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This is a question Crappy Prizes

Competitions, raffles, give-aways... sure the prizes look great, but don't they always turn out a bit crap should you happen to win them?

The last raffle I bought tickets for, they'd just given away the all-expenses paid weekend in New York when my number came up. Rushing up to find out what I'd won, I was a little disappointed to be handed a box of "Biscuits for Cheese". Especially as they were busy serving the cheese course (complete with biscuits) as they drew the raffle.

(, Thu 4 Aug 2005, 11:16)
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How an old man made me who I am today.
"Well done, you've won yourself a fantastic prize, young man!" I was told. And following my efforts, I honestly felt I deserved one. Old Mr. Harrison from the farmhouse nearby was pleased with my paint-work and I was proud of what I'd done. His wife had been dead for 15 years and he was lonely and debilitated. Yet his 89 year-old eyes had retained the wicked sparkle that had won the former Mrs. Harrison's heart all those years ago. He led the way up the dirt track toward the rickety, ancient barn where he had conceived his only child back in '53, and as he walked ahead I observed the way his buttocks moved independently of one another, and his bow-legged gait had my imagination working overtime. Oh, Mr. Harrison, you tease!

We were within metres of the barn's dark entrance when the rain came, unexpectedly and fiercely, beating down on us as though God Himself was trying to wash away my sinful thoughts. But God had reckoned without my umbrella of unshakeable lust. The spear-like streaks of rain turned the buttercups inside-out, and the flowers all cried out like a chorus of jaundiced monkey foetuses begging for death. Mr. Harrison picked up the pace a little, flailing his besleeved arms to try and gain momentum.

Inside the barn, the damp, musty smell hit the back of my throat like a squid that had been flung against the bonnet of a Ford Cortina by an enraged Maltese girl, forcing me to drop to my knees. I vomited for a good fifteen minutes while my aged companion sat on a bail of old hay, sweetly blowing into his harmonica. The sound of the harmonica caused me to roll involuntarily onto my back where I lay, twitching like an erotic dung beetle. I managed to bring myself to my feet, but my vision was terribly blurred and I wandered around the barn like a Romanian child forced to live on a diet of elbows for all of its sorry, short life. I finally found the barn's entrance again and fled from it into the damp field. The rain continued, only hindering my vision further. I slipped, fell and slid, screaming a sort of desperate sexual hymn all the way down the dirt track and back to the farmhouse. The farmhouse wall finally broke my slide, and I let out an angry, cat-like grunt as my body struck the damp brickwork like a bag of Pringle socks against a child's thigh. Mr. Harrison found me some hours later, cowering behind the horse trough, weakened and shaking like a freshly-raped dog. It was then that he gave me my prize: the old harmonica. His saliva was still dripping from it. I lapped it up hungrily.

Mr. Harrison died only days later, although when I play that old harmonica I can sometimes feel his hot breath against my scrotum.
(, Wed 10 Aug 2005, 9:21, Reply)

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