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This is a question The most childish thing you've done as an adult

Davros' Grandad confesses: On visiting my ex-wife's house, I wiped my bum on the toothbrush belonging to the bloke she ran off with. At least, I thought it was his toothbrush.

(, Thu 17 Sep 2009, 14:36)
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Currently in trouble with my girlfriend...
She's got one of her mentalist full on Welshy mates over from Cardiff for the weekend, a girl (and I use that phrase grudgingly because swamp-monster-dripping-pissy-stench-goo-and-puss-from-every-fucking-orifice-while-strangely-looking-like-a-hairy-fucking-transvestite-gorilla isn't PC, apparently) named Emma.

So I spent today listening to Emma's cackling, mind-numbing anecdotes - the sort you could get wheeled into theatre for open heart surgery without the need for anesthetic after listening to for a couple of excrutiatingly painful minutes.

So, its lunchtime. My girlfriend, Liz, decides it would be nice to go for a pub meal. The three of us venture out to the local just across from the flat. As we go, Emma starts up the latest diatribe about who's contracted an STD back in Cardiff, or some other such lovely mealtime conversation.

We get to the pub door. I stop. I've officially had enough. I see the sign. I know I shouldn't but the childish side of me just can't help it. I turn while pointing at the sign and say to Emma: "Sorry, love - you're not allowed in here." And I walk between the heavy doors to get a much needed pint in.

Liz and Emma follow. Liz isn't happy at all. Emma isn't too pleased either.

The sign was taped to the window and it said simply: NO DOGS ALLOWED
(, Sun 20 Sep 2009, 2:19, 2 replies)
I was living in a shared house with 5 friends.
A Toys r Us sale leaflet came through the post. It had a half price deal
on these multi shot(20) rotating barrel Nerf guns. I went to Toys R Us
and brought a couple of them. Took them home and me and my
mates spent the weekend running round the house shooting each
other. It was brilliant! I was about 26-27 at the time.
(, Sun 20 Sep 2009, 2:18, 2 replies)
Picture the scene. Wednesday morning, last week. I'm walking to work, having just arrived by train. No busses, but the sun's shining, so on go the sunglasses, sling the jacket over my shoulder, and off I saunter.

I come to the road bridge over the railway, and cross over. I'm smiling and humming along. ELO's 'Mr Blue Sky' is on the iPod, the flying spaghetti monster is in his heaven, and all is right with the world.

Just when I thought the morning couldn't get any better, it suddenly did.

An area of freshly-laid, still damp concrete! AHA! I looked over. Some lowlife had already doodled on the grey, damp surface, etching 'BS luvs Kaz' into the proudly perpendicular Portland product.

But that grafitto inspired me. I knew, in a flash of inspiration, what I had to do. It was as if the heavens had opened, and Rob Manuel, SpankyHanky, Apeloverage and the massed Kitten Army- the spirit and influence of B3ta- had whispered in my ear. I knew exactly what the spirit of B3ta would have me draw....

I felt compelled. I dodged an oncoming cycle, and quickly, furtively, pushed my right index finger into the wet cement, and I drew quickly and decisively, before running off giggling like a loon.

Length? About 14 inches, complete with testicles, a few wispy hairs, and a little spurt of man-juice.
(, Sun 20 Sep 2009, 1:48, 8 replies)
at the age of 25 I took the conscious decision to poop my pants
not immediately upon my 25th birthday, but I happened to be 25.

I had needed the toilet for about an hour but was stuck on the window sill with my fingers trapped in a sash window, the result of a failed break-in to my house after forgetting my keys.

my cries for help went unheeded and I shit myself.
(, Sun 20 Sep 2009, 1:47, 7 replies)
Definitely not the most childish thing YET
but the most RECENT childish shenannigoats.

Sitting with the in-laws in a rather posh restaurant, the type where you're expected to know your wines and cheeses so that the staff can be mildly impressed. Talking to my mum-in-law about cartoons from days of yore (the usual tripe, ie. how they just don't make them like they used to). Discussion turns to Swiss Heidi who lives in the mountains with her granddad. Mum-in-law's only recollection of that show is Heidi sitting with her granddad by the fire while he's... wait for it... he's cutting the cheese. Hmmm... there was no helping it: I laughed so hard I fell off my chair. And got thrown a few choice looks for the rest of the meal.
(, Sun 20 Sep 2009, 1:32, 2 replies)
...and put the freshness back
An old mate of mine (sadly no longer with us) was sharing a flat with someone he truly despised on every level.

Whilst hoovering* the living room carpet he called the guy over...

"Here, mate, can you smell burning?"


"I can, I think it's coming from the Hoover. Can you smell anything?"

Flatmate then does what any normal person would do, and took a nice long, deep sniff from the exhaust of the Hoover. At this point (and with perfect timing) my mate releases the most vile and stinking of farts right into the hose, thus filling flatmate's lungs with turbocharged, superheated anal gas...

Ever since hearing that story, I've been dying to try it on someone (dead mature me, like...) but I've never had the right combination of 'fart availability', 'Hoover use' and 'disliked person within vicinity'. One day, maybe...

(* other vacuum cleaners are available)
(, Sun 20 Sep 2009, 0:18, 2 replies)
I am the very personification of juvenile
Inexplicably, I find the word/name 'wang' hilarious.

It's been an affliction of mine for a number of years but, of late, has grown worse.
I've gone from sniggering under my breath and having to suppress an inane grin, to (when it caught off-guard) having full-on, drop to my knees, choking for breath laughing attacks where I bray away for a couple of minutes at a time.

'Boobies' tends to elicit a similar, if less-extreme reaction.


To preface what I'm about to say next, where I work is quite near to a high school and at times I end up having to get a train to work which then requires me to navigate my way through/round the massing hordes of, ahem, 'eager young minds' just before school starts.
Furthermore, as I'm not a morning person, I tend to sleep as late as I can, shower and leave for work, choosing to put off such niceties as breakfast until I reach my place of employment, so I quite often end up taking something with me to work to have for breakfast.

My breakfast of choice is Coco Pops.

Yes ladies and gentlemen, I semi-regularly board the train to work and march up past hundreds of teenagers with a box of Coco Pops under one arm.
The looks on the faces of the young scrotes* as I wonder past would lead me to believe that I resemble a day release patient from the local home for the clinically bewildered.

But screw 'em - I get to have my Coco Pops and the chocolaty milk that goes hand-in-hand with them.

(* as an aside, myself an my colleagues have been trying to invent a collective noun for 'scrotes' to describe a gathering of 12-15 year olds - so far the best suggestion seems to have been 'an ASBO of scrotes' but any further suggestions would be appreciated)


As far back as I can remember, I have named every muffin I have ever eaten (not a euphemism).
They were all called Frank.

I'm sure there's more of my behaviour that but I can't seem to think of any of it just now.

Mandatory length gag: about a 15 minutes from the station to work, past the school.
(, Sun 20 Sep 2009, 0:16, 9 replies)
The Huffy One
I am a posting virgin so please be gentle....unless i wink and hand you a tenner

Anyway, back in the mists of time (all of about a year ago), I was out for my usual evening stroll avec cigarettes, lived with parents who kinda got pissy about me smoking in the house.

Anyway I can walk quite a distant considering I'm a slightly overweight lazy bastard who'd rather be raping a cream bun than partaking in any kind of physical exercise.

Now there is a partial back story to this which runs along the lines of the fact that I have an incredibly small bladder and bowel and have been prone to sitting in extreme pain as I cook a little brown defecation cock in my intestines and shit around 3 times a day.

So as I walk and puff I am on the phone to my other half being a funny bastard and suave and sophisticated (talking about willies and boobs and stuff) I feel the usual stirrings in my internals and think its nothing but as I continue to walk it gets gradually worse until I fart to relieve some pressure and a torrent to rival Niagra sprigs forth from my loins and covers my lower portions in entirety, even getting so far as my shoes.

No being on the phone I kind of get a little worked up about all this and start running towards home. This is a bad move as running means I apparently relax my sphincter and more springs forth....for some reason I stay on the phone and stop dead in the middle of the street and start to cry and gurn and then blame my defenseless other half down the phone.

God bless the little old lady who came out of her house and allowed me in to sit on a plastic chair covered with a plastic bag until my dad came round to get me...I think that may actually be the day and hour our relationship broke down, but I suppose being a giant bender didn't help.

I also thought it would be hilarious to try and set a mates hair on fire one night whilst not realising he had used more hair spray than a taxidermist stuffing Jackie O and his hair went up in one god almighty whoosh and I, instead of attempting to rush to the poor fellows rescue managed to stand there and piss myself laughing.

And no I'm not actually 12
(, Sat 19 Sep 2009, 23:51, Reply)
At work, when I'm chained to the till like the good little till monkey I am, I draw faces on the bakery sheet; a card that shows pictures of various bakery goods, and the code that you need to punch into the till for them. I add a face to each product day by day, and so far I have an extremely happy white crusty roll, a stern, perhaps thoughtful multi seeded triangle, and a sexy petite pain.

We're also required to input people's ages when they buy items that require ID, like cigarettes and shit. I apparently get great fun out of putting completely the wrong age in, putting a little old lady as 18, and annoying customers as a good ten years or so above the age I actually think they are. I once spent a long Saturday shift making the ages ascending, I started at 18, the next person was 19, etc. I sadly lost count in the sixties.

Given the new laws about providing proof of age, we have a book in which we're meant to write down the details of anyone we have to refuse service to, ie, they look too young and don't have ID on them. We're required to fill this up to make our manager look good for making us follow the rules, which sucks a little since we're small and local; we tend to KNOW who are underage or not. So, I had fun making a few of my own entries, sometimes making them as if they're little stories. For example;

Short youth with brown hair, looked fifteen. No ID, got annoyed, and left.

Short youth with brown hair and cape, looked fifteen. No ID, got annoyed, flared his cape, and left.

Tall youth with red hair, looked seventeen. No ID, short youth with brown hair peering through window. No ID, understood, and left.

.. it gets so boring on that till. Anyone got any ideas for fictional characters I can put in there? I've only got Dr Who in there at the moment, I wasn't feeling too imaginative.
(, Sat 19 Sep 2009, 23:47, 3 replies)
Sorry that it's not funny, but I had to share.
Today I did the most child-like thing I've done in years. And that's saying something - I'm the kind of person that keeps a yo-yo in their bag and loves anything that shines or sparkles.

I was driving down the road of my estate, weaving between the traffic calming measures that litter the paths. There is good reason. Kent's finest boy racers seem to take great pleasure in attempting to break the sound barrier down that road. With all the bumps and sleeping policemen, they still go at least 40mph.

And today, as I was following one, tutting, he hit a kitten. I slammed on my brakes, nearly sending myself through the windscreen, and threw myself out of the car. The car in front was speeding off into the distance.

When I reached him, it was clear he wasn't going to be with us long. In the ten seconds between me stopping and running to get to the cat, I'd been mentally calculating how long I was to live on bread and water to pay for the guy's vet bills. Now, I wondered how long he'd be with me.

I picked him up into my arms, careful not to hurt him any more. He didn't resist at all. He didn't hiss or scratch, just accepted. He couldn't have been more than 3 months old. And here he was dying at the expense of some stupid fucktarded boy racer who was showing off his choons and his new exhaust. I sat on the pavement holding him, stroking him gently and speaking to him in a soft voice.

Someone over the road was lovely enough to find me a blanket to wrap the kitten in, and find a phone book. By the time I'd picked up the phone to dial my vet to ask him to come and put him to sleep, he'd gone. It was over in a few minutes, and I think he was so out of it from the knock that he wasn't suffering. But regardless, it's fucking horrible.

He didn't have a collar on, and nobody I asked knew whose he was. I later went and rinsed the blood away from the road. I hope that whoever's missing him right now just thinks he ran away to a new family, as unrealistic as that is.

So the most childish thing I've done as an adult is cry like a baby for a cat I'd never even seen before. And I feel no shame in it. I'll never forget him.
(, Sat 19 Sep 2009, 23:37, 15 replies)
The Peugeot Game
Inspired by the Yellow Car post below - so here goes.

A few years back, Mrs Milky noticed that the front of a Peugeot 407 looks a bit like someone with their mouth wide open. She demonstrated this to me by opening her mouth wide and making a sort of "ngggg" sound (basically by closing off her throat). She sounded a bit like Tidyup from Stoppit and Tidyup.

We both found this so funny, that for a good 6 months afterwards, every time a "wide-mouthed Peugeot" came past us in the car, we would repeat the self same "ngggg" sound.

We don't do it as much now. Which is a shame.
(, Sat 19 Sep 2009, 23:09, 2 replies)
just watching MOTD and Gary Linekar remarked 'its a fanny old game' i snorted snot out!
(, Sat 19 Sep 2009, 23:04, Reply)
my dad
has the mind of an 8 year old i swear, there are too many to list but here are my personal favourites.

some mornings he likes to pretend he's a marine and will run around our living room throwing himself behind
the chairs while making bomb noises and screaming
he does the same when he's on video call to his friend... though they pretend to shoot each other and hide
under the desk where the camera cant see them.

one day he got a new cordless drill, he was in the back room being unusually quiet. 10 minutes later
he burst through the door wearing a dust mask, holding the drill running around and making chainsaw noises.
when asked why: "its cause i'm that one in texas chainsaw massacre!"
yes dad of course you are dad

my dad is bald, and when i was 17 it was the first time i'd brought my boyfriend at the time to my house.
i walked through the door and he was wearing the dodgiest wig i've ever seen in my life and then spoke with a german accent.
i could have strangled him.

(, Sat 19 Sep 2009, 22:54, 6 replies)
When I feel a burp brewing
I sometimes cup my hand over my face, then open it in the nearest person's face and burp as loudly as possible, making it look as if I've caught the burp straight from my mouth and released it. Highly skilled and entertaining.

As a bonus, the bratty son of a neighbour once saw me do this and went home and did it to his mother, who promptly beat the shit out of him. Result!
(, Sat 19 Sep 2009, 22:42, Reply)
The only reason I didn't
Use Skyhooks' classic "You just like me 'cos I'm good in bed" as our bridal waltz, was because my sister had already put dibs on it to use as hers when she got married a couple of months after me.

Some say I'm really immature, I say I'm just upholding family tradition.
(, Sat 19 Sep 2009, 22:41, Reply)
My wife's expecting our first child in November
I'm really looking forward to teaching it to be just as childish as I am.
(, Sat 19 Sep 2009, 22:28, Reply)
Farts are always funny
My wife and I seem to get an inordinate amount of joy farting in bed. And for her, she gets even more enjoyment if it's summer, and the fan at the end of the bed is oscillating. She waits until it's close to a particular position, lets fluffy off the chain, and laughs uncontrollably when the fan is in the perfect position and blows it directly into my face.

I do get my revenge when I let a few "silent but violent" bum burps her way, though.
(, Sat 19 Sep 2009, 22:23, 1 reply)
I have so many...
One of my recent favourites though was walking through Target, there was one of those bins which they place in the middle of the walkway to attract the attention of impulse buyers and/or kids pestering their mothers. The bin was full of "super bouncy balls" which seem to be popular. They're the ones which look like raquetballs.

I picked one out of the bin, and gave it a few test bounces. I was sufficiently pleased.

I looked up at the ceiling of Target. It was about 8-9 metres (25' or so).

I gave the ball a mighty bounce, hoping to make it gently hit the ceiling. Instead, it slammed into the ceiling, and made an almighty racket. I dissolved in laughter. My wife was mortified, and proceeded to tell me off for being such a child.

To make things that much more satisfying, Standing a couple of metres away was an adolescent girl, who had just been told off by her mother for bouncing the balls. As we walked away, tears streaming down my face, barely able to breathe, the child was complaining to her mother: "See, he got to do it....."
(, Sat 19 Sep 2009, 22:08, Reply)
Sucker shooty guns
Every Xmas, without fail, my mum buys four of the plastic mini guns that shoot little orange sucker darts. One for me (age 28), my brother (27), my sister (21) and my grandad, who is 93. We spend all Xmas morning hiding round the house shooting each other (including grandad), and then all Xmas afternoon shooting my grandad when he nods off on the sofa.
(, Sat 19 Sep 2009, 22:04, Reply)
Little old lady who?
Stitched's comment just down below has reminded me of one of my biggest moments of shame.
A dear little old lady was once doing her shopping in a little old lady way, wobbling from shop to shop with her little old lady shopping bag over one arm. Sadly (for me as well as her) her ankle gave way as she stepped up a kerb and down she went, in a little old lady heap.
As she lay there wailing with shock and pain she let go of her (little old lady) bag, and the contents spilled forth.
Oranges which, suddenly released from captivity, seized their chance and made a break for freedom.
Away they rolled, slowly at first, but picking up speed as they went, and, as it was a cobbled street, they were catching some serious air.
Away they sped, faster and faster, higher and higher, like tiny spherical salmon, while the little old lady continued bleating mournfully, lying on the pavement while people fussed and plucked at her arms.
And what did I, your hero, do?
Did I go over and offer my assistance?
Did I call for an ambulance?
Did I fuck.
I sat on the kerb and laughed and laughed and laughed, til tears pricked the corners of my eyes and breathing became a chore, all too aware of the evil looks being fired in my direction, and all I could do was wheeze "but... the oranges! THE ORANGES!"

I offer no apologies. It was the biggest laugh I'd had for ages, and I hope that, one day, when I'm frail and old, someone, somewhere, laughs just as hard at me if I do anything similar. I'll shake their hand. Life's too short to stifle laughter.
(, Sat 19 Sep 2009, 22:04, Reply)
kneel :|
walking around on my hands and knee's to see what its like to be a midget, only to dicorver my mother was in the house.... hohum :|
(, Sat 19 Sep 2009, 21:46, Reply)
the other day whilst driving
we were overtaken by a cock in a Merc. It was a totally pointless overtake because he didn't have anywhere to go because we were all in a queue of shame behind a horsebox. He was just showing off.

So when the horsebox had buggered off, mr nuts overtook him back, up the next available hill,when he couldn't do anything about it. I turned to look at him as we zoomed past. His face was contorted with almost illegal amounts of rage, jibbering, and what looked like constipation. There were little white flecks at the corners of his mouth. The veins at his temples weren't so much throbbing as cocooning into glorious, tumescent, forehead hardons. His cock must have been burrowing itself back into his body. Ah, poor man, I thought. So much anger. So much rage.

Then I poked my tongue out at him as far as it would go, jabbed my thumbs into my cheeks and wiggled my fingers at him.

Then we giggled like mongs all the way home.
(, Sat 19 Sep 2009, 20:51, Reply)
Not me but...
...some proper childish person I know, his name is Pete. For months now Pete has been a thorn in my side. This is a virtually nonsensical rant of an issue thats been slowly eating me.

Things never used to be bad, we were once friends. We *were* in a band together until this band split up, due to this person.

As I said, things weren't bad. We did our share of gigs, etc etc, until one day he decided he couldn't think of anything else to write. Being a felow band member I offered to help out, as you do in a band, after all it is a team effort. He gratefully obliged and I set about writing some new material. In the time I was writing he ran round to everyone we both know, claiming I've "stepped in and am now trying to steal the show" from him. When I caught wind of this I assumed it was nothing more than some people spreading rumours, which, again, happens.

Me and my partner moved into a new house, and were minus a few essentials, namely a cooker, a washing machine and a fridge. One day we got an offer to collect a secondhand fridge from someone, on the day of one of our gigs. Pete phoned me up to arrange a pickup to get to the gig, and I said "thats perfectly fine, I just have to ick up a fridge first thing in the morning but that should give me a few hours to get ready for the gig." He was fine with that and we ended the conversation. Later that day he phones me up to tell me all the other bands have pulled out of the show and has therefore been cancelled. I thought "fair enough, doesnt mean we wont get anymore shows" and left it at that. A few days later we had a few friends round who then dropped Pete in it, saying that he told everyone else I was too busy to perform and that they'd have to do the show without me, which they did.

I was fuming, but left him to his childish devices.

Then I once again catch wind of something else he had been saying, claiming I was "trying to force him out of the band" by supposedly attempting to assume his guitarist position (I was the bass player).

This time I went mental. I asked what his damn problem was and he feigned ignorance.

I blew my freaking top.

I asked again, this time more forcefully, and he said "I don't want another guitarist in this band. We wanted a bass player for christ sake."

I had no idea what had spurred this. But I carried it on no further, got casually wasted, played my part at the show we were doing and left.

The following night was to be our last show.
We're playing at a pub in Ilkeston, just outside Nottingham and Derby, things were going fine, not ension except for the manic journey in petes car where we were gonna be late cos he didn't wanna drive fast. Anyway, he backed himself into a corner while we were playing, and then refused to give me a lift home. So there's me, stranded miles and miles away from home in a place I never knew. Luckily, my friend Jake lived not too far away, and gave me a lift home.

We were meant to be having another gig to celebrate a friends birthday, and it was this gig that was potentially to be our break, until Pete decided he wanted to go on holiday, leaving us with no guitarist. He also said he didnt want anyone to fill in for him for this *one* show, and that if anyone did he'd leave the band, which we couldnt have because he'd take the material with him. The singer (Halo) and myself were discussing what we could do instead, and came up with Halo doing guitar for the gig (which we ran past Pete and ehwas fine with) and we carry on as normal. Halo couldn't handle guitar and singing, and so asked me to do guitar as I knew the songs, and she deos bass. I said fine, and we agreed to keep it secret until Pete got back from holiday (the gig of which was right in the middle of his holiday) and we do the show.

In the few days that followed I had Pete's little scene kid brother having a go at me, and I quote (from my facebook account):

Sean Burton: You're a faggit man, why the fuck are you trying to push my brother out the band? you're dhit at guitar, you can hardly play bass and you only got in cos you were a fan and the only person they knew who played bass, who the fuck are you to decieve my brother like that? you're scum mate.

His words. I did pick out a few things wrong with that, aside from the spelling.

1. I wasn't a fan, I never knew who they were before that.
2. The only deception encountered was on his brothers (Pete) part.
3. I know I'm not the best musician, but I know I'm not shit.
4. I have more fans (personally) than either of them.

The singer and I left at this point, the band fell to pieces and we never did the show.

I then since started a new band, with the drummer from the above band. Things were going well until recently, when Matt (drummer) decided he could no longer be with us because he has too much to do with 6th form (he picked 6 courses, so I can understand why) and work.

THEN we find out he's doing another band with Pete again, and that Matt had lied to us, and Pete has swayed his small child-like mind like a paedo with a bag of sweets. Everyone in this band and everyone who knows both me and Pete has gone mental at him (Pete I mean).

HE is truly one of the most childish people I've met. Apologies for lack of funny, I just felt I needed to get this out there.

EDIT: We're still looking for a drummer in the Nottingham area, with no avail :(
(, Sat 19 Sep 2009, 19:39, 6 replies)
Childish revenge
I may have mentioned an ex house mate of mine before in other QOTW's, Jason the thief.

Basically it took us a while to figure out that he would occasionaly steal things from our rooms when we were not looking.

So to counter-act this, me and my mate Darren figured out that his window could open from the outside and wasn't locked.

We hatched a plan and when the thieving little shit left the house, we sneaked into his room and re-earranged EVERTYHING.

Every piece of moveable furniture was turned upside down, posters were placed back on his wall the wrong way round and general mayhem was engaged.

We hid in my room and when he returned we could hear him shouting and swearing in rage. He was soooo angry that he even punched his glass framed David Beckham picture on the wall and cut his hand, leaving me and Darren sniggering and crying with laughter in my room.

Great days...
(, Sat 19 Sep 2009, 19:27, 1 reply)
Either the most childish or the most petty.
Bit of back story -- I have a friend. Let's call her Ashley, for that is her name. Ashley has a habit of blowing all her wages and then trying to guilt her friends into lending her money, which I have fallen for more than once, which means for the past year she's owed me £200. Ashley's also a bit of a Japanophile, loves her anime and once got drunk and told me that she only tried to become friends with me because of my "gooky eyes" (I'm 1/4 Japanese), lovely person, isn't she?

Ashley has decided that because I am part "azn" then I must be sooo into Japanese culture. I am not. I have no desire to watch the shitty animes she gets imported. This is the childish part. Picture Ashley, all excited because she's just discovered Helling and it has vampires. So it must be like Twilight. And it's Japanese so I must like it, so therefore I must borrow it and watch it. She insists. Fine, she drops it off at mine and with a promise that when she gets paid, she'll give me my £200 back.

Jump to a couple of weeks after she's been paid and she pops round to pick up her DVD. Without my money. Because she "really can't afford to pay me back this month" but can she get her DVDs back because she really wants to show it to her new boyfriend. No, but she can afford to spend half her wages on Amazon. Okay, fair enough says I, hang on and I'll go and get your DVDs.

Go upstairs to get it. Nail scissors. Down the back of every other disk.

Maybe I'm not so much "childish" as "malicious bitch".
(, Sat 19 Sep 2009, 18:49, 10 replies)
Cruelty to prisoners
Myself and a couple of other colleagues spend a morning eating a hearty fried breakfast, followed by a nice big methane creating meal on weekend shifts just so that we can fart loudly and stink out the reception area and strip tank just in time for our prisoners coming back from comm visits.

They love it really.

OOO and turning the abstract art pictures upside own or on their side during searching and seeing if anyone notices. or filling the scrabble board with one rude word each day in competition with another officer. apparently the governor was none too pleased when he took the top off the box and found 2 weeks worth of scrabble entries.
(, Sat 19 Sep 2009, 17:03, Reply)
I still cheer loudly
Whenever anybody drops a plate or glass...
(, Sat 19 Sep 2009, 16:11, 3 replies)
adults playing childish wars
First the adult stuff, before I get to the childish part: my parents bought a new house last year, its garden slopes down a little and downhill lives their somewhat unfriendly neighbour. When the house was constructed 20 years ago, a pipe was installed wich diverts our rain water to the (then bare) land downhill. It's a plastic tube with a diameter of roughly 15 cm and it ends where the slope increases to a 45° angle on the land of mr. Friendly. Right behind it, an old oak tree (on his land), behind that, his swimming pool.
Please note that this setup for a water system is very commom in the region, and meant to avoid inundating lower land with mudslides and enabling the lower person to collect the rain water for irrigation purposes. Also, our pipe was there before his house or his pool were built. The oak also rather liked the abundant water supply in the otherwise rather dry region.

This set-up is however what started the childisg war between mr. Friendly and my father.
Mr. Friendly comes round to our house (to welcome us to the neighbourhoud, we fools tought at first), but quickly demands we remove the pipe, as he fears it will undermine his oak, which will then fall onto his swimming pool, which would be a disaster since his grandchild is coming to visit and might at the time be swimming in it and be killed by the falling tree.

And argument ensued in which my father tried to convince the low living creature that century old oaks do not tend to fall over overnight because of a little water; that the situation has been as it is from long before he purchased the house and seemed to have been unproblematic during all that time; and finally that it was after all mr. Friendly's tree. If he was so concerned about harm it could do, he would simply cut it down. (upon which he was kicked in the leg under the table by my mother, who didn't want the tree to unblock their sight on the lowlife's house.)

However, no reason was to be found, upon which my father exclaimed the now immortal line: "Fine. If you want to act so childish, I'll give you what you want and cut the pipe. But if you ever set one step in my garden again I'll set loose the dogs."

Que an hourlong search with our sixth sense to locate the pipe, 3 hours of digging it up, one of cutting it and two more to distract it to a spot in our garden where we could use the water anyway.

...and finally: 10 minutes of carefully placing the cut off end of the pipe at 20 cm of the border between mr. Friendly and our garden, at such an angle it seems to be purposedly placed there to direct its muddy waters all over his garden gnomes. We so hope he's going to call the police to it, only to be able to say "this piece of rubble? Must've forgotten to clean it up. Did he really call you guys up for that?"
(, Sat 19 Sep 2009, 15:04, Reply)
Yellow car..
We, as a family, always end up playing Yellow car when out and about. Its always rounded off with the obligatory "No Returns!"

I am 39, Mrs cantsleep is 49, the two children are 18 and 17.

The embarrassing thing is that its such a reflex, I even splurt it out when in other peoples cars..
(, Sat 19 Sep 2009, 14:25, 1 reply)

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