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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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Work place antics
I lock my boss in the storage cupboard or the office. He does not like that.

My boss likes firing an air-zooka at my head when I'm working. I do not like that.

My working day consists of general one upmanship.
(, Mon 21 Sep 2009, 13:51, Reply)
Singing songs with some of the words replaced by rectum.

Examples include:

It's the final rectum [countdown]!

Hi-ho silver rectum [lining].

Mysterious rectum [girl].

I find that even the crappest songs can actually be made quite good by this technique.
(, Mon 21 Sep 2009, 13:47, 7 replies)
Its your kids Marty!
My friend bought me this for my birthday (29th) ...I literally have not stopped smiling since...!

(, Mon 21 Sep 2009, 13:39, 6 replies)
You must learn the ways of the force if you are to become a cunt like me.
The dictionary describes childish as:
of, like, or appropriate to a child : childish enthusiasm.
silly and immature : a childish outburst.

This is wrong of course. What it should read is:

Cunt, the numerous acts of Mr Captaincuntybollocks senior.

If you are a regular reader of my stories, you will have undoubtedly come across the trials and tribulations of my father. He has the creative abilities of Jackson Pollock with a bucket of snot carefully wrapped around the mind of a pre-pubescent serial flatulence offender; unfortunately, he regularly mixes these two abilities together to form socially uncomfortable outcomes for unsuspecting bystanders/friends/family. Anyway, back to the story.

This story takes place circa 1994-1995; these were my high school days. My school awarded a five-year scholarship to the brightest scumbags from the shitty schools in the local area; I was one of those lucky scumbags (still am). If you have read ‘Tom Brown’s School Days’, you will not be a million miles away from my reality. Like all teenagers I dreaded the parent-teacher evenings, not that I was particularly naughty or thick, quite the contrary, but because my school was very posh and I was, as the ‘rugger buggers’ used say, from the gutter. I always felt very poor in comparison to these over privileged brass eye polishers. Many of them had butlers and would be regularly dropped off or picked up in helicopters, Ferrari’s and Limo’s. Nevertheless, they had to board there and commit sodomy to each other. My parent’s did not hate me that much, but my father did try to make my school life a little more difficult and weird for me, all for his own amusement of course.

You might be saying to yourself right now, “what is all the fuss about you little cock, it’s only a parent-teacher evening?” My parent’s are not the most articulate of individuals, especially my father. He is from the rough end of Northern Ireland and understanding his eloquent dialect would be akin to deciphering the woofs of an Alsatian with Laryngitis. Let us not be hasty to judge me though, I am proud of my background and I think it gave me a fantastic understanding of social structures while instilling excellent values upon me. However, when you are 14 years old and everyone around you has plumy voices and expensive lives, expectations are excruciatingly painful and high.

As mentioned above, parent-teacher evening was creeping up on me like a rapist in slippers. I had successfully dodged the previous years ‘coming together’ by the means of stealth tactics. These tactics essentially revolved around some rather cunning forgery and a tissue of lies to my parents, so not that clever. This year was different though, the bastard school preempted my second stealth strike by sending letters home to parents reminding them it was that joyful time of year again, fucksocks. So, I was not getting out of it this time unless I could come up with a plan so cunning it would make the weasel ambush on toad hall look amateur in comparison. This is the point in the story where a montage kicks in with some up tempo eighties rock music to accompany it.

I had a plan. A plan so cruel in design and from my careful calculations I hypothesized that failure was not possible. Go along with the school program, get the forms signed, arrange the time to meet the teachers. Make it look like everything was normal and set your trap, it was a classical military maneuver. The evening comes and my parents sit down for their evening meal while I am also at the dining table with one eye on the clock and trying not to panic. I wolfed my dinner down with the grace of a tramp that had not seen a hot meal in months and I made my excuses to leave the table. As a polite gesture, I offer a hot drink to my parents. Mother and father love their coffee after a meal and it was always my job to make it, they graciously accepted. I had 3 hours until the event. This is the clever bit my friends.

My parents loved their sugar in coffee, three each to be precise. Hence the diabetes they have today. On this fateful evening, they were not going to receive their usual granulated filth but a carefully selected sugar substitute. Not that calorie busting variety in diet coke, but the bowel busting variety called Lactulose. We had tones of the stuff in our house as my mother suffered from the sort of constipation that would need a confirmation call to the Guinness Book of Records every time she opened the ‘Bombay Doors’. I had done some ‘test runs’ on myself the previous week as to determine what clarifies as a potentially fateful overdose and I took notes on how much my mother takes. From my research, (near pant shitting moments) I determined that I did have problem. If I was to get them to forfeit the evening due to the ‘two bob bits’, I would have to use a lot of this stuff and it was seriously fucking sweet, noticeably sweet. So I had to increase the coffee dosage in the cup as to hide disguise the laxatives, this was potentially dangerous and amusing. If all went to plan, I would have two extremely hyperactive parents bouncing around the house like kids on e-numbers while trying not to wildly defecate everywhere.

Guess work aside, I went ahead a formulated the fateful brew. Ironically, when I handed over the drinks I needed a shit, so once again I made my excuses and left the room. All sorts of ponderous thought’s were crossing my mind while on the crapper, but most of all I was happy to wreck some revenge on the old man for all his ‘hilarious’ stunts he had fucked me over with. I was the padewan learner who was fast rising up through the Jedi ranks of vengeful prankery. Star Wars analogy and crap over, I make my way to the kitchen sink with a glaze of vengeful glee tattooed across my soul. I notice the cups I had used for the bowel-busting brew empty in the sink. BONZA! Sit back and wait for the fireworks to begin.

Two hours pass and close to sod all has happened apart from my mother asking me the names of my teachers and what they are like. So to pass the boredom away I made up all sorts of psychical aliments they had and mentioned a few of them were keen racists. My mother also started to put on her posh cockney accent and there is nothing in the world that makes me cringe as much as this. Just as I start to worry that my plan had failed I hear these beautiful words from my mum.

“Me gut’s feel a bit off”

After a few minutes of tummy rumbling, she cracks and leg’s it at top speed to the toilet. The howls and watery backfires from the toilet confirmed my plan has worked. She came out of their wondering if the meat she cooked was off and telling my old man that he would have to go without her. This I did not plan for as I expected both of them to be laid up (or sitting down more precisely). How did it not work on him? Are his guts made of lead? All these questions suddenly became very unimportant to me as he was heading out the door to meet the teachers and potentially ruin my newly carved reputation as the peasant boy whom done well. So off he went on his own, I expected the worst and I got a lot more than I bargained for.

A few hours pass by and several questions came to the forefront of my mind. How did he survive the shit’s? Maybe he crapped himself in the car or worse, maybe he crapped himself while meeting my teachers. The guilt started to build up and the sounds of my mum shitting loudly in the toilet downstairs only served to amplify my shame. My guilt was suddenly interrupted by sound of the old mans car pulling up in the drive. It was only polite that I stay around to hear the disaster story that would prevail. He opened the door, walked into the room, and took up his favorite chair. He retorted to my mum that I was doing very well but all my teacher’s and fellow parents were ‘posh cunts’, how beautiful. Oh good god, what had he done, I know from experience that this is not a man who minces his words lightly. Looking humiliation in the face, I somberly and slowly walk to my slumber hole with the faint sounds of a death march echoing around my shattered existence. However, just before I turn the corner my old man says these strange words to me

“Son, you maybe a smart arse at school, but you make the worst cup of coffee known to man. I took one sip of that cup of shite and pored it away.”

Mum followed with.

“Yeah, It was pretty disgusting. Don’t know why I drank it”

Connect four! He had that grin on his face; I had seen that grin before. When he donned the Freddy Krueger glove and scared the shit out of me, he had that grin. The cunt had rumbled me but I assumed he would keep quite as he could not prove a thing. Innocent until proven otherwise.

Next day at school some of the teachers were, shall we say, a bit bloody weird with me. This weirdness ranged from asking me to stay behind after class and then telling me that they we proud of me and congratulating me on such a brave decision all the way to very odd smiles from suspicious teachers I never trusted. This was becoming odd, classmates were asking questions and rumors were circulating, this had to end. At the end of the last lesson, the teacher once again grabs me just before we all tumble out and gives me the same old story about congratulating me on such a brave decision.

“About What? I have not done anything to be proud of”

The teacher continues with,

“That just the attitude you must fight, it’s must feel good to be out about it”


“Out about what?”


“Your Homosexuality of course, your father told us that you came out to your parents recently. He is very proud of you”


“Err thanks, but I’m not gay. It was my father having a laugh. I have to go now, bye”


Once again, I had fallen foul to the old man and his childish ways. I told my mum and she was upset but obviously trying not to laugh. Then he arrived through the door in his usual lordly manner, he took one look at me and started laughing like a maniac. This symphony of shame accompanied the extra laughter emanating from my family. Clandestine accusations of bum love and propositions from light-footed individuals marred the proceeding school years. Did I mention it was an all boys’ school?

In all my stories, I try to find the moral but once again I have fail to find one.

Length, about 3 years of torment and abuse.
(, Mon 21 Sep 2009, 13:35, 5 replies)
Cleaning Rota
My Brothers first year at uni and having applied a little late, had to live in a shit student house with 4 strangers, 1 of which was a very particular middle class young lady with an unhelathy hatrid for mess.

Now my theory, along with my brothers is that a student house and mess/grime go hand in hand. It's natures course!

So when the said young lady organised a house meeting to formulate a 'house cleaning rota' my brother was less than happy.

Upon visiting him, we got drunk and decided to tamper with the over presented, colour coded rota now evident in their kitchen.

We added a few tasks. Amongst others were

Fork Cleaning - made sure all cutlery apart from the dirty forks were clean

Furniture rearranging - turned all furniture in the living room upside down

Toilet flushing- I took it upon myself to leave a steaming beer-poo festering proudly in the downstairs toilet.

All colour coded for her to deal with in the morning.

Very childish but a fucking cleaning rota?...honestly!
(, Mon 21 Sep 2009, 13:29, 1 reply)
I watched the Ali G movie, and laughed, a lot.

(, Mon 21 Sep 2009, 13:25, 2 replies)
I'm a LRPer ...
That's Live Action Role Player to those who are unfamiliar with the term.

Several times a year, my OH and I pack up our steel chariot with tents, latex weapons, replica armour and an insane amount of alcohol and head off to a field somewhere in the Midlands for a weekend. During this weekend, we take on alter-egos, cast spells and kill orcs. This all takes place whilst getting increasingly drunk. Good times!

Childish? A bit, but I don't give shit!
(, Mon 21 Sep 2009, 13:23, 7 replies)
In the grim darkness of the 41st millenium...
My mrs and I recently purchased the new Warhammer 40k boxed set. Painting will commence when it starts getting darker for longer. Wooo!
(, Mon 21 Sep 2009, 12:58, 11 replies)
My Collegue and I often have games in the office
not man love games you dirty beasts. Theres one where you assume the press up position ,head to head and have to knock each others arms away,loser makes the teas. Another is managerial hide and seek,we were given the heads up that the MD was on his way up to see us so we hid under our desks,stifling giggles the MD walked in walked over to my desk shuffled some papers and walked out again ...apparently when he got down to reception he told the receptionist..tell those silly buggers I knew they was under their desks !
(, Mon 21 Sep 2009, 12:47, 2 replies)
When driving who doesn't...
Pretend that
A: they are in an X-wing flying down the trench (M1 in my case)
B: they can shoot cars with missiles and lasers (anyone who cuts me up)
C: really wishes the car could fly like in Back to the Future 2.
D: have some other really cool fantasy
(, Mon 21 Sep 2009, 12:43, 2 replies)
Everyday on my way to the office I go through an underpass.
Where someone has written in spray paint on the wall "CUNTS", with an arrow pointing towards the university campus. This never fails to make me chuckle.
(, Mon 21 Sep 2009, 12:36, 2 replies)
condiment crime revenge
During our family holiday this year (we drove our honda accord down to the dordogne and rented a gite) there were a few arguments about butter in jam and the like. For me there is little more annoying or disgusting than opening up a jar of the preserve of your choice and finding those little swirls of margarine/butter sullying the pristine sugar and fruit goodness. Toast crumbs in the butter? Ugh.

Anyway missus mersault was taunting me with a buttery knife and then proceeded to dunk it in one of the little 'tester' jars of jam so very generously left for us in the gite kitchen.

She knew this was winding the bejeezus out of me and then calmly suggested she was going to do the same with a large jar of French apricot jam was had purchased the day before. At this point I lurched forward, dipped my index finger in the jar, swirled it around, sucked the jam off of my finger and shouted 'pick that out, motherfucker!'

(I didnt really say 'motherfucker', we have two kids and that would have set a bad example non?)
(, Mon 21 Sep 2009, 12:31, Reply)
Lego Pirate Dreams
Picture the scene. Its Christmas day, I’m huddled under the tree with my older sister and there is only one present left. It’s big and it’s marked up for the both of us and it’s from the big red jolly man himself. We give one another a knowing look… Lego. It has to be the Lego pirate ship! Over the months leading up to Christmas we had banged on about nothing else, we wanted the pirate ship and that was all there was to it.

Tearing open the colourful wrapping paper, our eyes filled with glee, we saw… we saw… LEGOOOO! Only… no… this can’t be right… its… some sort of hospital and a police station… wha…? Obviously we were happy and we were lucky to get anything for Christmas, we weren’t ungrateful little bastards, but we still craved the pirate ship.

Speed up 15 years later (wavy lines) and I’m being dragged around Bluewater by my mother and sister. My mums in a craft shop and has settled in for the long haul and I’m craving sweets so I wander off to find something exciting… instead of sweets I find the Lego Store. Even though I’m supposed to be an adult I wander in anyway, grinning from ear to ear at all the lovely things on display. Looking around… then I see it. THE NEW AND IMPROVED, BEAUTIFULLY BIG, IT’S THE LEGO PIRATE SHIP!!! ‘Holy Shit’ I whisper and run out of the store to find my sister. Barely able to string a sentence together I grab her arm and pull her into the store pointing frantically at the ship. Her reaction is similar to mine and we danced around the store arm in arm singing ‘yippeeeee’. There is a problem though… the bastard thing is £80!! £80!!! No wonder my parents didn’t get it for us as kids. But then I remember - I’m a grown up and I have a credit card, so I pull the box off the shelf, wink at my sister, march over to the counter and pay for the bad boy!

That night we sat at the dining room table drinking copious amounts of Jack Daniels and put together the ship which we had wanted 15 years for. It was truly fun and I would highly recommend searching out the lost toys of your youth and sharing the fun with your family and friends, next on my list… a Mr Frosty! :D
(, Mon 21 Sep 2009, 11:35, 45 replies)
control + alt + apple + 8
*jumps on bandwagon*
(, Mon 21 Sep 2009, 11:35, 4 replies)
My wifes mate M is having a problem at the moment as she’s just realised she’s up the duff. To a bloke married to someone else. Before I get a flaming about her ways, firstly its nothing to do with me and secondly the wife has had a go at her a number of times over the whole situation but M is pretty smitten with said arsehole (Who will be referred to as R from now on).

Anywhoo M had arranged to meet up with him at a local pub and talk about the situation with R and dropped the bombshell. What was his adult response to the information that he was going to be a dad (If M decided to keep the baby that is)

“I told you I wanted to cum on your tits but you wouldn’t let me you posh cow” (He then buggered off without saying another word)

When M was relaying the info to my wife while having a cuppa at ours over the weekend I have to admit that I chuckled at the quote (And got "The Look" from my wife).
(, Mon 21 Sep 2009, 10:46, Reply)
Was up in Hampstead this weekend
(Fuck knows why - far too posh for me. Made my skin itch just being there).

The girlfriend wanted to pop into a beauty parlour to check out the prices. I tagged along. Looking over her shoulder I exclaimed rather too loudly:

"Fifty quid for a facial! I can give you one of those at home for free!"

Tuts all round, which is the upperclass English equivalent of telling you to fuck off to your face while systematically anally raping your mum, firstborn child, and all your household pets.
(, Mon 21 Sep 2009, 10:29, Reply)
Trolled b3ta through boredom/procrastination, then chucked a minor hissy fit when my account was banned.
C'mon, we've all been there...right?
(, Mon 21 Sep 2009, 10:11, 4 replies)
Easy as ABC
The other week I took my elderly mother to the garden centre, one of those upmarket ones with a (very good) restaurant and all sorts of non garden related products to buy.

My eye was caught by a shelf of individual letters, each about three inches high with little Winne-the-Pooh characters entwined round them. Just the thing to teach young Tarquin or Nigella how to spell their name. How cute- how twee- how easy to rearrange some of them in a line at the front of the shelf to read


I am over fifty years old, on the outside at least!
(, Mon 21 Sep 2009, 9:50, 4 replies)
At uni, I found a floppy disk left behind in one of the computer labs.
I fired it up to see what was on it. One of the documents was a job spec, containing a list of things the candidate would be expected to do. To the list I added 'dress in rather sexy ladies' clothing', and put the floppy back where I found it.

I hoped that such a minor change would go un-noticed until after it was handed in.
(, Mon 21 Sep 2009, 9:28, Reply)
ALT + F4

(, Mon 21 Sep 2009, 8:38, 4 replies)
At school
If someone asked for computer advice I would always reply, go to the desktop, press Ctrl + A then Enter quickly and it'll load a 'special window' similar to Ctrl+Alt+Del. It only worked a couple of times but it was always a crease up for everyone.
(, Mon 21 Sep 2009, 7:46, 3 replies)
When me and the boyf both got face book, when it was still shiny and new, he agonised about what to include in the ‘interests’ section as though he was compiling a CV to apply to be Prime Minister. After he had FINALLY filled it all in (‘Dining out, travel, music ‘- how come that took two weeks?)
I secretly changed it to something I felt more accurately reflected his interests. It was two months before one of his mates pointed out that, according to Facebook, his interests are “Scratching, Sulking, Sleeping, and Wriggling”
He left it like that as well, because 'it's more true'
(, Mon 21 Sep 2009, 6:15, Reply)
Fruit fun
If my boss has annoyed me at work, I will wait until he fetches a piece of fruit along with his dinner. When the fruit is there and he leaves it next to his workspace unattended, i do a bit of exercise (star jumps, lunges, a quick jog on the spot etc) and once i have gotten a bit sweaty i proceed to wipe the fruit on my ballsack and anus for him to happily munch on.

I hope they have nice things in Hell...
(, Mon 21 Sep 2009, 3:37, Reply)
If she's reading, take a bow...
A couple of years back, between my 2nd and 3rd years at Uni I temped for a month or so at a printing company; just basic folding/envelope stuffing etc.

One day I saw a letter addressed to a Ms A Cockshoot.

Took me 10 minutes to stop laughing, and the photo I took would still be my wallpaper if I hadn't broken the phone.
(, Mon 21 Sep 2009, 3:18, Reply)
Never leave your computer alone with bored people.
One of my mates isn't the most intelligent of men. He also frequently made the mistake of leaving his computer unattended while he went off to poo. Of course, the first thing I did was change his desktop background into a screenshot of an open firefox window proudly displaying goatse. He spent about fifteen minutes desperately trying to close the "window," while everyone giggled at him.
Still makes me laugh like a drain, and this was a couple of years ago.

I also nearly convinced him owls were a species of plant. "You're joking, right?" Good times, good times.
(, Mon 21 Sep 2009, 2:22, Reply)
At 23
I am mildly childish. I know this much to be true because of two things that have just occurred in the last few minutes:

1. I farted, cupped it in my hand and threw it at the cat. True story.

2. Wikipedia is set to 'random article' as my homepage. I opened it up to check something out (Back to the Future, part 1 incidentally) and this was the article that came up:


I stifled a giggle.
(, Mon 21 Sep 2009, 2:15, Reply)
Epic Bin and the ceiling bike.
Again another story concerning me and my good friend Darren.

Our old landlord was a bit of a shouty pants, usually getting red-faced at the slightest little things. This included not emptying the bin (even though it would only have maybe one or two pieces of litter in it). Also he broke the landlord-tenancy agreement by just turning up at any hour and telling us off. From what i'm aware the landlord has to give prior notice before just strolling in and shouting at us in his own high blood pressured way.

So as you can imagine, we decided it was time to give him something to shout about.


We knew the landlord was coming around the very next morning, so we ate and drank as much stuff as possible and proceeded to carefully construct a monstrosity made from food packets and cans of beer (and if you look closely you will see a deflated 'water baby'* hanging from the top too.

Strangely enough the bin was empty when we both got home from work, but we can imagine him shouting and fuming to himself as the rubbish no doubt fell around him as he dismantled and emptied it.


The ceiling bike was simple. The landlord would often shout at Darren for bringing his bike inside the house as it 'would leave tire marks all over the floor' , so we decided to turn the bike upside down and put tire marks on the ceiling as though we'd been riding on the ceiling.

* Water baby - see my other post below.
(, Mon 21 Sep 2009, 0:03, 1 reply)

This question is now closed.

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