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This is a question Cringe!

Chickenlady winces, "I told a Hugh Grant/Divine Brown joke to my dad, pretending that Ms Brown was chewing gum so she'd be more American. Instead I just appeared to be still giving the blow-job. Even as I'm writing this I'm cringing inside."

Tell us your cringeworthy stories of embarrassment. Go on, you're amongst friends here...

(, Thu 27 Nov 2008, 18:58)
Pages: Latest, 27, 26, 25, 24, 23, ... 1

This question is now closed.

Licky licky
About 10 years ago, I was at the dentists. I was laying there in the chair staring at the ceiling whilst he was using his instruments of torture in my mouth.

A few minutes later, I noticed that there was something in my mouth between my bottom teeth and my lip. Thinking it was a absorbant swab thingy, I prodded it for a minute or two with my tongue.. It seemed too smooth for a swab so I explored it thoroughly with my tongue.

Then it dawned on me.. It was his latex-glove-covered thumb. I'd been laying there apparently trying to pleasure his finger for the last couple of minutes. The rest of my appointment seemed to crawl past and I couldn't wait to get out of there.

I still cringe when I think about it :(
(, Fri 28 Nov 2008, 1:10, 12 replies)
So I'm sixteen years old. The girlfriend has come around to my place for the day, the folks and the sister are out, and the afternoon is ripe for lovin' -- or at least, kissin' and some awkward groping, which is the best a fairly shy guy such as myself could have expected.

But something is wrong. From the moment the ladyfriend walked in the door, she seemed a little nervous, a little distracted -- basically, the complete opposite of her usual self. After I realised something was up (it took about an hour or so... I'm really that observant), I asked her what was the matter. She refused to tell me. We played that game for a while (What'swrongnothingreallyyesyousureyesoh, the one I would soon come to recognise as an old favourite), but I eventually manage to get it out of her. In a quiet, delicate voice, quite unlike anything I've ever heard her say before, she comes out with:

'I've... you know... *shaved*.'

For some reason, my mind doesn't quite realise what's going on, so I respond with, 'Wow... Well, I have to say, it looks a lot better. I didn't want to mention anything, but I'd definitely noticed a little bit of fuzz there.'

All the while, I'm gesturing to her top lip. The lip that, in fact, was not one of the ones she was referring to.

There was to be no more fumbling that day. It took three hours for me to get her to even speak to me.

Length? Not insubstantial, but firmly out of sight that day. I was lucky she didn't rip it off.
(, Fri 28 Nov 2008, 16:40, 13 replies)
For the love of god, put them away...
Where to start? I can do these chronologically, alphabetically or by degree of mental scarring…

Ah yes. PhD, year two. Went to lab wearing fetching black shirt with popper fastenings down the front. To protect said shirt, slipped on lab coat, with popper fastenings down the front. The eagle eyed amongst you may be able to spot where this is going.
Tea break rolls around and, being the attention seeking little sausage I am, I ran to the door of the lab, faced my lab mates and pretended to rip off my lab coat, a la Clark Kent ripping off his shirt to reveal underneath the fabled “S”. What I actually did do was grab both sets off poppers by mistake, rip them open and reveal my tits in a grubby, greying bra with the underwiring poking out.

I think if you look up the word “fuckwit” in the dictionary, there may be a little picture of me next to it…
(, Fri 28 Nov 2008, 9:35, 9 replies)
Anonymous cringe
In the colonoscopy suite, we had someone who started moaning the second the scope touched her bumhole. She was heavily sedated, but of course you can still talk and move. The doctor was a tiny (4' 11")little Indian guy who was visibly embarrassed by his patient moaning and thrusting her rear at him, saying "Yes, yes, YES Jeffrey, give it to me! Fuck my sweet ass! Oh baby, you've got the biggest cock" etc. The nurses were cringing on her behalf and I was making a personal note to self to NOT be sedated for my colonoscopy when it comes around.

This went on for the entire 40 minutes. She must have thought ole Jeffrey had taken Viagra.

It doesn't end there. The next year, the same patient came in again. None of us remembered her until the scope was slathered with warm lube and positioned. Then as soon as it slid in an inch, she started up with "You fucking pillow-biting cocksucker Jeffrey! I hate your motherfucking guts, get the hell away from me before I rip off your dick and feed it to you!" And so on.

We are in pain with holding back the tears of laughter and biting our knuckles. Dr. Patel is quite surprised and says in his vaudeville hall Indian accent, "Oh my goodness, she is having a falling out with this Jeff-er-ry person."
Then he said, "Well, at least she is having the annual checkups, eh?"

I almost did a poo in my scrubs, trying to be professional.
We called Dr. Patel "Jeffrey" for two years after that.

The best part is she'll never know.
(, Tue 2 Dec 2008, 21:43, 11 replies)
Mass public humiliation appears to be my speciality...

Just over a year ago (therefore not completely justifying wavy lines) I attended a course / conference lark in a swanky hotel in Birmingham. There were about 500 delegates, primed to be lectured and tutored on the joys of a dull-as-shit Time and attendance system, and the HR implications of giving somebody a proper verbal kicking when they were late etc.

Therefore part of this ‘course’ entailed ‘people skills’.

Hmm now…there is a simple equation which applies to me in these situations…

Pooflake + People skills = an impending outburst on somebody’s behalf of “Oh sweet spluffing Jesus”.

Whilst the cunning ploy of ‘sloping off to the pub and making up a story about how the whole course was triffic’ ran through my head, I failed to notice that we were all being split into groups of four or five. I was then grabbed by a couple of cockscratchers and forced to sit at a table to begin the exercise.

At this point I should tell you something else about me. In small groups I am alright – I can introduce myself and settle in quickly and comfortably. But Big groups scare me rigid, & public speaking gives me the total-red-faced-shit-attacks. However, in front of half-a-dozen or so bell-ends that I’m never going to see again, I can become quite the confident, cocky, carefree cunt cake.

And so it began. We were handed out whopping great big name tags and marker pens. As part of the exercise we had to write down not only our names, but some oh-so-interesting fact about ourselves too, to ingratiate ourselves with our group.

One chap’s badge (I kid you not) was as follows:

Name: ‘Big Pete’
Company: [company name]
Special Talent: Winning attitude
Hobbies: Being a Sales hero

I know, I know…for the love of pine-scented arse-bananas.

Now I didn’t give a kung-fu fuck about this course, or about ‘bonding’ with the Mongspack McShitwitts in my vacinity, so I decided to display my indifference and disrespect for the whole malarkey by way of my badge comments.

I wrote the following:

Name: Pooflake
Company: [company name]
Special Talent: Massive dong – (here I accentuated the fact by scrawling a crudely drawn cock, with obligatory pubage and spaff spurts)
Hobbies: Thrusting and Jizzing for England

I then sat chuckling to myself through the intro section, thinking It would at least raise a smile for Big Pete and his 3 dweeb mates throughout this pointless (and brief) objective.

It didn’t.

But then I quickly discovered that the ‘name tag’ part of the exercise was only ‘part one’…

Two minutes later I was informed that ‘Part two’ was to go around to every single table in the conference and ‘break the ice’ by introducing ourselves to everyone else, utilising our newfound people skills by striking up a conversation based solely on the info on our name tags.

Oooh my crinkle-cut bollocks.

I asked my tutor for another badge. He refused, saying they had run out. What a cunt.

So there I was, face aglow, mingling with upper management, Directors and the like…men and women of all ages around…and the only topic of conversation allowed in my direction was regarding my boink-ability, the hugeness of my internal gut-prodder, and the quality of my graphic design skills.

I cringed so hard that my chin descended into my chest and my spine almost shuddered itself loose from the relative safety of my skin.

But eventually, after multiple apologies, a couple of drinks and a trip to the buffet it was over and I slowly forgot about the name tag.

The way the day was going, I suppose I should have expected what was to happen next…

It was the very end of the day, when the presenters were saying their 'thank you’s and I just so happened to be firmly seated on the faecal depository, when I heard the announcer call out:

“And now it’s time for today’s raffle draw”

Remembering I had bought a ticket, I quickly wiped, shook and heaved up my trollies, before tanking it to the bog door just in time to hear:

“And the winner of the raffle is…Mr Poo…Flake”

*round of applause*

Me: “Wooo!” and I bound up out of the lavvy and up to the stage, where I receive my gift token and bottle of wine; triumphantly raising it aloft before enthusiastically shaking the hands of the strangely stunned organisers.

Slowly, the applause dies down, and I start to hear some muttering and ‘tuts’

‘Ha – jealous fuckers’ I gloat to myself…yet as I stand on the stage I slowly realise that not only do I still have my name tag on…but when I look down to inspect the tag I noticed a thick stream of piss splatters down my leg, where in my haste to hear the results, It became painfully obvious that I had not quite shaken my lamb cannon to the required proportions.

Why do these things always happen to me?

(, Mon 1 Dec 2008, 13:11, 7 replies)
Shop window
Just thought of another one.

This is from years ago when I was a student up in Manchester.

I used to knock about with a girl named Kim, by knock about I mean stay in alot for a frank and thorough exchange of bodily fluids in a friendly no-ties fuck buddy kinda way.

I had a camera; this was back in the early ninetees so it was an old fashioned camera that used film. One rainy Sunday afternoon we spent the day doing the dirty (and my God, it was dirty), and taking photos.

Next day Im thinking: 'Hmmm, would like to take a looksee at these here photos, I would.'

So I marched down to the Jessops photo developing shop they had in the Arndale Centre and asked to get the thirty-six pics of complete and utter filth developed. I was a bit embarressed about the whole thing so after I paid and handed over the film, I slinked off outside to loiter for the hour it took to have the film developed.

After about twenty minutes of pissing about in the Warner Bros shop, I returned to Jessops to find...

... a small but very enthusiastic crowd had gathered... outside... the... window...

I didn't realise that the photo developing machine they had installed was in the shop window. And that as part of the display as the damn thing spewed out the freshly-developed photos they ran along a conveyor belt in the shop window so any passer by could see someone's holiday snaps, wedding, childrens birthday party, or in my case...

It was very very disturbing to have an eighty year old Mancunian woman advise me:

'You're doing it all wrong in the first ones, sonny, but you get your act together for the finale.'

Still makes me shudder...
(, Tue 2 Dec 2008, 11:01, 8 replies)
Back in my hedonistic days I used to frequent the glorious sweat pit that was the Lost Weekend in Nottingham.

One particular night I'd eaten a few too many magic biscuits, and felt an overwhelming urge to sick coming along, and was wondering around trying to find the toilet. I barged past a few people milling around the corridor that led to the toilet, and tried to turn down it but I immediately ran into someone.

You know how it is when you bash into someone - you move left, they move left, you move right, they move right. Embarrasing. This went on for far too long, and I could feel the urge to puke becoming stronger, so I tried to make light of it:

"Listen mate, I'm desperate, let me past"

He smiled back at me but when I advanced, he still went the same way.

"Mate seriously..."

But he just seemed to be grinning inanely back at me. What the fuck was wrong with him? He seemed to be leering at me in a really weird way, so I tried to make smalltalk, but couldn't get any sense out of him at all.

"Oh for fucks sakes!", I muttered and ploughed right through him - except I didn't - I walked straight into my own reflection in a mirror which I'd just had a five minute conversation with, knocked my head, and fell on the floor. At which point I was sick.

Drugs are bad.
(, Fri 28 Nov 2008, 13:58, 5 replies)
I had just started my current job as a PA and one of the first conversations I had went as follows:

Me: "Hi, I don't suppose you have any records of your travel last year do you? I need to submit them for part of your tax records?"

My Boss: "Actually, yeah - I keep print outs and have them all filed here by my desk, I know - it's a little anal, but I guess it's useful now and then hey?"

Me: "Don't worry, I love anal"

Cue me walking away VERY quickly whilst turning crimson and a quote legacy that will stay in that office forever.
(, Thu 27 Nov 2008, 23:45, 6 replies)
Typo cringe
I was working as a web designer, specialising in not-for-profit/ charity gigs. Anything community orientated and right-on basically. We took pride in such things.

I had a preliminary meeting with the head mistress of a local 'special needs' school, who wanted an ambitious website that would be both high profile and a decent slice of cash. It fitted in perfectly with what we were about and we were keen to get the job.

As soon as I returned to the office, I set about writing them a "Great to meet you ... " follow-up email.


Two days later, I get a reply. "It was lovely to meet you too ..." blah blah blah ... "looking forward to seeing the spec"... blah blah blah ... and there was my original email below.

I don't know about you, but I have this narcissistic habit of reading my own emails whenever I come across them, checking for form, expression and grammar. Sometimes I give them a mark out of ten in my head. This time was no exception and it was at that precise moment I noticed to my horror that in my haste I had bungled my usual sign-off. Beneath the final sentence ("And what a lovely school it is!") I had written:


I don't know if they noticed, but they never mentioned it. Likewise, I was too embarrassed to bring it up. That "Retards, Andrew" hung in the air like an awkward pinata during every subsequent meeting.
(, Fri 28 Nov 2008, 15:16, 4 replies)
I REALLY, REALLY, shouldn't tell this.
But I will. But it means I can never show my face at any B3ta get together and may change my user name in a moment.

When I lived in the south of England my local pub had quite a nice habit of having late night lock ins. Not for everybody of course, the landlady had a selected few of her favourite locals whom where invite to stay behind and consume vast amounts of ale.

One such evening myself and maybe half a dozen friends where quaffing to our hearts' content until maybe six in the morning. I nipped to the loo for an extended pee and when I came back everybody had gone, and the front door was locked and the landlady was nowhere to be seen.

Wondering where the landlady had gone, I called her name, "Sarah?" I shouted (Name changed to protect me).

No answer.

I made my way behind the bar and up the stairs to her private flat shouting "Sarah" all the way.

I opened the door to her private flat and see Sarah lying, crashed out on her sofa.

I sit beside her and not wanting to scare her gently shake her shoulders.
"Sarah! Sarah, you have to let me out."

She comes to, blinks her eyes, recognises me and quite deliberatley reahces out her hand and starts rubbing my crotch.

"I wondered how long it would take you before you found your way here" she purred (actually she slurred, but purred sounds a bit better.)

I am a guy, and contact between a lady's hand and my man bits causes an immediate and totally involuntary rush of blood and turns-off all other senses.

I began kissing her, and like all good porn stars begin gently probing her mouth with my tongue.

RIGHT. This is the cringe bit. I have withheld certain information until this point for maximum effect.

I was about 21.

Sarah was around 65.

Her false teeth fell out.

*currently running round my office screaming "NONONONONONONO"*

suggestions for new user name most welcome
(, Tue 2 Dec 2008, 14:49, 27 replies)
Have you ever....
Have you and your missus ever been so overcome by the need to shag that you've disappeared into the spare bedroom while you believe that no-one else is paying attention?

Has the door slowly swung open while you're gently feeding your swollen meat into her from behind, biting your lip so ass to be quiet, and with your eyes closed tight...

Did 3 generations of her family noticed the open door before either of you did?

No? Well fucking Hooray for you then. :o(
(, Fri 28 Nov 2008, 12:00, Reply)
A Tale of Lust, Hanson and Dumb Waiters
How I wish I could claim this story as my own, but lamentably it belongs to the singer from my band, a source of constant amusement.

Many years ago Earl (name changed slightly to protect the guilty) was courting a young lady with high prospects, this had been underway for some time and he had finally got to the stage of being invited back to hers for, he hoped, the opportunity to make the beast with two backs.

On arriving at her gaff he finds that this is a large 3 storey Victorian affair in which the girl lives with her parents.

Metaphorically rubbing his hands with glee, Earl skipped merrily* up the stairs to the bedroom of this comely young lady.

(*may not have skipped merrily)

I feel at this stage that I should point out the due to his appearance Earl had been mistaken on several occasions for the oldest one out of that shit band Hanson. Tall, long face, long blonde hair.

Thus, stepping into the shrine to Hanson that was this girl's bedroom was quite a shock to him.

Every square inch of the walls was covered by posters of Hanson, and the oldest one in particular.

Naturally, as he was likened to the guy from Hanson quite a lot in those days (these days it's Chris Martin, not sure which is worse) he didn't take this as a coincidence and thought that he should make like a truck full of donkeys and haul ass!

Hastily making his excuses he left the room and made to leave the house.

Here the story should end, and that would be fairly cringeworthy in itself but no, Earl is well known among his friends for not really thinking things through before he does them.

Fortunate for us as we have a long list of hilarious stories to listen to, but I hope that my band will get at least one album recorded before he does himself some serious mischief.

Most of us would have indeed left the house via the stairs and the door, but Earl had other ideas. As he passed the dumb waiter that serviced the top floor of this house I can only assume that the thoughts running through his mind (if any) involved "When am I going to get another chance to do this?"

Without hesitation he clambered into the dumb waiter (I'm assured it was a large dumb waiter) and slammed the door shut behind him.

and plummeted 3 stories to come crashing down in the kitchen in an explosion of wood which quite surprised the girl's father who was in the kitchen at the time.

Usually by this point in the tale we are all laughing so hard that the narrative runs dry, but as far as I can tell the guy was so dazed by the fact that some young moron had ridden his dumb waiter in some kind of insane death plunge that he escorted Earl from his house and nothing more was said of it.

I do know that my mate never saw or spoke to the girl again.

Hopefully this will amuse. If so, or even if not, I might decide to share with you some other incidents from Earl's back catalogue, such as the Indiana Jones incident, or the Dog Rape....
(, Tue 2 Dec 2008, 13:41, 9 replies)
My German Boss
My company has an office in Frankfurt and I had been doing some work at a German bank. I had had to stay there two consecutive (and unplanned) weekends which I hadn't been happy about. When I had to do the same for a third weekend, my boss offered to fly my wife and eight year-old son over and said we could stay at his gaff.

This was a nice gesture, I thought. My boss was a charming and courteous German bloke, with a beautiful house with a pool, sauna etc, so it would be a very pleasant weekend. He said we could borrow his Mercedes and do some touring. It would be a bit of a treat.

Come Friday afternoon, and my boss's wife (two metres of Claudia Schiffer lookalike) went to collect my wife from the airport while I finished my work at the bank. After finishing, I went to my company's offices, where my boss had invited all the staff into his big corner office for some Champagne to welcome this English family to Frankfurt. So, there were about twenty people gathered there, together with my boss's wife and his young daughter who was drawing horses on the whiteboard.

My boss cracked out the Champers, we all had a bit of banter, and my son politely asked the daughter (in English) if he could borrow the pen and do some drawing too. Ah, it was a warm moment.

Until one of my colleagues said "Oh, I think maybe it is better if you see what your son is doing on the whiteboard."

I turned around to see my son had drawn a huge airship covered in swastikas.

Clearly, in the eyes of the Germans, this is what I had taught him to do.
(, Fri 28 Nov 2008, 12:11, 5 replies)
More effective than a cold shower...

All aboard the ‘wavy lines express’…

~~~~~~~~~~~~’this happened fucking ages ago’ wavy lines~~~~~~~~

When I was sixteen I was going out with an angel. She possessed a perfectly balanced combination of being smart, beautiful, and sexy as hell. She was the girl in the neighbourhood that every girl wanted to be like, and every boy wanted to be with…

…and she was mine.

Occasionally, she would let me have a tinkle on her organ…it was one of those keyboards with a built in drum machine and I loved to play it. We used to spend every evening round her parents house. Just innocently kissing, snuggling, and talking for hours about planning a future together. Life was good.

So it was nothing unusual when we found ourselves in the same situation one night. We were both lying on her bed, chatting about how my band would ‘make it big’ one day…

And then she kissed me. Nothing strange about that, but this time it seemed…well…different…more spontaneous and urgent somehow. Being on a permanent state of ‘Horny Alert’, I didn’t need too much prompting to respond in kind.

She then began to run her hands through my hair and then gently but roughly pulled my head back…

‘Oh, so it’s going to one of ‘those’ snuggles is it?...Pooflake, you lucky devil’ I said to myself.

(If they hadn’t been previously and more importantly occupied, I would have rubbed my hands together with fiendish adolescent glee.)

She began to pull her blouse open...and in no time my heart was pounding…as it needed to be, just to sustain the amount of blood flow rushing to my massively engorged teenage love truncheon.

Sensing the sheer passion and momentum building as our lips remained pressed together, I slid my right hand down the back of her jeans, savouring the feel of delicate lace on her arse cheeks. I then moved back, before gently peeling her panties down just enough so I could contact the wonderful flesh itself. Whilst stroking, massaging and cupping her spectacular breasts with my left hand, she groaned to announce her approval and pushed her darting tongue a little bit further and harder into my mouth.

We were now entwined together, exchanging enthusiastic and encouraging moans as waves of pleasure began to sweep over us both…my right hand began probing ever lower and deeper, before engaging the previously-forbidden ‘sweet-spot’ that began to responded so sensitively to my every touch, and soon I was aching to take it further…

I loved her…I respected her…but this was raw passion. Instinct was taking over. I desperately wanted to have her.

As I pushed my fingers inside her, she bucked her hips and began to squirm as I tenderly rubbed against her soft mound and inserted my grateful fingers evermore deeply into her. She then surprised me by taking hold of my hand and gently inserting one of my fingers into her succulent arse, breathing heavier as she writhed and was obviously enjoying every second of the experience as we began to push our boundaries ever further…

She then ran her nails down my back, before moving round to fumble at the button fly on my jeans. I could feel her trying to keep in control but before long she was tugging frantically on my belt and she managed to pop open the buttons on my fly with one hand.

I gasped as she reached in and took hold of my throbbing phallus, before firmly and determinedly starting to rub up and down the bulging shaft…all the time I was laying on top of her and our mouths were locked together in an ecstatic embrace.

We were two teenagers standing at the precipice between love and lust, exploring each other’s bodies with youthful foolhardiness, but at this precise moment we were finally willing to cast off the shackles of childhood and cross the threshold into the one true, perfect, beautiful shared intimacy.

Then she breathily whispered to me…”I love you…and I want you….to fuck me”

“mmm” I reply, trying hard not to say the wrong thing, whilst relishing each word that I had been so aching to hear…my whole life thus far had existed for this precise moment.

I begin to slide my jeans down and she pulls on her own…just enough to expose the exquisite view of the heaven that awaited me…

Her breasts were now moving rapidly in time to her sighs, we were mere seconds away from securing our love forever, and I wanted it to be right, to take care, to be gentle, yet firm, and ensure that this was no rushed, fumbling affair. I was to be courteous to her needs and put her first. The love we were about to make was going to be real love…

Pushing my hips a little closer towards her I began to feel the beginning of her delicious wetness on the very tip of my shaft. I realised that this.was.it…the point of no return…

In a final act of chivalry, I decided to check with her once and for all that she was ready before we continued, that we were both prepared to indulge in the life changing, irreversible decision of losing our virginity. Right there. Right then. That way.

Panting with anticipation…I gently ask: ”Are you ok…?”

“No, she isn’t” comes a voice from behind me.

I crank my neck around to see her Mum...stood there holding two cups of tea and with a face like smashed granite. She then places the cups down on my girlfriend’s dresser and leaves the room, closing the door behind her without another word.

“Ohfuckinghellfuckinghellfuckinghell!” my girlfriend and I mouth to each other, with eyes wide, jaws agape, and underwear round our knees.

In my blind panic, I try to assess the situation: “How long do you think she was there?” I ask my girlfriend…

Then a voice booms from just outside the bedroom door: “Long enough” said her mum.

My girlfriend and I started spending evenings at my house for a while after that.

So now you all know why the ‘cup of tea by the side of the bed’ joke doesn’t make me laugh quite so much as it should.
(, Tue 2 Dec 2008, 12:04, 10 replies)
I never met a white supremacist who wasn't a wanker.
There's a downside to aquiring lots of music from anyone who leaves me alone with their computer and a flash drive.

One good thing about being alone in the house is that I can have a bath with the door open. I can hit the 'random play' function on my computer and turn the volume up good & loud and have music in the bath. It's really nice; with (at last count) 85ish gb of music, I rather like hitting random - there's a lot of stuff I don't know about in there and random play throws up some interesting variety. Of course, one thing I hadn't realised during my music-filching from friends and acquaintances is some of the stuff I'd pick up in the process, amongst which, it turned out, were the jolly complete works of White Supremacist C&W singer 'Johnny Rebel' sitting in the depths of my hard drive. You can probably guess the rest.

Belting out of the speakers, good and loud, a cheery rendition of a song about what you might expect to see if you walked through an immigrant area of town. Suffice to say, it wasn't a song you want playing at full volume on Saturday afternoon in South London with the window open.
I sat bolt upright, hopped out of the bath, and ran through to turn it off before the neighbours grabbed their pitchforks and stormed my flat. Running through, I stubbed my toe painfully against the step and was reduced to a pathetic hopping and flailing into the living room. As I did so, I looked up through the window and directly into the eyes of the yuppie couple in the flat across the road.
Their thoughts could not have been more clear if they'd held a couple of flags and semaphored them to me.
"There is a fat, naked, wet man covered in bubbles in the flat opposite dancing to loud, White Supremacist Country & Western Music."
I turned the music off and fled from the room. Behind me, as if by telepathy, I could hear their conversation. "I'm going to sue that Estate Agent."

Once I got dried I searched my MP3's and deleted Johnny Rebel.
You can't be too careful.
(, Mon 1 Dec 2008, 11:54, 8 replies)
Cringeworthy Dad
Aged sweet sixteen, I was over at a new boyfriend's house for the first time. We sat in his bedroom, chatting and listening to our Britpop CDs, before deciding to venture downstairs to the kitchen for a snack.

We were met in the kitchen doorway by his Dad, who uttered the immortal words "Awright son, let's have a sniff o' yer fingers then".
(, Wed 3 Dec 2008, 18:38, 7 replies)
Summer love.
When I was a lad of 15, I had a bit of a crush on a Spanish student that visited these shores to learn English for the summer. She was beautiful to me in every way that it is possible to see beauty in someone.

I was painfully shy, so it took weeks just to get up the nerve to talk to her.
One gloriously sunny day ,I was taking my dog for a walk (not a euphemism), when I saw her sitting in the local park, I let my dog off the lead (again, not a euphemism) and strolled over and said hi.

She patted the ground beside her indicating I should sit. So I sat. And we talked for a little while.

Then she looked at me oddly. I felt a strange warm sensation rising up my back. So this is love, I thought for a moment.

She wasn't looking at me, though - she was looking past me, over my shoulder.

So I looked over my shoulder, and there was my faithful hound pissing on me.
(, Fri 28 Nov 2008, 10:40, 2 replies)
Ow, another one's come back...
Lying in bed with my girlfriend, it became apparent that I was a geeky bastard when she was lying too far up the bed and I asked her to "scroll down"...
(, Thu 27 Nov 2008, 22:37, 2 replies)
Shopping on your own: The sorrowful tale of Pooflake and the insufferably hot checkout girl...

Background info: Do you remember that scene in ‘Top Gun’, where the pilots are being briefed and Val ‘Iceman’ Kilmer does a smart trick with a pen by rotating it around his fingers and rolling it from one finger to the other?...Some people do the same kind of trick with coins?

Know what I mean?...ok then…I’ll begin

A little while back I was in Tesco buying my weekly supply of gout-inducing-fodder-products, when it came to the inevitable point of running my intended purchases across the conveyor belt, and into the hands of your average overworked, underpaid, usually dog-rough checkout girl.

But this was no average checkout girl. Far from it. In the spirit of the QotW I will say the following line:

You really should ‘check out’ this checkout girl. *cringe*

She was a vision…she looked like the perfected article of which Kelly Brook was merely the working prototype. Her godawful Tesco uniform did nothing to sully her obvious charms, sparkling eyes, and smile that alone could increase your heart rate by 300bpm, all encompassed in a bite-your-fist pretty face.

Not being the most confident of studmuffins, I started to go bright red just by looking at her. Within seconds I was staring at the floor, trying hard not to look at her too much in fear of freaking her out.

(Cos that’s happened before)

So she starts to scan my shopping, and all is going well…

Bread - *Beeeep*
Cans of soup - *Beeeep*

At this point I pluck up some courage to smile meekly at her. She responds and my knees buckle beneath me. It’s going well.

Crate of Cider - *Beeeep*
Vaseline – Erm…*Beeeep*

Holy wanking spanners! – I’d forgotten about these! 'The present Mrs Pooflake' asked me to buy them…Just don’t look the girl in the eye…DON’T LOOK AT HER!....

The moment passes.

Oh god, what else is there?


*looks at conveyor belt*

“OH MY JESUS-FUCKING-BASTARD-CUNT-ATTACK!!!” I scream in my head when my guppy-fish-like memory is kickstarted by spotting the novelty cake I had bought for my mate’s birthday…which is in the shape of an enormous pair of tits….slowly roll down the conveyor belt.

I now wanted to eat the box of tampons so I would choke to death and ease my suffering.

The angel in blue-cotton overalls merely rolled her eyes and ran it through the scanner. ‘Ah well’, I thought to myself. 'I suppose I can always look forward to the next glorious, yet brief few seconds of my life between crushing embarrassments…'

The time came for me to pay and scuttle off to whatever hole she thought I had crawled out of.

I handed her my card. ‘Any cashback?’ she purred, with a voice like a velvet willywarmer.

“erm……erm….*splutter*….yes… £30 please " I whimper.

“No problem” she chirps, “could you just initial this receipt please? She hands me a pen…

Like the preposterous glutton for punishment that I am, and with a ‘Roger Moore style’ raised eyebrow, I attempt the ‘Top Gun pen-spinning-trick’…

Not surprisingly, I fuck it up, and the pen drops harmlessly on the counter. So what do I do…?

Like some subconscious showing-off masochist who didn’t learn his lesson the first million times, I try the trick again.

I wedge the pen between my first two fingers, twist them together…and……*flip*. I proceed to ‘ping’ the pen and send it spinning about 20 yards through the air across the supermarket, before it lands in a heap by the shoe shine products.

The up-until-now-admirable resolve of delicious Checkout girl finally crumbles at this point. Her gorgeous face splurts out a mixture of spit and snot as she violently guffaws directly at my face.

“HAHAHAHAHAHAAAAAA!” She cries out, unable to hold back any more, her whole perfect body shuddering with insane cackling as I start to feel like the shimmering heat from my shame-crammed face could metaphorically melt everything within three square miles.

Silently, and with a permanent expression of strained anguish on my face, we finally finish the transaction and I was allowed to sprint out of the place with my trolley.

The next few minutes were a blur as I shuffled off before finding a quiet, lonely spot to shout grotesque obscenities at my own supreme idiocy, then calculated exactly how much plastic surgery I would require before I could ever return to Tesco without a bag on my head.

I then solemnly promised myself to tell nobody of what had occurred that day.

(, Thu 4 Dec 2008, 11:34, 11 replies)
Charity Begins at Home
OK, I'm fully aware that I have posted this before on OT, but it holds up to retelling, even though it makes me look like the prize cunt in a cunt contest.

I had been living in Scotland for a bit, before I moved down to Leeds so this was around 4-5 years ago. I had got quite friendly with a nice lass and we had arranged to go out for a semi-date, just a bite to eat and a drink, to see if there was anything worth pursuing there.

We'd had a nice time, enjoying food and a nice bottle of red in one of Hawick's limited number of eateries, and we decided to carry on the evening at the next pub.

We strolled along Hawick's main street, regaling each other with tales of youthful misadventures and follies. At one point, she slipped her arm through mine. It was becoming a rather idyllic evening.

Then, without warning, my cunty streak came out to play. As we passed a charity shop, I paused and pointed with one indignant finger. To this day, I have no idea what posessed me to say what I said. Let's just say I can usually be relied on to say exactly the wrong thing in any given situation.

What I said was;

"See that charity shop there?"
"Yes?" was her apprehensive reply, obviously unsure where this could possibly be going.
"I passed there this afternoon, and they had a Down's Syndrome lass waving a tin outside it. Isn't that like the worst bit of emotional blackmail ever?"

Her eyes widened. Fear began to show, and her arm slipped from mine.
"What do you mean?" she asked.
"Getting a fucking spastic rattling a tin outside a charity shop!" I was in full rant now.
"Designed to tug on the heartstring, isn't it?"

She looked at me with undisguised, and completely understandable disdain.
"That charity shop there?" she motioned with an affronted jab of the chin.
"Yeah!" I said.

Then the bombshell.

"That was my sister."

It was said calmly enough, but I couldn't have been more taken aback if she'd carved it in stone and whacked me in the face with it.

My brain frantically tried to come up with a way out. Eventually, after a minute or so of me standing with my mouth open, looking, well, not unlike her sister it has to be said, I decided it was a lost caused and to back down or apologise would be hypocritical.

"Well, my point still stands!" I stood back, defiant; arms folded.

One smack round the face later, I walked to the next pub alone. Where I told this sorry tale, and was bought numerous ales for causing much mirth among my friends. Silver lining and all that....
(, Tue 2 Dec 2008, 13:49, 11 replies)
Bastarding Dad
This is extremely cathartic.

When I first learned how to drive, I immediately became a taxi service for my parents. I suppose it is only fair as they had ferried me around for the previous 17 years.

Every year prior to my taxi-able status, for my father’s Christmas work’s do, my mum had to pick him up, often bringing me and my sisters as we couldn’t be left alone. I will never forget being the first to see my dad wandering along a bridge at one in the morning slurping a bottle of wine and dressed as a Christmas tree complete with blinking fairy lights and the star of Bethlehem on his balding head.

So as soon as possible, my mother delegated me to pick him up. Fine. So one Christmas, I went to the hotel where the work’s do is being held, parked the car outside, and went in to winkle him out. He was predictably slewed as newt, with some of his fellow employees holding him upright. He saw me and his drunken distorted face lit up.

“My son has come to pick me up! Son, Son! I remember when he was this thigh!”

I would like to take this moment to explain that it was an NHS party with roughly a thousand people present, in a gigantic room, in the city’s biggest hotel.

My dad broke free from his supporting captors and lurched over to me, with his arm around me, and breathed winy fumes in my face.

“OK, dad, tell everyone goodbye, we are going now.”

“Wait, wait, I need to finish my drink-wine.”

“Alright dad, quickly drink it and then let’s go”.

I let him go and he ambled off. I turned to have a look around, and then suddenly I find he is on the stage with a microphone, having taken it from the compere (who had given it to him - there’s nothing like a drunken twat to entertain).

I froze.

“That’s my shon there, look at him, drove all he way here. I love him.”

A 1000 faces turned to look at me.

“Come here shon, shon, come here, sho’ them what you can doo.”

Oh fuck I thought. As I started to walk over to him in front of the stage, “come here dad”.

“My shon is a genius at the piano.”

What? Eh? What the hell are you talking about? “Come on dad.”

“He’s amazing, like a young Mozhoven”.

Cries from the audience of “give us a song”.

I jumped up on stage, to grab my dad, and the compere took my hand, and led me over to and fucking sat me down at the grand piano on stage.

I am not musical. I have never played a musical instrument. I am musically challenged. When I die, the average per capita musical ability of the world will increase slightly.

I had a thousand faces looking at me, and the best I could do is to take a deep breath, and plink, plonk as if in some sort of harmony. I stop. There is a deep, chasm-like silence. People look at me and my dad in a drunken pity. I get up, drag my bastarding father outside, stuff him in the car, and drive home.

Unbelievably, my dad doesn’t remember any of the events that occurred and when I told him the story, he claimed that it sounded like I had embarrassed him.

Jesus wept.
(, Fri 28 Nov 2008, 12:58, 2 replies)
One more quick one
I was early for meeting a friend for drinks in the west end, so I had a wander round Soho on my own.

I bumped into my parents as I was leaving a sex shop.

And they were going in.

After some very awkward "hello’s" it has never been mentioned again.
(, Fri 28 Nov 2008, 12:21, 3 replies)
Oh My Fucksy
Thanks for this b3ta. Yesterday I was wracking my brain for answers and now I can't help but have my memory inundated with a landslide of toe-curling moments featuring yours truly. Lets start with sex related faux pas'.

1. I was an early developer. Now contrary to popular opinion, this is not cool. It means your body is capable of doing things that your mind is not ready to understand or deal with. I hit puberty before anyone had even explained what the hell it was which lead to a whole host of hilariously cringeworthy moments. So, how early did I develop? Well the number one way NOT to find out about puberty is your mother, while you're still so young you're not embarassed about her coming into the bathroom while you're taking a bath, happily exclaiming "Eeeee! You've got little hairs!" while pointing at your naked crotch. Until that moment, I'd never even noticed! I'm not sure I'd even turned ten yet.

2. Without the more grown up sensibility of self-preservation this is not a good thing. When I was eleven I found out the number one way to lose an argument. A slanging match with my mother ended with me calling her selfish.

"Selfish?" She retorted. "You know what's selfish? Jerking off all over your bedsheets and then expecting me to clean them."

Incidentally, the only comeback to this is to claw your ears out and roll around on the floor in agonised and whimpering humiliation.

3. This early development allowed me to lose my virginity at the age of thirteen. Again this sounds a lot cooler than it actually is. (If it helps I only lost my girl virginity, it was an embarassingly long time until I lost my boy virginity which turned out to be the preferred method). Now skip forward a few months to me hearing a word on the telly that I'd never heard before. So, in front of my entire extended family who happened to be visiting at the time, AND despite having already seen and bloody touched one at a stupidly young age I loudly asked "Mum, what's a clitoris?" to the shock and horror of my entire family.


4. Skip to just turning fourteen and my mum is helping me change my sheets when a nifty bit of footwork results in her kicking a well thumbed copy of Asian Babes out from it's hiding place under the bed into full view. She was remarkably cool and just laughed it off while my cheeks burned. At the time I wore glasses and managed to blush so furiously I actually managed to steam them up! I thought that only happened on TV!

5. Having just passed my fourteenth birthday my cousin is getting married and I'm an usher so I'm dragged out to buy a suit. Trying it on, in front of a sales assistant, a crowded shop and several family members who have come to oversee the process my mother again points to my crotch, this time exclaiming: "Eeee! Is that all you down there?" in a loud voice. While I'm hoping the ground will swallow me up she starts telling the family and the sales lady that she'll have to get me 'special pants' to reduce the bulge. Not only did she do this but she then proceeded to tell several people at the wedding that I was wearing 'special pants' without a word of explanation. This lead to the majority of guests thinking they were made of rubber and I had an incontinence problem.


Oh god, it's no good, I have to stop, I've bitten through my knuckles just writing this. I've got a horrible feeling there's more to come though. How the hell can I still look my mother in the eye?
(, Fri 28 Nov 2008, 8:43, 3 replies)
The Screaming
Several years back, Ms. Witch-Finder General lived in a large apartment just off Tottenham Court Road. It was ex local authority housing and the lucky lady was paying only 25 quid a week to live in luxury with all of Central London at her doorstep. Needless to say we lived it large, rolling in in the not so small hours 5 days a week when she wasn't away.
However, just downstairs from her lived The Screamers.

I had never met the couple, but my missus regularly baby-sat for their 12-year old, which will give you a vague idea of their age. However, I had heard them. Regularly.
Every Friday and Saturday evening when we were getting ready to go out, like clockwork The Screaming would start, unmistakably the sound of vigorous coitus drifting up from the open window below. For an older gentleman, he certainly had a fair bit of stamina and she was very vocal in her support. Occasionally , we would compete with them, trying to shag for longer than they did, and would celebrate with a cheer when we 'won.' This later became more creative with us trying to match their often fairly 'lively' bedtalk with more unlikely and imaginative interjections of our own "Grease up the dwarf'" was a good'un as was "Use the whole fist! Now!"

------wavy lines to indicate the passing of time----------

A few years later I was living with the missus in North London and working in a film studio quite a way out of town. One week, I was temporarily without a car, so the young lad we had as a runner / work experience / general shit-monkey kindly offered to run me back to Central London on the Friday night. Being the amiable soul that I am, I suggested I buy him a couple of pints for his trouble, so it that was why I found myself droppping into his flat where he still lived with his Mum and Dad for a cup of tea and a chat.

Just off Tottenham Court Road.

In the flat below my girlfriends old flat.

And trying to make polite conversation with a woman who I had once shouted "Keep sucking the Donkeys Cock!" at.
(, Wed 3 Dec 2008, 13:51, 3 replies)
.....up in the disabled parking space, all three of us jumped out of the car and headed to the spar.

Old lady appears from nowhere, red-faced and furious. 'Fit young lads like you parking in a disabled space, it's disgusting, you should be ashamed of yourselves..' and generally working herself up into a lather of self-righteous fury.

'Piss off' our driver replies.

Granny goes even more mental, threatening us with her walking stick.

Our driver sighs and pulls up both his trouser legs, revealing the metal cylinders of his artificial legs rising up from the urethane bumpers he calls ankles.

Old lady stops mid-rant.

I ask driver why he just didn't do that straight away instead of letting the old lady work herself up.

'I'm fed up with it. Stupid old biddies, that shit happens at least once a week.'

We walk on while I, not for the first time, try to work out how he can have no legs and yet still be 6inches taller than me.
(, Sun 30 Nov 2008, 14:02, 2 replies)
Related to my story on page two,
I was over at the shagmate's... shagging. It was about 0130 and I felt something hop on the bed.

She didn't have a cat.

It was her son, somewhat less than two years old, come to sleep in her bed. I froze. Not out of shame, and this isn't the cringe moment, but because I was trying to think of the least obvious way to dismount his mother and not leave him with any issues.

She says "Hi Kiddo!" and he proceeds to curl up on the other pillow. Quietly she says it's okay and we can keep going. I'm still poised above her, half in as I hadn't moved yet.

And that's when the little boy reached out and held my hand.


Mom started bucking her hips to get me going again, but I decided we were done.
(, Thu 27 Nov 2008, 23:05, 12 replies)
Stairs and Stares
During my 28 years on this green and pleasant Earth I have accumulated a number of cringe-worthy tales, usually ably assisted by liberal quantities of alcohol.

On this particular occasion I had been assisted to the point of coercion as various friends had ensured that I was frankly no use to man, nor beast. I can't remember if it was a special event, all I can recall is the grisly (well ok, not at all pretty) aftermath.

I had been helped to bed by some (male) friends who had lugged me upstairs, stripped me naked, for reasons only known to them (not that sort of tale, don't worry), and left me to sleep it off with nary a shaven eyebrow, scrotum or even a light Dirty Sanchez. This I can assure you, was most unusual.

I must have blearily swam back to consciousness at one point, my bladder posting subtle hints through my dreams, more than likely 'WAKE UP YOU DRUNKEN CUNT, YOU NEED A PISS!'. I vaguely recall stumbling out of bed, making it to the loo and siphoning the old python. Then things went awry. I stumbled out of the bathroom, intending to head left back to my bedroom.

My left foot went left. My right foot went right. Into thin air. The stairs were also to the right.

Witness a very drunk and battered BK lying naked and moaning on the floor at the bottom of the stairs, like Ed Norton in American History X, without, I'm pleased to say, neo-Nazis and buggery.

Trying to stand, I realised upon collapsing again, that I had badly fucked up my ankle. I crawled into the living room and hauled myself onto the sagging, and rather womb-like sofa, and fell asleep again.

I awoke on hearing voices. Peeling my eyes open I heard one in particular. "How man BK, you pleased to see us or something?" My vision swimming like Eric the Eel back into focus, I recognised Lyndsey, my housemate Dave's busty Geordie girlfriend, accompanied by Dave, and his mate.

I realised I was lying spreadeagled and naked on the couch with a badly sprained ankle, and it was, if you get my drift, morning, if so far from glorious as to be absurd. Yes, it wasn't just my ankle that was swollen.

All trace of pride and dignity lost to the winds of time, I gave a sheepish grin and hobbled from the room, my forlorn erection bobbing like a skinny pig snuffling for truffles.

Length? Lyndsey confided in me later she thought it had been quite impressive. Which was some small comfort.
(, Tue 2 Dec 2008, 13:24, 6 replies)
Delayed Action Embarrassment Gland
First of all I would like to say that there is nothing like a good cringe is there? I have vicariously cringed in sympathy quite a few times reading these excellent stories.

Unfortunately I am well used to recoiling, wincing, flinching, squirming, and cringing as I have a delayed action embarrassment gland. It’s an actual medical phenomenon. Coupled with my ‘foot in mouth’ syndrome, the results are hideous. Throughout my life I must be responsible for hundreds of ‘hilarious’ stories that have been retold without me being present at my expense, to which I am probably aware of only a small percentage. This being so, I still have a ‘cringe factor’ rating that I regularly apply to my daily situations. In no particular order.

- there was the obligatory ‘caught conducting onanism’ incidents which happened multiple times. The really embarrassing thing was lobbing a used tissue away to the other side of my room, forgetting about it, and then remembering the next day only to be unable to find it. So remembering my responsibility as an author of baby gravy, I excruciatingly asked my mother if she had cleaned up my room, and after throwing away the tissue did she wash her hands because there might be a risk she could get pregnant. The horrifying pause that ensured makes sure that my toes curl at least on a nightly occasion. Cringe factor 10.

- At the end of a house party when people were leaving to go to clubs, I tried my hand at chatting up a girl who had her coat on over her shoulders with the coat arms dangling. I made an uproariously funny joke that her mother must have taken thalidomide when she was pregnant. Mistaking her shocked silence with ignorance, I then went on to raucously explain my joke, unaware until later that her younger brother was profoundly deaf in one ear, and was missing his right arm due to…you guessed it. Cringe factor 11.

- I was away at a conference at a fancy golf club, and got roaringly drunk on the oodles of free booze because I was bored and didn’t really know anyone. During dinner, I vomited ‘secretly’ into my napkin and left it on an empty chair. Then Lenny Henry came on as the ‘entertainment’, and started heckling the audience because there weren’t any black people in the crowd. I started shouting back saying that everyone was racist in the room except myself. Then someone coming over to talk to me (to tell me to shut the fuck up) made to sit down on the vomit napkin chair, picked up the vomit napkin, realised what it was, and asked if it was mine. I said no and said it was the girl next to me in a loud exaggerated drunken whisper. She said that it was mine and she had seen me being sick. Fuck. Incidentally all of the above is extrapolation and based on what people told me in the weeks that followed from the initial vomiting in the napkin part. Also I think Lenny Henry got the wrong end of the stick as his agent sent me an email banning me from any future performances of his. Cringe factor 88.

- Going on a works do where I ate loads of raw fish and shit loads of saké at a Japanese restaurant and loudly explaining that I thought my boss was ‘fucking brilliant’ and then starting to cry because I was so happy. Then I bowked rich white raw marinated fish all over the table. I was told what happened by my boss as I didn’t remember beyond sitting down at the table. Cringe factor 7.

- Falling asleep on my girlfriends couch whilst her whole family watched some inane ITV thing. My girlfriend woke me up because I was stretching my erection against my jeans pointing towards the TV with her family looking on. Cringe factor 9.

I am sure I have some more stories stashed away so I will return.
(, Fri 28 Nov 2008, 10:07, 5 replies)
Virgin on the ridiculous
I was 17, I'd been seeing my first proper long-term boyfriend for eight months and we were ready to take our deeply heartfelt teen love to a new level where he would remove the last vestiges of my virginity. Spurning the usual lover's haunts of local lane-ways and forest, we opted for the comfort of his bedroom. His mother was progressive, open-minded and a bit of a goer, so we knew she wouldn't mind.

There we were, in advanced stages of foreplay, me bracing myself at the idea of becoming a proper woman (he was already manly, having done it with one other girl, the stud). As we gazed endearingly into each others eyes and whispered affirmative responses, and as he positioned himself for that sweet milestone of a moment, and as I clutched him to me and vowed in my heart that this pure, beautiful practice could never be repeated with another man...

...in walked his mother with a pile of laundry, breezed over to the airing cupboard and nonchalantly cried "oh, don't mind me, dears!"

I did not lose my virginity that day.

He bought a lock.
(, Thu 27 Nov 2008, 22:55, 7 replies)
kill the reverb!
sitting on a bus shelter 'bench' you know the 5" wide plastic bit designed to resist the sleepy embrace of your hobo types.
earphones in, waiting for the bus. pretty girl sat at opposite end of the bench. we exchanged glances, a smile.. saw her most days on the route. AND she was my type. she's got her earphones in, so i decided to relieve the building pressure in my beleaguered colon before we got into a more intimate (enclosed) bus environment.
lifting a cheek surreptitiously, i snuck out a quick toot. glancing her way, not a flicker. emboldened by my success, i decided to tryr and shift the mother lode.

alas, due to the shiny nature of the seat, and the thin material of my kecks, the two elements conspired against me. unbeknownst to me, i appeared to have the kind of rectal pressure required to summon cthulhu.. a quick crack, a pop, then the beats was free.. growling like an infuriated rottweiler with a megaphone, my arse drummed a staccato warning of impending disaster on the bench... reverberations rattled the glass of the flimsy shelter, her head snapped round, a look of shock and disbelief on her face, clearly doubting the rumbling to be of human origin and maybe hoping for my look of confirmation that the world was indeed about to end.
alas, my bright red face did little to reassure her.
then the Smell made itself known. this Smell deserves capitalisation. shit this Smell should probably be allowed to vote and drive a motor vehicle. it was indescribable, picture underpants from the bottom of satan's laundry basket, boiled with week-old sprouts and rotting egg, sieved through the putrid corpse of a fox and regurgitated by john prescott after six pints of bitter and a kebab and you're close. this smell was nearly visible. i initially hoped it would sink to ground level and slink away to join a telemarketing company somewhere, but a capricious breeze bore the beast aloft and to the nose of said fair maiden. she blanched visibly, and stood up, moved upwind, and shot horrified glances at the source of this vile outburst, the now nearly purple peteloaf, vehemently wishing the ground would swallow him, and smelling like old nick himself was hiding in his grundies.

when we got on the bus, she made a beeline for the front window seat and opened it fully.

cockblocked my my own colon.
(, Wed 3 Dec 2008, 18:06, 8 replies)

This question is now closed.

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