When a young
and restless teenager, I would see myself off to sleep every night with an enoyable, relaxing wank. My usual clean-up routine was to utilise that day's boxers to mop up the residue of my sins. The next morning, I'd be first down to the laundry basket, where I'd bury the damn things as deep as possible.

But one morning my mother beat me too it. She was in my room, opening the curtains and picking up my (now very crusty) underwear. I could see the look of disgust on her face as she gingerly held them away from her body.

'Oh Al,' she implored, 'can't you blow your nose with a tissue like any other normal boy?'

I'll never know if she was saving me from embarrassment or herself. But when I think about it... No. I can't think about it anymore.

So I'll just park that memory here and not drag it up again for a long, long time.
( Albert Marshmallow is a completely irredeemable cunt, Tue 2 Dec 2008, 11:19, 2 replies)

Had you never considered
that whoever did the laundry was probably already all too fully aware of your "nose-blowing" habits?
( 100% Cock Raw like carrots., Tue 2 Dec 2008, 12:16, closed)

hmm
With my son it was socks.. if you didn't get them off the floor and in the wash smartish, they'd set solid and you could have killed a person with them..

Worse for me than him I reckon...
(Beer Elf Thought this was like a campfire, anyhow, on, Tue 2 Dec 2008, 13:51, closed)