Haha
While I live in the arse end of Cheshire now (it's all shit except for Spike, who is awesome, etc), I'm actually from a shithole town called Skelmersdale, no doubt some of you will have heard of it. It's a very easy place to get round, as long as you're looking for a landmark, as it's all very well signposted. Signs point to Asda, the Concourse, the Swimming Pool, etc etc. It's the final one that this story refers to.

When we were younger, the sign saying "Swimming Pool -" was often changed a little, so it would say "Swim in Poo -", which is quite clearly genius. The sign would be fixed every month or so, and would usually last around 3-4 months before being changed again. Sadly, this stopped occuring after a while, maybe the vandals decided there was more fun activities, such as drinking on street corners, or fighting.

Earlier this year, a pretty pissed Agnostic is travelling on the bus back to his friends house, when he discovers he'll have to walk the final mile home. Unimpressed, and unable to call for a lift (due to dead phone), I started to walk. I had barely gone 5 minutes from the bus, when I noticed the old sign standing proud at the side of the road. I was rather disappointed to discover it was also still spelt correctly, just not funny!

So what did I do? Keys out of pocket, start scratching away the letters. Cars pass by, undaunted I continue.

Barely 5 minutes went by before I stood back to proudly observe my creation, and laugh at the sign, inviting you to "Swim in Po -".

Fuck, went too far.
( Agnostic Antichrist Baltimora, Thu 17 Sep 2009, 16:06, 15 replies)

Sorry, not sure what this question is about
What does 'adult' mean....?
( K2k6 has a proper job these days, Thu 17 Sep 2009, 16:04, 1 reply)

The Choad.
I have a neighbor who's more than a little creepy- in fact, he has managed to frighten every woman I've dated who has met him. He is slightly stoop shouldered, wears aviator style glasses, his speech is slurred (in part due to the vast amount of Busch Light he drinks), and he's out in his yard with his dog more than he's inside. He's very troll-like, and has earned the nickname The Choad after he let his dog bite my daughter. (For a time he was setting his dog after anyone who walked by his house. He thought it hilarious to see people react with fright when a large dalmatian would hurl himself down the driveway, baying like the Hound of the Baskervilles, only to stop when he reached his radio fence.) Since that incident- for which he never apologized, claiming it was her fault for not petting the dog- he and I have not spoken.

He's extremely house-proud, constantly mowing his lawn or tending to his flowers. He really hates that I let my lawn get about eight inches high during the summer before I mow it. He especially hates that I don't have a lawn care company treating it like he does, and have loads of weeds in my yard.

So this summer, every time I found a slug in my yard I threw it into his flower patch. And the last time I mowed I made sure that all the seed-covered weeds were blown onto his yard.

Next step will be to get some fertilizer and draw a cock and balls on his grass. When he has to mow it every other day to keep that grass short so it doesn't show, I will lift a beer and grin.
( The Resident Loon Not a demographic. Do not measure., Thu 17 Sep 2009, 16:02, 5 replies)

Does messing my adult nappy,
then being cleaned by Nanny count?
(Bear Pookie The Frankly Challenged. Halloween is coming to town., Thu 17 Sep 2009, 16:01, Reply)

Repost from 18 months ago...
I re-layed my dining-room floor a couple of years back. On the concrete, before the laminate went down, I wrote in big black marker letters, "HAVE YOU FOUND THE BODIES YET?"

I'm quite proud of that.
( Enzyme is powered by sunlight, Thu 17 Sep 2009, 16:00, 8 replies)

On my last day working in an office
I went out at lunchtime and bought three wooden spoons and some string. With a permanent marker I had brought in, I wrote FOR EMERGENCY USE ONLY on each spoon, and hung one in each toilet cubicle. I thought it was funny, but someone else obviously didn't - they'd been removed by the end of lunch.
( Bob Todd whee, Thu 17 Sep 2009, 15:57, 4 replies)

Poodunnit
Ayia Napa 2002, A war between two friends, a battle to which there would be no return

He Stole My Passport
I superglued porn mags on his suitcase

He put pinpricks in my condoms
I set fire to his favourite shirt

He superglued my shoes to the ceiling
I waxed his chest while he slept

He poured wax in my pubes
I shit on his chest and sent his mum a picture of the aftermath from his phone.

Apparently sometimes things can go too far
(McJuurgensHaircut is authorised and regulated by your mum., Thu 17 Sep 2009, 15:57, 1 reply)

Triumph Stag
She - Liz - was the love of my life and I was convinced we would marry, have multiple sprogs and live happily for ever and ever (after a lot of shagging of course). Unfortunately she had other ideas and started going out with a bald, podgy wanker called Richard. As far as I could see the only things he had going for him were that he had a good job, his own house, a lot of money, and a Triumph Stag. Whereas I was merely a student living with my parents.

Liz was very understanding: she knew exactly how I felt about her. She hugged me (oh those breasts!) while patiently explaining that it was never meant to be between her and me.

Liz lived just down the road from me. One night as I walked sadly past her house (she was still living with parents too), staring forlornly at her bedroom window, I noticed that his Triumph Stag was parked in the drive: he was obviously visiting, ingratiating himself with her parents. It was a cold, starry night and a frost was starting to form on the car's windows.

I ran across the road and into the driveway, my feet crunching on the gravel. With my finger, warmed by the alcohol coursing through my veins, I wrote in the frost on the windscreen: "Bastard". On the side windows: "Fat bald tit". On the rear window, in mirror writing: "Wanker".

I scurried down the drive and back home. Neither Liz nor fatty baldy Richard ever mentioned it to me; I don't even know if it was legible when he drove away or if it was obliterated immediately by the powerful heating of the Triumph Stag. But it felt damn good.
(Smale is stuffed, Thu 17 Sep 2009, 15:57, 1 reply)

hmmmmmmmSZmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmSZmmmmm...
That's the sound that a lightsabre makes, obviously.

It was early in January 2000 (or whatever year it was that The Phantom Menace came out) and Toys'R'Us started selling Star Wars toys in bulk. At the time, I was living in university accommodation as a supervisor. Over the holidays, the undergrads'd be mainly at home, leaving the whole compex to me and the other supervisors.

Clearly, it was important that we buy lightsabres. And, equally clearly, it was important that they be put to use. So it was that I, my flatmate and a couple of friends spent a night running round an otherwise-deserted complex of shoddily-constructed student accommodation, fighting with illuminated children's toys.

And the best of it was that it was a foggy night, which meant that, in certain more far-flung parts of the campus, the only thing you could see was the lightsabre and whatever happened to be caught, ghostlily, in its coloured glow.
( Enzyme is powered by sunlight, Thu 17 Sep 2009, 15:52, 5 replies)

I used to work with this bloke.
At first, you’d probably like him actually; he could be charming, keen to be everybody’s friend and always ready to deliver an amusing anecdote.

However, if you spent too long with him his uglier traits would soon reveal themselves. He was a racist, sexist, rabble rousing, brown-nosing bully who enjoyed nothing more than stirring up scandal and gossip designed to cause whichever victim he had his sights on as much grief as possible, while at the same time never allowing his smiley facade to drop.

And he smelled.

One particularly clammy and sweaty summer saw him instrumental in making a well liked and otherwise competent colleague leave, after a long campaign of making his life hell at every opportunity.

However, our poisonous, pungent friend neglected to guard his coffee mug properly when he was outside having a workshy smoke.

*trousers down*

*grab mug*

*wipe*

And repeat for the duration of colleague’s notice period.
(Bicycle Repairman "you're also a bit of a wanker", Thu 17 Sep 2009, 15:50, Reply)

mmmMMMmmm
There's a shop in our town with a dry-wipe board outside which reads simply:

CRAB SANDWICHES

...really, what could be funnier than to erase the lower loop of the B?

Well, my kids think it's hilarious and that's good enough for me.
( reallywittyname veraciously conspues lexiphanicism on, Thu 17 Sep 2009, 15:47, Reply)

eat me
I love to cook. I even cook fancy grown up things, but frequently, when i bake cookies or cakes, I will shape the delicious treat into a cock or a boob or sometimes even a vulva. Then I decorate them painstakingly and use a little white icing to make them look as if someone's blown a giant wad of jizz on them.
(persnickety I Am The Seaward, Thu 17 Sep 2009, 15:46, 2 replies)

Oh, and well into my late 20s
me and a mate used to go on cycling trips with the best of intentions of keeping fit and so on. But it'd quickly degenerate into 'larking out on bikes'.
( sandettie light vessel automatic New Twitter - @bollocksreally, Thu 17 Sep 2009, 15:42, Reply)

quite topical
I am currently arguing by text with my friend geordie about him enjoying stirring things up. He has Social Anxiety Disorder or (S.A.D)so I am signing off every text with a famous mental persons name, so far he has been norman bates, kerry katona and jimmy saville. Need some inspiration so any ideas welcome.
( SteveFrench Cardio is for homo's. do you even lift bro?, Thu 17 Sep 2009, 15:41, 7 replies)

Just outside the village of Goathland on the N. York. Moors
me, the missus and our daughter had been walking and we stopped for a rest and sat on a small slope. As they sat there admiring the view across the valley (in which sits a small beck that leads to Mallyan Spout), I shuffled a few yards up the slope and with a shrill 'Wheeeee!', I laid down and rolled down the slope.

However, my 'wheee' turned into an 'arrghhh'. The slope was steeper than I had anticipated and I clattered out of control into the back of them.
( sandettie light vessel automatic New Twitter - @bollocksreally, Thu 17 Sep 2009, 15:37, 1 reply)

Love Hearts
I had a hankering for Love Hearts while walking round Tesco, doing the weekly shop, so in the basket they went. The missus put them on the conveyor belt first, I think it was so I would eat them and keep out of her way while she bagged the shopping. I was enjoying them so much, and keeping out of the way, I thought that the young lady on the till might enjoy one, especially as the next one out was 'Smile'. She did smile, but didn't want the sweetie, so I ate it and found that the next one was 'You're Lovely', she didn't want that either. We finished packing and I paid, leaving checkout lady with a lovely big grin on her face, chuckling to herself and me and the missus giggling like teenagers. I like to think that this 40yr old brightened her day a little bit. Growing old is inevitable, growing up is optional.
(lardyboy Next stop, Fissplap Central, Thu 17 Sep 2009, 15:37, 3 replies)

I'm more childish than my students :(
Helping a student set himself targets, I inadvertently described the second one as 'a big number 2'

I giggled

He looked at me strangely.

Not sure if I got away with that
( Citizen Cavy Admires your passion for conformity, Thu 17 Sep 2009, 15:34, 1 reply)

I still ride trolleys round supermarkets
until a few months ago when my weight lifted the front wheels off the floor causing me to go face first into the 'pushing' bar on the front and cut my lip

I won't be doing that again in ahurry, I can tell you!
( Joe Scaramanga with a G-double-O-D vibration, Thu 17 Sep 2009, 15:28, 7 replies)

Twixtastic
If I happen to purchase a twix when I'm out and about with my girlfriend I will always, I mean ALWAYS, unwrap the fucker, hold both chocolaty fingers of goodness up in the air and proclaim:

"That's the last time I finger your bunghole before you need to take a shit."

Then she'll hit me. She'll hit me even harder if we happen to be out with her parents at the time.

Dead classy, me...
( SpankyHanky, Thu 17 Sep 2009, 15:28, 1 reply)

oh god
Writing "cunt" backwards in paint stripper onto the bonnet of a previous landlord's Porsche Cayenne.
( rofl harris, Thu 17 Sep 2009, 15:25, 4 replies)

Don't forget the arcing droplets...
Drawn various willies onto the bonnets, windscreens, roofs and windows of innocent cars which had accumulated sufficient sand or general muck deposits for finger-based art application as I passed by following a night out on holiday in Spain. Aged 30.
( Andy Mac, Thu 17 Sep 2009, 15:23, Reply)

as a child my parents were a bit stingy with the buying of toys. not the worst trait in a parent
but it's probably why i still buy myself transformers from time to time
( monstrinho do biscoito teeeshurts = www.nogunarmy.com, Thu 17 Sep 2009, 15:23, 1 reply)

I still jump in puddles.
I still roly-poly down hills.
I still climb trees.
I still laugh when people fall over.
I still love sherbert flying saucers.
I still wake up at 6am on Christmas day excited about what presents I'll get.
I still love Tom and Jerry.
I still eat peanut butter, jam, cheese and banana sandwiches.
I still giggle when I fart in the bath.
I still kick piles of leaves in the autumn.
If I'm honest, I'm not sure I've grown up.
( Noeli overtheshoulderboulderholderthingstraplatchboobs, Thu 17 Sep 2009, 15:22, 10 replies)

grumpy bus drivers
Having found out it's useless trying to argue with or cheer up grumpy or shit bus drivers, i've found a new path - as I disembark, I shout "WHAT A BAD MAN!" in a high falsetto voice, apropos of Mervin Minky from Fur TV

Cheers me up anyway :)
(Roopy all is not what it seams, Thu 17 Sep 2009, 15:22, Reply)

The most childish tihng i've done is
a 49 year old mentally disabled man
(NuffMuff fucks shrubbery, Thu 17 Sep 2009, 15:18, Reply)

Jousting with a curtain pole in B&Q
My wife's voice 10 metres behind me "Oh, FFS! How old are you?!"
"Cadzooks, woman! Hush! Merrily I twat thine peasants!"

I mean, B&Q on a Sunday, what else would you do?

Couldn't quite do the clippity-cloppity sound of hooves, too busy poking chavs with a curtain pole.
(SpangoTheWonderBadger is brewing beer, Thu 17 Sep 2009, 15:16, 5 replies)

You're GAY!
My brothers and I, while by no means homophobic or inclined to mock actual gay people, will routinely refer to each other as GAY.

Not only that, but will go to great efforts to phone each other in fake accents/voices with such classics as..

"Hi - is that Daniel? We'd like you to appear on the front cover of Anal Annual 2009!"

"Congratulations, you've been selected as Backdoor Bi-Weekly's Centrefold!"

It has kept us amused since about 1999 when it was deemed even my youngest brother (then 10) could handle the grief. (If he's old enough to have a mobile phone...)
(Galahad is out of his gourd on yellow bentines, Thu 17 Sep 2009, 15:13, Reply)

What's the point of being grown up if you can't be childish sometimes?
So said that great sage, the 4th Doctor Who.

I've taken it as my philosophy of life, even now, in my early 40s.

For example, I record my farts using the Voice Recorder on my Nokia (currently up to Fart53) and play them back to my friends.

I also play "bogeys" in the pub but using "mastur" and "bate" instead of "bogies."

And yesterday a work colleague wouldn't tell me something so I ran away with her overtime sheet (I gave it back though and she still didn't tell me).

But then Robyn Hitchcock said,

"Uncorrected personality traits that seem whimsical as a child may prove to be ugly in a fully grown adult."

But he can fuck off, the farty piss face bell end turd nose.

Dr S
(Dr Skagra glorious glargzhem, Thu 17 Sep 2009, 15:13, Reply)

Farts are funny
Farts are funny, full stop. I've already giggled at the fart related posts for this question so far.

My worse moment would of had to be when I was working in a care home. I had dodgy guts all day due to a hangover and far too much red bull, and I often had to stop in a disused corridor to avoid causalities. It came to meal time, and I was helping to pass around the plates, when the urge came so desperately. I snuck one out passing by a particularly difficult old dear, and took off to the other end of the room. On returning for more plates, I overheard some of the senior carers discussing the poor woman I had dropped one by.

"Oh dear," one exclaimed, "I do think Mary's had an accident."

By this point I was laughing so hard I had to go busy myself, and I did try to go over and admit that I had dropped a nasty by her, but my nerves got the better of me. So poor old Mary kicked up a huge fuss as she was wheeled out to be changed, her innocence falling on deaf ears.

She died a week or so later. I hope I had nothing to do with it..
(Aruu does not put all her trust in root vegetables., Thu 17 Sep 2009, 15:12, 1 reply)

Should have just gotten my money back
I was living near Chandlers Ford at the time, but playing in a band based in Bath. This meant a lot of commuting, as I was juggling that with being a placement student in a full time job and having a girlfriend who lived in London. This left me pretty exhausted and penniless most of the time.

As you can imagine, rehearsals were pretty difficult to get organised and often would be all day affairs to make the most of the travelling involved. It was all going pretty well though, the songs were sounding good, people liked them and before long I sorted us out with a fairly high key show in Southampton (paid too!).

As the gig was on a weekend, it was up to me to find somewhere to rehearse early in the day itself as we hadn't managed to get a practice in for a little while before that. Regularly spending my time elsewhere, I had no idea where would be good for this, so I got the Yellow Pages, started searching and eventually decided on a place in Shirley, Southampton. It was easy to get to and had cheap rates, just what we needed!

That day the rest of the band drove down from Bath and I met them at the place. After a little confusion on arrival (the address looked to me like a furniture shop), we eventually found a door with a buzzer which seemed to correlate to the "A" part of the address I'd been given. A tall, hippy looking bloke answered the door and let us in. We climbed the stairs only to find this "rehearsal studio" was in fact his rather manky flat, though a sizable one at that. The guy even had a full blown PA, so rather than ask too many questions, we started setting up. Not long after, the guy said he had to nip into town and asked whether we'd be okay carrying on without him, and if he was too long we could just close up when we were done. Satisfied that we had our space, we paid him for the hire and he was off on his way.

Within about 30 seconds of Chris trying out his drums to make sure he had them set up correctly, the buzzer started manically ringing. As it wasn't stopping, we went to answer it only to be met with a seething shop manager shouting at us wondering what the hell we were playing at. After a short amount of abuse, we got him to calm down enough to explain our side of the story. Turns out, the shop owner had complained about the resident numerous times as between his flat and the shop below was no zero soundproofing. As this guy was trying to shift an old sofa in his shop, the customer could barely hear him talk as we were playing away obliviously upstairs. He offered for us to hear how loud it was, now slightly calmer and believing that we were oblivious in this situation. As the drums started, their barely muffled monstrous sound bellowed around the now rocked-out furniture shop.

Reluctantly we had to start packing away, panicking slightly that this big gig was this evening and that we were all pretty rusty. Combine that with the fact that we were all living pretty much hand to mouth at the time, meant that there was no chance of getting anything else booked even if something was available. The atmosphere was pretty shit to say the least.

So after packing the equipment, getting it down to this flat, carrying it up stairs, setting it up, dismantling it and carrying it back to the car, the others looked dispondently around wearing their "what now?" faces. I would have phoned the guy, but the only number we had for him was his landline.

I was damn angry at this point and frustrated at not being able to vent that anger though I hadn't forgotten the fact that we were in this guys flat, the place where he lived. Although filthy and with very little of worth other than his PA and some food in the kitchen, it was still where he called home. I went through each of his condiments in the kitchen, pissing a little in every one. Urine was the medium and vengeance was the game. I became a pissing machine, on his sofa, on his PA, on his floorboards, as many places as my bladder would allow until I was spent. Once this was done, I looked around to try and find something of roughly equal worth to what we'd paid for the rehearsal time. Unfortunately what was there was pretty shitty and unsurprisingly smelling of piss so I left it at that.

If I hadn't done the whole peeing thing in anger, I may have subsequently contacted him when he was in to get my money back, but as it was I thought it better not to contact him again. It seemed like a great form of revenge at the time, but in the long run, that money would really have come in handy.
( ma0sm, Thu 17 Sep 2009, 15:10, 1 reply)