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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.

Making ladies cringe
Every lady I have told this to this week has cringed so I thought 'Hey, why not share my pain with the internet?'

Recently I went to have a check up down below. I was up on the paper sheets, legs akimbo with an elderly lady peering up my nether regions. With the speculum firmly in place, I felt a slight twinge when the Dr Lady asks for some swabs. Lots of swabs. The speculum had moved, cutting my cervix, allowing my precious life blood to begin to flow out of me. I nearly vomited. I spent the rest of the day with gauze in my knickers, trying to distance myself from my own vagina.

And when being told you have powerful wall muscles, it's best not to wink at the nurse and reply 'I have been told' or she may laugh so hard she drops her tray.
(, Thu 4 Dec 2008, 12:39, 2 replies)
Whisky & Weddings & Wild-Wild Women...
I was an usher at a wedding in Scotland last year, the hotel we had hired had a great whisky bar. It got to about 1am and the best man drunkenly stumbled up to me and announced "i'm gorra...i'm gorra...i'm gorra buy Steve (the groom) annovver whishkey"...

Me: "I wouldn't bother"
Best Man: "...i'll get him a whishkey"
Me: "It's late"
Best Man: "...whishkey"
Me: He has certain...obligations tonight"
Best Man: "i'll get him a whishkey"
Me: "Look...he's drunk a lot and its his wedding night"
Best Man: "whishkey"

Why did I have to be standing next to the brides father? Why?
(, Thu 4 Dec 2008, 12:34, 2 replies)
Some anonymous guy posted this on Craigslist and I had to share
The Time I Lost Control of My Bowels on the Water Slide.

My last few months have been racked with guilt and shame over a horrible incident and the need to purge myself has become overwhelming. So I turn to you for a compassionate ear.
Last summer, I took my girlfriend, I'll call her Beulah, and her son, I'll call him Eugene, to a water amusement park, attempting to nurture the bond that was forming between us. After a busy morning of paddleboats and bumper cars, we took a moment to refresh ourselves with a hardy lunch of chili dogs, cheese fries, and lemonade. Relaxing under shade trees, Eugene smiled a chili-smeared grin, as the sun cast its languid glow over the park. With the leisurely picnic ending, we hastily dispersed to the changing rooms, in anticipation of our next adventure—the giant water slide.
During our first run, I noticed a gnawing, internal discomfort, although the first sure signs of brown-capping weren’t apparent until Eugene and I climbed the half-mile of stairs to the summit, for our second run. Unfortunately, I had taken the opportunity, to wear a most-revealing, blue Speedo, in the hope of further enamoring myself to the beautiful Beulah. Lord knows, I have the body to accommodate such a blatant, public display of manhood.
However, I soon began to regret my decision, for the sharp, cut of the elastic dug into my swelling, gaseous abdomen. My intestines were bubbling like a whirlpool. By the time we reached the loading platform at the summit, I was squirming in wretched misery. Considering my options, I surmised that taking the slide was far more promising than fighting my way back down the stairs, through the crowd. Thank God I was next in line. My trouble would soon be over. The only obstacle before me was an elderly German tourist, staring pensively at the wild rapids. With obvious reservation, he shuffled slowly toward the mouth of the blue tunnel. Beyond the point of pleasantries, I bellowed, “Come on, Pops! Shake a leg!”
Turning toward the acne-pocked boy who was managing the ride that day, he made a feeble attempt in his native tongue to communicate his apprehension. I had no other choice! The brown star pulsated—nearing supernova. The manager boy recoiled in shock as I pushed the old man down the slide, headfirst. Cursing me with hostile foreign jibberish, he disappeared around the first turn. In an instant, I followed, hurling myself down the slick, plastic vortex.
The fury of the slide was incredible. Rolling and spinning, I gathered speed quickly. The angle of the chute dipped to nearly seventy degrees, increasing my velocity as I careened from side to side, the water turning to white, angry foam. Ricocheting from a high, banking wall, the impact smashed me like some fecal-laden pinata. I lost control, discharging a foul, liquid trail.
A child screamed somewhere behind me, as I slid toward certain humiliation below. Frantically, I grabbed at the back of my Speedo, in a desperate attempt to flush myself clean. To my dismay, a fetid school of dung-guppies spilled into the churning maelstrom.
Nearing the final turn, the old man was standing upright in the tunnel in front of me, I’m sure, to exact some sort of revenge. His sinewy muscles were tensed, rage filled his dilated eyes. But with youth, and gravity, on my side, I swiftly took him out at the ankles. A palsied hand grabbed me as we tumbled out of the chute, and into the pool.
Moments later, a wailing boy fell behind us, riding the crest of a polluted wave. Thinking fast, I collared the old man, and dragged him onto the concrete deck. A lifeguard confronted us as people ran screaming from the pool in pale-faced terror. I explained to the guard how the old man had soiled the waters, how obviously the speed and excitement had proven too much for a man of his age and condition.
Unable to comprehend my story, or explain himself, the old man could only respond with a flurry of incomprehensible shrieks, vective, and obscene gestures. I suggested that he was hysterical from embarassment and that in the best interests of everyone that he be removed from the park—immediately.
The guard eyed me with suspicion, but had no alternative but to believe my story. Fortunately, the force of the waters had washed me thoroughly of any incriminating evidence. I gathered Beulah and Eugene, and made a dash for the parking lot. I’m sure the truth eventually surfaced, but not until we were safely on the interstate, heading back home.

from www.craigslist.org/about/best/den/235728006.html
(, Thu 4 Dec 2008, 12:00, 4 replies)
This Will Win Me No Friends
It isn't even funny. But I do die, violently and bloodily inside, every time I think of it.

I had been helping my ex DJ at a party that consisted entirely of wankers (I do not exclude myself) many years ago. I was bored to death, very tired, wanted to leave, and was not nearly drunk enough to be cheerful, but just enough to be nasty.

The male half of a particularly tedious couple of my acquaintance approached me towards the end of the night. I didn't want to talk to anyone, let alone this person, mainly because I had nothing in common with him. He and his GF were obsessed with spawning, and were recently, joyfully and noisily pregnant, so all I could think of to ask about was the condition of his missus.

Keep in mind that I'm the sort of minging heartless witch who couldn't care less about children, and who has a hatred of weedy euphemism.

"Um... so how's Mrs. Thingy's pregnancy going?"

"Oh... she lost the baby".

"That was a bit clumsy of her. Leave it on a bus seat or something, did she?"

Even I was stunned. I wish I could plead temporary insanity, serious drunkenness, or demonic possession. The only real explanation is that I am a total cow.

It was so bad, in fact, that Mr. Thingy was sure he hadn't heard me properly, above the awful music. I covered myself, I think, but to this day the memory of this Tourette-esque outburst of glib evil has had me reaching for the Nembutal.
(, Thu 4 Dec 2008, 11:40, 3 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)
This thread
Got me talking to friends last night about similar things, and I was reminded of this.

During my first year at Uni, we had a hypnotist come in. (It was actually Hugh Lennon, who features in Danny Wallace's 'Yes Man' but he didn't have a hypnodog at the time)

Now, obviously, anyone who volunteers to be hypnostised is likely to feel fairly cringey when they are told what they did.

But after the heavy metal guy who knew all the moves and words to Thriller, the guy who kept getting electric shocks when he sat down and all the usual hypnotists tricks I still don't think any of us were prepared for this.

A Malaysian guy who was in the same hall as a friend from my course was on stage.

He'd eaten an onion like it was an apple.

He'd become convinced he was naked.

And then he was told something like 'you are experiencing your best ever day, describe it to us'

and he said

'I am laying on a bed'


'I am naked'

Ooh, getting interesting

'I am face down'

This could get weird

'And someone is pushing a broom handle up my bottom'


Now, if that had been me, I doubt I would ever have been able to show my face again. But somehow it got worse when he said who was doing the pushing.

Margaret Thatcher.

I would have quit my course there and then.
(, Thu 4 Dec 2008, 11:16, 2 replies)
Just now
Listening to the radio through headphones. Merrily singing allong to Guns 'n' Roses' "Sweet Child Of Mine" and doing my best Axle Rose head-sway. Forgot I was in the office and surrounded by people. Have gone slightly red now.

Though I was lucky I realised where i was in time, otherwise I would have stood up and done a "foot on the mointor" air-guitar solo....
(, Thu 4 Dec 2008, 11:06, 2 replies)
I drunkenly told my girlfriend as a teenager I used to fuck vanilla slices cuz 'I thought it would feel like a real woman'. (Works better if you put um in the microwave for 10 secs on low heat, anymore than that n its a trip to casualty).

I thought she would find it arousing...

Instead she pissed herself laughing and told all her friends; and now in her circle I'm known as Mr. Kipling.
(, Thu 4 Dec 2008, 11:05, 3 replies)
Jam Sandwiched
I was walking past the local constabulary and two police cars were pulling out of the side road one behind the other. They were driving slowly and fairly close together.

Not one to be intimidated by authority I thought I would be smart and cross the road between the two of them.

I strutted through with head cockily held high so failed to see a length of rope at shin height.

Yes the front car was towing the one behind and I went completely arse over tit.

There was a busy bus stop of people watching too. Brilliant!
(, Thu 4 Dec 2008, 10:51, 1 reply)
Not so much making me cringe...
...as making me want to destroy my TV is the scourge of the soul that is xmas TV advertisements. In particular:

M&S - Take-That-minus-Williams-so-not-really-Take-That-and-it's-not-as-if-the-original-troupe-of-preening-cunts-were-even-moderately-good-anyway pretending to have cheesy god-fearing family fun at a pretend xmas party with a bunch of nauseatingly pouty bints including the one who seemingly ponces about in a bikini/bra 'n' pants EVEN IN FUCKING WINTER. Oh, and the usual superfluous token appearance from Twiggy. I mean, Twiggy - why?

ICELAND - Kerry motherfucking Katona teams up with some other z-list bint whose name I don't know and haven't bothered to find out and if that weren't enough, they're joined by everyone's favourite twat-of-the-aussie-persuasion Jason Donovan sporting enough anti-aging gunk to double his weight where the three of them coo musical-style over a dizzying variety of cheap-arse and slightly minging-looking party snackery which no-one else at the pretend-gathering seems inclined to even go near.

Both are boycotted for xmas shopping on account of pouring this shite into our heads, though to be honest I never shop at Iceland because a) Kerry motherfucking Katona and b) it's as pikey as fuck, possibly on account of endorsement by Kerry motherfucking Katona.

Xmas wank, and not in a good way. Don't even get me started on perfume adverts.
(, Thu 4 Dec 2008, 10:48, 9 replies)
Be careful what you wish for..
Walking to the pub with my sister on a family horiday in Knynsa, Sauf Africa a few years ago we were gleefully revelling in the prospect of getting plastered and smoking heaps of bines (things the parents somewhat frowed upon). Having left the apartment we were finding our way up a road to a pub we had seen earlier when my sister, who was walking behind me, pointed out the fact that my jeans had a bit hanging loose at the back. They were sorta baggy levi numbers with this strap at the back that was pretty much there for show and one end had fallen out of the clasp and was dangling down.

I asked her if she would mind doing it up for me, so she bends down at my bum and attempted to re-clasp the demin strap. At this point, i did what all little brothers would do in the same situation and let out an absolute ripper in her face. A proper veritable pant splitter, her fringe was blown aside with its power.

She spluttered and let out a yelp before exclaiming that i was disgusting and then she said, 'jesus christ, i hope you followed through!'

At this point i realised that i may have tried a little too hard with the fart and that i had infact, shit myself. Stone cold sober, and we had not even gone into the first pub yet.

'be careful what you wish for, i said' before going into the pub and making a toilet paper nappy while she pissed herself laughing. Im from scotland, im not going to let a little follow through ruin a good night out. But looking back, she had the last laugh...
(, Thu 4 Dec 2008, 10:44, Reply)
late, but oh well
Due to the current economic situation, last week my boss announced that there would be some layoffs. I work for a magazine group and all the staff on our various publications occupy the same floorspace. We knew some people would have to be killed from our department, but I figured that a few of the more profitable magazines would be fairly safe.

So the day after the layoffs were announced, I was strolling over to the cooler, and a few of my colleagues were surrounding the table where one of the girls who writes for a lifestyle magazine works.

Now, the magazine in question has a fairly extensive beauty page, and as a result, the girls working on it get bombarded with a crapload of free lotions and other nice things, more than they can use in fact, and they have periodic giveaways when women from other department come buy to pick whatever they want to take home.

It was this in mind when I breezed past, innocently chirping: "What's all this then, Christmas clearance?"

Only to be met with stony silence, punctuated by sniffling. One of the women turned around and shook her head. Yes, one of the women working on that magazine had just been fired.

And of course, to make myself look even better, all I did was scuttle back to my desk and try to look busy.
(, Thu 4 Dec 2008, 10:43, Reply)
Christmas cringe
Talking about Christmas parties with people at work has just reminded me of one from a recent year (they all blur together in the end). After a fun night out in Leeds I managed to find a few people to share a taxi with, but our only option was to join the seemingly endless queue outside the railway station.

Being the gregarious type and (more importantly) full of free booze, I thought it would be a great idea to entertain the masses by trying to get everybody in the queue to sing The Twelve Days Of Christmas. Over, and over, and over again.

To be fair, maybe 20-30 people did enter into the spirit of it, but everybody else was probably thinking "what... a... twat". Which is exactly what I was thinking as I laid in bed the next morning.
(, Thu 4 Dec 2008, 10:30, Reply)
Probably should have cringed...
...but I was too pissed off.

A couple of years ago when I was living in Wigan, my wheelybin got nicked in early December*. I called the council to report it and get another and was told I'd have another 'soon'. Two weeks later I had no word from the council and no new bin, and the local binmen being the workshy arse-scratching fuckers they were, there was a pile of binbags building up where my bin used to be.

I called the council again from work to restate my request, where rather snotty lady told me that I'd have to pay for a new one. I expressed my displeasure in a diplomatic fashion, stating that I'm not the one who stole it and failed to see why I should pay for it. She asked me to hold for a moment. A workmate had been listening and was as surprised as I was that I should get stung for this.

Mate: 'Like getting blood from a stone, eh?'
Me: 'Is right. What the fuck do I pay my council tax for?'
Snotty Bint (who had obviously been listening all along): 'I'll thank you to mind your language when talking to me'

That was it - I'd had enough. The ignorance of my first request was the latest in a long line of fuckups courtesy of the Wigan municipality. Given this and the general 'fuck xmas' mindset I had that year, I was in no mood to be dressed down like a four-year-old.

Me: 'Oh there's no need to thank me, it's not going to happen. Firstly I was, as far as I was aware, on hold and therefore not talking to you so my previous statement is none of your business. Secondly, given your organisations's seeming inability to do even the simplest thing right first time, my usually respectable xmas cheer is in short, SHORT supply right now so if you want to chastise someone then take a stroll and find someone who'll stand for it because I'm. Not. Him.'
Her: 'Er. Right'
Me: 'So, am I going to get a new bin or are you simply going to allow my place to be eventually dwarfed by the growing pile of bin bags that your men are too lazy to pick up for the lack of one?'
Her: 'Er. We'll have one dropped off in the next couple of days'.
Me: 'Now, wouldn't it have been easier if you had just said that a fortnight ago?'
Her (frostily, not that I gave a fuck by this point): 'I suppose it would have.'
Me: 'Well at least we agree on something. If no bin materialises by the end of this week then you'll be hearing from me again. One more thing we'll agree on is that you don't want that to happen."
Her: 'Yes. Is there anything else I can help you with?'
Me: 'If there were, I'm not sure I'd dare ask for fear of ending up as irritated as I am now. Goodbye.'

They appeared to get the message that time - I had a bin again inside of two days. And no fucker asked me to pay for it either.

Cringing is for pussies.

* And anyway, who in thier right fucking mind would pilfer a used and not-recently-washed domestic refuse bin? Fucking morons.
(, Thu 4 Dec 2008, 10:29, 3 replies)
Typo Cringe
I once signed off a Very Important Email to the Head of the Arts Council with the words

Kind retards
(, Thu 4 Dec 2008, 10:26, 6 replies)
So I'm on the phone to British Gas, trying to get my meter changed from a key meter to a normal one. I jump through hoops for the computerised lady who wants to me to press 1 for this and 2 for that and 3 if I'm considering the use of the phone cord as a vehicle for suicide etc. I get to the end of the questions where the computerised lady kindly informs me that she is transferring me now.

~1 second of silence~


Assuming I'd been cut off, since that is the normal tone for when you have been cut off, I screamed "nice transfer you fucking bint!"

Only to hear "Hello my name is Sean, how can I..... uhhh help"
(, Thu 4 Dec 2008, 9:40, 2 replies)
Novel Network Hell
I have written six novels and maybe a hundred short stories, and they are all woeful, absolutely woeful. Unfortunately for me, I left a copy of them on the user account on the computer on the front desk in my old job. So now, anyone whose turn it is to man the desk will sit there and log on to a computer, bored with nothing to do for eight hours and they will find the following: C:`\Documents and Settings\Admin”\My Documents \ Novels (secret, do not open). My god, the amount of heat my face has given off in thinking of it!. My ex colleagues probably finish off every working day reading a selection and then seeing who literally pisses themselves with laughter first. It makes me sweat hot and cold at the same time. Even now I am dry heaving
(, Thu 4 Dec 2008, 9:36, 1 reply)
suicidalducky's post
reminded me of a story I told at the first QOTW bash I attended.

It was Father's day, and I was at my brother's house. We were comparing the shoddy presents that had been given to us by our ungrateful offspring, and because our own dad deserted us when we were little I piped up with, 'Cor, we've probably saved ourselves about twenty quid each this year, not having a dad does have it's upsides.'

Only I said this with his wife in the room too, and her dad had passed away about two weeks before.

It was at that point that Al gave Ziggy another slap, Ziggy let out an electronic whine, and I realised I never really was going to make that final leap home.



(, Thu 4 Dec 2008, 9:25, 1 reply)
I once posted a story on QOTW
And imagine my embarrassment when it turned out that it didn't actually happen!

(, Thu 4 Dec 2008, 9:16, 1 reply)
sorry managed to delete this
i am a muppet

open the flood gates why don't you...
Two quick ones to start with:

13 or 14 lying on bed snogging random girl - after a good five minutes of so of mashing this poor girls ribcage over her school jumper...

"you do realise that's not my breast - don't you?"


FFW: 18 or 19, proper girlfriend - still at the RABID sexual stage - rocks up to mums house. bit pissed, been snogging and groping and shagging a lot.

Decide to leave after a while, go to kiss mum goodbye - while arm is also round girlfriends waist, decide to fondle girlfriends bottom while whispering in mums ear "love you mum"

get confused

mum goes: "SPIMF!!! why are you putting your tongue in my ear?"

Realise men CANNOT multitask

(, Thu 4 Dec 2008, 5:56, 3 replies)
Just a quickie as it's so late in the week....
My friend's having Sunday dinner with prim and proper girlfriend and her family - grandparents down to little'uns, the whole clan. Being rather upset by some antics of her little brother, the girlfriend utters the immortal

"Oh Jamie, you're such a dildo!"

From the reaction, it was fairly clear that she was the only person who didn't know *exactly* what it meant.

My worst moment would be at graduation day. Everyone has returned to Uni, wearing our finest penguin suits and are seated awaiting our call to the stage. I have a list of all the results results, and I notice that lazy cockmonkey Simon Smith has got a 2:1 and beaten my Desmond (Tutu, I'm old). Turning to my friends "That **** Smith, in no way deserved that, ***** ****!" You get the gist.

The person in front, and his two elderly parents, turned slowly to look at me, and as my shame rose and filled my ears with warm humiliation, I realised that a) "Simon Smith" was not who I thought he was and b) Chance had sat the real Mr Smith in front of me. I can still, 20 years on, see the hurt in his eyes.
(, Thu 4 Dec 2008, 4:44, 1 reply)
This QOTW...
...is one of the best one's we've had in ages.

Thank you ChickenLady!
(, Thu 4 Dec 2008, 3:54, 4 replies)
mother's day
"What did you buy for mother's day?"

"I didn't, she died when I was young."

"Ah, Sorry..."

Thinks to self: 'I hate awkward silences, let's crack a harmless joke to break it!'

"...well at least you don't have to worry about what presents to buy!"

Oh god...
(, Thu 4 Dec 2008, 3:19, Reply)
I reckon it was the sprouts
It was at least 3 hours ago and I'm still cringing.
I went out to a meet tonight with a bunch of folks ive known online for a couple of years but never met in real life till tonight.
About 8 of us lived within the same county so it was decided we would have a get together and have a pre Xmas dinner.
Some of us dont drive so lifts home had been arranged.
It was a very nice evening, full Xmas dinner was provided by the host, turkey, stuffing, sprouts, the works.
The guys were a hoot, much hilarity ensued.
After dinner I felt a need to have a smoke, was waiting to see if anyone else mentioned it, no-one did.
Realising I was the only social pariah present I made my excuses and went outside to get my nicotine fix.
Once outside on my own I also realised I had a gassy build up that needed a release.
The french doors were open, in spite of the cold, so I thought it prudent to wander down the garden and let loose out of earshot.
At the bottom of the garden was a fence with some kind of allotment behind it.
I stopped there and let rip, not very ladylike but needs must.
Hung onto the fence to stop myself drifting off like a punctured helium ballon, wondering what the odd red glow I could see beyond the fence was.
Went back to the house, had a nice brandy or two , more chit chat.
Then us folks who were getting a lift home got ourselves ready.
Hosts dad appears, we hadnt seen him at all , all night and 3 of us pile into car.
I'm the last to be dropped off, a good 20 minutes after the others.
Awkward silence, im in a car with a strange guy in his very late 60's.
He pulls out a pipe and asks if I mind if he smokes?
I say no, does he mind if I smoke a cig?
He says no.................as long as you dont fart like you did at the bottom of the garden.
10 minutes of me sitting in the car cringing realising that red glow was him sitting there smoking his pipe while I let loose the after effects of much sprouts and stuffing :(
(, Thu 4 Dec 2008, 3:06, 2 replies)
College cringe
Back in the hippy-dippy 70's I lived in a vegetarian commune. I liked to cook and most of the others didn't, so that became my self-selected job. Not knowing how to cook, the other communists had no idea of the impossible and annoying things they were asking me to do ("Let's have an 8 course dinner every night!" "We're going to go completely vegan even though our budget doesn't run to fresh vegetables." "Why can't we eat on 70 cents a day?")

One day I was struggling with a huge fuckoff pan of broiling hot soup when a new guy wandered into the kitchen, stopped with his face within 1 1/2 inches of the shelves and interrupted me with "Do we have any napkins?"

I was furious he was a) interrupting me for no good reason and b) endangering my health with boiling broth and snapped, "They are right in front of your face you idiot, about 2 inches away! What are you, blind, fuckface?"

He turns to me and with horror I see the typical nystagmus (flickering of the eyes) of the legally blind. In the most self-righteous, dreadfully injured and put-upon tone he can muster he says, "Why, yes. Yes I am."

I never lived it down.
(, Thu 4 Dec 2008, 2:44, 2 replies)
Here have two from a friend
Lately while indulging in some late night chicken at a KFC my friend spouts out of nowhere "the waitress, she's not bad looking for a chink".
To say this threw me is an understatement but after some quick hushing, we finally realize that she never knew it as a derogatory or racist thing to say. . .

Same girl asked me if Hindsight and Einstein were the same person.

she is blonde, that is all...
(, Thu 4 Dec 2008, 2:10, 5 replies)
I knew that would come back to bite me...
I just started dating this new girl, she's fabulous and beautiful and quite naughty in all the nice ways- however she doesn't want me to ever use a strap-on on her. I'm a lesbian, by the way.

Anyway, she had lost her Blackberry in the parking lot outside a bar the other night, details are still a little foggy. When she called to get it replaced on her insurance plan she found out for a few dollars more than a replacement Blackberry she could get one of those new-fangled Google phones. As luck would have it, they're on back order. Since I work all hours of the night, I left my laptop at her apartment so we can chat online while I'm at work.

Earlier today I just realized there a notepad document with some raunchy erotica about a lesbian, usually high on lots of illicit substances, with a huge 10 inch strap-on thrusting it into any female with a pulse.

Penned by yours truly. And there's no way to deny I'm the author since it has my email address in it. The same email I use to chat with.

The laptop has been at hers for almost a week now. She either hasn't found it or hasn't mentioned she's found it. Granted it's not on the desktop, but it's not hidden... it's in the default windows documents folder.

(, Thu 4 Dec 2008, 1:38, 3 replies)
Not my own personal cringe, but I was a witness.
Stood around outside a scummy club in the South East, chatting and smoking and we see some young bloke getting thrown out.

We all turn to watch him shouting at the doormen and squaring up to them, letting them know how "hard" he is and what he's going to come back later and do to them.

Half-way through his finale tirade of abuse, amongst the "cunts" and "fucking wankers", from somewhere inside his drunk mind up pops the word "fraggle".

So he's stood there facing up to these massive blokes, swearing at them, and he's just called one of these monsters a "fraggle". Everyone just cracked up. He tried to carry on but no-one really cared after that.
(, Thu 4 Dec 2008, 1:30, 3 replies)
comedy breasts
I once remarked to my old boss that he "appeared to be wearing a pair of comedy breasts". his usual jolly demeanor appeared to leave him. he gave me a filthy look and walked out.

"you knob" one of my workmates said "didnt you know?"

turns out his wife had just had a double mastectomy.

(, Thu 4 Dec 2008, 1:13, 4 replies)
My brain...
...gets confused occasionally. Only very rarely though.

During a loud and very public argument, I tried to say "Kiss my arse" and "Blow me" at the same time. What came out was a slightly elongated "Kiss me".

I lost the argument.
(, Thu 4 Dec 2008, 0:37, 1 reply)

This question is now closed.

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