Killer Fucking Spiders
Travelling up the east coast of Oz in 98 our tourbus headed about 2 hours inland so that we could experience some far flung fucking sheepstation or other that was reknowned for its homemade farm bread and being in the arse end of nowhere.
It seemed nice enough, being out in the remote countryside, the bread was indeed out of this world, and they laid on enough booze for us to drink ourselves stupid before we rolled our bedtime spliff, whereupon the farmer joined us and regaled us with fact after fact regarding the poisonous spiders he regularly found around his farm and the varying degrees of lethal injury they could inflict.
It was after said smoke however, that it transpired that the "dormitory" in which we were to spend the night was a converted barn. And when I say converted, I mean that they had put beds in it.
And so we settled down to spend the night, in THC-fuelled sheer paranoia, staring up at the dusty rafters overhead which were festooned to buggery with the thickest cobwebs you could ever hope not to see outside of a picture on the internet.
I actually pissed into an empty beer bottle at some point because I was too terrified to put my bare feet out of my sleeping bag and onto the floor.
Fucking BARN...
(Twenty Camels, Fri 18 Jan 2008, 10:46, 1 reply)

Surely
there's only *one* degree of lethal injury?

//end pedant.

Btw, this is one of the reasons I'm so glad I live in the UK -- having a country infested with things that can kill you is not my idea of fun.
(Exiled Youth [witty comment], Fri 18 Jan 2008, 16:54, closed)