(, Tue 3 Mar 2015, 13:37, Reply)
this tearjerking scene
I've euthanased a lot of animals. Its part of what I do. In the vast majority of cases I come away feeling like I have just created a hole in someones life. I live with that. However..

I was once called to euthanase a mare. This I did by lethal injection and it was as upsetting as could be imagined (if you like horses). Her foal which was in the same loose box came over to examine her mothers recumbent corpse and pawed at her as if to make her get up. This fair shook me up and I wished I could not have seen that.
(, Thu 19 Feb 2015, 13:16, 11 replies)
The following is an extract from As Time Goes Bi... The Erotic Fan Fiction
Lionel opens the front door clutching a book. He kicks the front door closed behind him. “Jean, I've got it,” he said, “The first edition. I can't believe he sold it to me.” He enters the living room. “Jean?” Where is she? He wonders. A few faint groans echo through the house. “Jean? Where are you? Are you okay?” He hurries up the stairs where the moaning and groaning intensify. Anxious, he crosses to the bedroom door. The moaning has subdued slightly, but then rises once more. Lionel pushes the door open to be greeted to Jean rubbing her thicket in an intense motion. “Oh Lionel,” groans Jean. Lionel looks away in absolute disgust. She surely hasn't been frotting herself all this time since he has been away? “Oh, Lionel, come and finish me off,” Jean said.

“Absolutely not. Just look at the state of that thing. It looks like an overgrown Wookey Hole. Disgusting.”

“You didn't complain the other night.”

“That's because I didn't see it in the darkness of night and not the darkness of hair.”

“Well, you've killed the mood so I might as well use my fuck stick to get the job done.”

Jean reaches into her top drawer and pulls out a silver phallic automatic fucking device. She then starts to arouse herself with it. “Oh stop,” demands Lionel. “Never.” Jean carries on. As Lionel turns to walk away, a thunderous clap of vomit drops out of his mouth. “You bitch,” he utters, before walking to the bathroom.
(, Wed 18 Feb 2015, 13:01, 7 replies)
More of a hear than see...
While visiting Amsterdam I was waiting to use a cash point machine in Dam Square. Just looking around when some woman (40ish) was approaching a junction on her push bike. She slowed down and I presumed this was as she was approaching the junction, but it turns out she was slowing down because she was mid faint. The bike came to a stop and she toppled over and smacked her head on the cobblestones. That was a sound that will never, ever leave my head. I get a shiver down my spine and feel sick when ever I think about it.
(, Tue 17 Feb 2015, 14:25, 3 replies)
I once saw a short film showing a cancer drug that suppressed the vomit reflux, for a drug company my dad worked for
to demonstrate it, they had a cat restrained to a board with the top half of it's skull removed. I believe a cat has a similar vomit reflux to humans, to its misfortune.
A milky substance was syringed into the cat's mouth, and the electrodes that were applied to the cat's exposed brain stimulated the vomit reflux and cat vomited up the the milk. After the drug was administered the cat didn't vomit, proving it's efficacy. The cat's eyes were open for the entire video. I can still see them now.
The production values were also sub-par
(, Mon 16 Feb 2015, 11:43, 2 replies)

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