The B3TA Confessional
With the Pope about to visit the UK, what better time to unburden yourself of anything that's weighing on your mind by posting it on the internet? Pay particular attention to the Seven Deadly Sins of lust, greed, envy, pride, posting puns on the QOTW board and the other ones. Top story gets to kneel before His Holiness's noodly appendage, or something
( , Thu 26 Aug 2010, 12:47)
With the Pope about to visit the UK, what better time to unburden yourself of anything that's weighing on your mind by posting it on the internet? Pay particular attention to the Seven Deadly Sins of lust, greed, envy, pride, posting puns on the QOTW board and the other ones. Top story gets to kneel before His Holiness's noodly appendage, or something
( , Thu 26 Aug 2010, 12:47)
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First time. Go easy.
I was the one who ruined Christmas for baby bro when we were but sprogs, by sliding the plastic tray of his Advent calendar out of its perforated cardboard cover, removing the foil over the final day's chocolate treat, eating said treat slightly more hastily than would have been pleasurable and then putting the whole thing back together for him to discover just as he was expecting the biggest, tastiest, most Father-Christmas-shaped treat in the whole calendar.
I was about fourteen; he was about seven.
He sobbed for an hour, suddenly and brutally exposed to a new and frighteningly grown-up kind of self-doubt: Had he really been as good a little boy as mummy had assured him?
Father Christmas answered his question the next morning, perhaps ambiguously, with a book about world records.
( , Thu 26 Aug 2010, 15:39, 2 replies)
I was the one who ruined Christmas for baby bro when we were but sprogs, by sliding the plastic tray of his Advent calendar out of its perforated cardboard cover, removing the foil over the final day's chocolate treat, eating said treat slightly more hastily than would have been pleasurable and then putting the whole thing back together for him to discover just as he was expecting the biggest, tastiest, most Father-Christmas-shaped treat in the whole calendar.
I was about fourteen; he was about seven.
He sobbed for an hour, suddenly and brutally exposed to a new and frighteningly grown-up kind of self-doubt: Had he really been as good a little boy as mummy had assured him?
Father Christmas answered his question the next morning, perhaps ambiguously, with a book about world records.
( , Thu 26 Aug 2010, 15:39, 2 replies)
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