Once whilst at Polytechnic
I was tugging my Spam Javelin to some excellent Danish Porn, and my vas-deferens started to urgently contract as a precursor to ejaculation.

Looking desperately for somewhere to deposit my spooge, I ejaculated copiously onto the introduction page of my housemate's dissertation, which he had conveniently left on the coffee table.

I might've left it to dry and blamed a leaky roof, but it was a Peter North style 8 roper and rendered the whole page bloody unreadable, so I screwed it up and binned it.
(Vic Flange, Thu 15 Nov 2007, 15:39, 5 replies)

Prince
Well, it wasn't me but this bloke named Rob once deleted all these fine compo pictures of an untalented, egotistical, singing midget in one last act of desperation before he got his arse handed to him on a legal platter.

(not really sure if this comes under the qotw remit, but who cares?)
( monkeyboyalpha jumping on the bandwagon since, Thu 15 Nov 2007, 15:32, 1 reply)

Any port in a storm
This is how I was banned from Verizon's data center in Cape Town:

They don't allow any sort of liquid in the data center - it makes sense, what if some crazed maniac was to throw water all over someone's servers? Anyway, so I got locked inside the colocation room (which has a 1" thick steel firedoor) and was desperate for a drink.

Eventually, I went to our rack, opened the water cooling unit and drank half the fluid in the reserve bottle (one of the joys of having built your own cooler is that you can build in an emergency reservoir).

They guy who filled it hadn't bothered to tell me that he had topped it up with antifreeze. Suffice it to say that when I eventually got out of there I shat liquid mud for three days.

Coincidentally, that was the day I was fired.
(Tiktock Beating off flamers with a shitty stick, Thu 15 Nov 2007, 15:30, 1 reply)

When my dole cheque runs out at the end of the month,..
And I've no money to renew my subscription to 'Fat Fecal Amateurs" website, I have to tug my lugworm to copies of Fiesta and Whitehouse Full Colour Digest.
To get my spudwater flowing I sometimes imagine the models being penetrated by bull mastiffs.
(Vic Flange, Thu 15 Nov 2007, 15:25, 2 replies)

I do hope
someone compiles a list of every item used for self pleasurisation from this QOTW for the newsletter. A chart of number of people per item may be interesting as well. Ill add sock and warm flannel to the list.
(jimmy_stavros, Thu 15 Nov 2007, 15:23, 2 replies)

just short for the bus home
Many years ago, i had 9.98 in the bank and about 30p to my name. No banks open to go to the counter, and the minimum withdrawal from cash machine was 10 pounds.
Being a proud man, i elected not to go round asking for change off people so i could afford the bus home. Nor did i want the embarassment of delaying all the passengers on the bus filling out an advanced fair form for getting on without money.

So I walked.. the whole 20 miles home!

Length.. A few hours.
(Miggyman, Thu 15 Nov 2007, 15:22, Reply)

*Shame*
In the past I have been known, in times of desperation to take men home for sex that I have no desire to see again afterwards.
( girlinthehole, Thu 15 Nov 2007, 15:18, 10 replies)

I'll smoke anything me
In my youth I could usually toke for Scotland so I couldn't understand how after a session round my mate's gaff, I had been so ripped. That was until I spotted a huge hot-rock burn in the sleeve of my anorak. I of course deduced that my heightened intoxication had been due to my inhalation of the fumes from the smoldering nylon/polyester mix.

Next night however there was no dope to be had so in my desperation I was compelled to rip the inside pocket from my already ruined jacket, cut it into thin strips and fire it into a joint.

Did it work ? Unfortunately no but on the up side however in the morning I had a head like a thirty bob doughnut and my chest sounded like a hoover bag. So a result there !
( Ramsay Tupper, Thu 15 Nov 2007, 15:04, Reply)

After losing my wallet.
I was reduced to having to make meals out of anything in my cupboard.

By the end of the week the only two items left were picalli and rice.

It was bad.
( Slippery Mick ‏, Thu 15 Nov 2007, 15:02, 3 replies)

Desperate Holiday
Frankspencer reminded me of this one with his mention of reading Moby Dick three times....

I went on holiday with the gay ex-soldier I had a thing with (I've mentioned him before in qotw - he looked better in a dress than I did...)...

Anyway...

We went to Morocco for a couple of weeks - you know the sort of thing, sun, sand, sex and camels.
Stayed in a very nice hotel. Had a very nice room overlooking the beach. Good food, good weather, blah, blah, blah.

Two weeks. Two healthy individuals both in their early 20s (at the time). Alone.

I took three books with me (why? To read on the beach).

I read all of them.

Three bloody times.

We went to the beach once - it was too sandy for him.

It was shortly after that I realised he was gay.
( chickenlady b3ta's very own Elizabeth Taylor, Thu 15 Nov 2007, 15:01, 4 replies)

Melons...
Oh Dear..

I've written about this before, but I can't be arsed to find the post.

**********************************

Wanking when young was an act of desperation... It was to fulfil a need. Wanking in later years became more of an art-form... finding novel ways to achieve the ultimate goal became my vocation, and if you can imagine it, I've probably tried it.

You've read about my horrifying disaster with a napkin ring, when, though a series of errors and ignorance around the working of the erectile properties of the one-eyed trouser-gopher I ended up on my knees, engorged and metal-clad cock in one hand and Dremel in the other... This one however falls below that in terms of horrifying moments... but none-the-less represents what must be one of man's more horrific blunders in the name of self gratification.

The phrase to describe man's needs "Warm, tight and wet" is, in honesty a bit bland, but as a teenager in love with ejaculation, my goal was to replicate those conditions, and Fuck it. A typical week's R&D would go like this...

Hot Sponge.
This proved to be too "cleaning" and I cleaned a lot of skin off my bellend. Ouch.

Hot Sponge Mod 1.
With Soap!! (see, I wasn't stupid). Cleans skin off bellend, and STINGS MORE. BUGGER.

Hot Spoinge with "Shammy" leather liner.
Smooooth and yummy. With added Body lotion... Better! SUCCESS!!! (but leaves weird streaks on the car)

Most teenagers are infamous for spending suspiciously long in the bathroom... I possibly had them trumped by being the only lad who'd take half the garage with him.

What I though would be the culmination of my work would the the only logical extension of the "shagging an orange" theory. Oranges are acidic, they have sharp pips and they are SMALL. We needed something less acidic and larger. MELONS!!!

The only thing that a melon naturally lacked was warmth.

My parents were out, I used to live in the country, and we had just got a microwave. Excellent. Not one to master the power settings, I plumped for "turbo". I nuked the melon in 30 second bursts, waiting until the outside felt good and warm. 5 minutes later we were ready to rock.

I retired upstairs with a hole-saw and a drill, and proceeded to remove a neat 52mm diameter slice of potentially sharp and hard skin.. This was going to be sublime... then, using the handle of a wooden spoon, I poked a "pilot" hole into the soft melon-flesh.... it was easy....

I nudged my teenage boy-hood, soft and forgiving melon-flesh grudgingly gave way, and satisfied that I'd found a perfect home for my throbbing friend, I thrust home.....

*****************************************

My mum noticed a week or two later that the "burn-eze" was no long near the stove, but I never let on. That tube lasted for 3 weeks... I then had to use Savlon.

Apparently (I learned later on) the hardish parabolic skin of a melon concentrates the microwaves into the center. As I'd penetrated through the center it felt far softer than the rest... not only that, but it fizzed. I had become possibly the first person to thrust into a sugar-rich BOILING center of a cantaloupe.

I walked funny for a month.
( Humpty Dumpty was Pushed Is unaware of having any limits., Thu 15 Nov 2007, 14:55, 13 replies)

Music
Living in a tiny town in China, I was forced to listen to the high-pitched wailing that passes for music there until I was obliged to actually buy something else. The only thing I could get was Backstreet Boys and Roxette. On cassette. And I listened to them over and over and over....

On the literary front, I had to read Moby Dick three times. But I still couldn't finish Crime and Punishment, no matter how bored I got.
(frankspencer, Thu 15 Nov 2007, 14:49, 5 replies)

A few years ago
After a particularly hefty session, a mate of mine stayed at my flat. Having drunk the best part of a bottle of scotch between us upon our return from the boozer, a hefty hangover kicked in upon awakening the next day.

'Got any aspirin', says my mate, 'Sure', says I, handing over 3 hardcore laxatives. Thing is at the time he actually said they made his head feel better, but I did struggle not to giggle at the thought of what was going on in his colon. It was only whilst walking home that evening that he was overcome with the desire to take a massive dump. There and then. So he did, in some posh person's porch, and to quote 'You bastard, I have never in my life shit that much'.

Poor owner of the house must have come down in the morning, expecting Sunday papers, but getting an elephant sized poo, topped off with a few large poo stained leaves used to wipe his piece.

When a man's got to go......
(RickGrimes Quite frankly, disappointed on, Thu 15 Nov 2007, 14:46, Reply)

Desperate?
A friend of mine works in one of the local hospitals (she's a pathologist actually, but that has no bearing on this story she told me...).

A woman in her 40s went into one of the hospitals in the Medway towns. She took with her most of her many offspring, ranging in age from late teens or early 20s all the way down to a baby in arms.

It was for the baby that she had turned up at the hospital clinic as the infant wasn't very well.

Now, I should mention that the family came from the Isle of Sheppey which is known round these parts as having some 'interesting' characters living there...not least of all the inmates of the prison.

Anyway...the woman goes into the consulting room with all the kids. The nurse starts to chat to her about what's wrong with the baby and all the kids are getting noisy and generally irritable.

The nurse asks the woman if her children can wait outside. "Yes" says the woman, "But not him" pointing to the eldest boy, "He's the baby's dad"
"Oh..." says the nurse, "I thought you were the baby's mum"
"I am"
"Oh, I'm sorry, I got confused. I thought he was your son." replies the confused nurse.
"He is."

It's a desperate place, Sheppey.
( chickenlady b3ta's very own Elizabeth Taylor, Thu 15 Nov 2007, 14:43, 15 replies)

On the bus to a punk gig,
as a teenager, (Christmas on earth, Leeds Queens Hall if anyone is interested), I'm desperate for a piss. 2 cans of lager as a kid does that. Nowhere to do it but the carrier bag my mum has thoughtfully provided my sandwiches in. Aaaahhhhhh. Relief.
Only, it was one of those carriers with small air holes in the bottom,and a stream of my piss ran up and down the bus for a while.
The punk crowd at the back thought it hilarious. Rest of peeps at the front didn't.
(Bear Pookie The Frankly Challenged. Halloween is coming to town., Thu 15 Nov 2007, 14:31, 2 replies)

Obligatory porn-less wanking story
Two words for you;

"Olympic Gymnastics"
(Seance Trumpet has got no beef with a man enjoying a croissant, Thu 15 Nov 2007, 14:24, 5 replies)

Another (true, this time) car one.
Once I ran out of diesel, about 5 miles from the nearest fuel station. Well, I knew that my old diesel car would burn pretty much any kind of thick oil, so I shoved in a gallon of used engine oil I had in the back, mixed it with a bit of petrol that I carry around for generators etc, and believe it or not the car started and got me to the petrol station (albeit running rather rough).
(Half of Stephen Fry's right buttock pissed on your dog on, Thu 15 Nov 2007, 14:24, 4 replies)

Desperate Times
My wife is a bit of a social climber. When we decided to get married, she wanted us to double-barrel our names to sound more middle class.

The problem is my surname is Cox and her maiden name was Zúcker.

It took me months to talk her out of that.
(Vic Flange, Thu 15 Nov 2007, 14:21, 7 replies)

Once...
the Porsche went in for repair and we had to drive a Jaguar.

Daddy was livid.
(Half of Stephen Fry's right buttock pissed on your dog on, Thu 15 Nov 2007, 14:20, 3 replies)

Not wanking related
Glastonbury, 2004, not drunk, no drugs involved. I was wondering around the food areas when I felt those tell-tale vibrations in my lower gut that meant I needed to visit one of the conveniences RIGHT NOW. Unforunately, it was around midday, and it was busy and walking was slow. Relief was far away, and probably decorated with a queue. I clenched hard.

Of course, a competent clench means that the option of running like a striped-tailed ape is impossible. So I started the shuffling walk that was my only option. Another rumble from down below. Oh no. Not looking good. Sweat started prickling on my skin, and panic started to set in. And then came the pain.

I shuffled for all I was worth, and I neared the bridge over the stream to the right of the Pyramid stage. It was a long way to got, and There was no way I could make it. I had to find somewhere concealed. Rumble. Pain.

There was nowhere. I had seconds to go before disaster and humiliation. Rumble. Pain. I excused myself from my girlfriend and shuffled to a short length of fence, right next to a burger van and put my back to the fence. As discretely as possible, I pulled down my trousers and squatted as casually as I could. I unclenched, and after a few seconds, the cause of the rumbling and pain was voided lavishly on the grass.

People walked past, but no-one appeared to look over to my now bright red, squatting form. Maybe no-one had noticed? I finished up and hid the evidence to the best of my abilities and proceeded to make my way to where my girlfriend was waiting.

She repeated a conversation she had just overheard:

"Hey Dave, there is a bloke back there taking a shit."
"What, near all those food vans?"
"Yeah."
"No way."
"Yes there is, go on, take a look."

They didn't, but I haven't been back to Glastonbury since, however now each time I feel The Rumble, I am magically transported back there.
(lardaholics anonymous, Thu 15 Nov 2007, 14:17, Reply)

I had sex
with someone off the internet.
( wotofco pissing in your swimming pool, Thu 15 Nov 2007, 14:15, 3 replies)

I had a stalker for 2 years
and it ended up with me throwing myself headfirst down a flight of stairs on purpose.

Depressing but true.

/edit

Basically after two years of death/suicide threats, attempts to run over my girlfriend, 50 texts a day, about 20 calls most days to me and my parents, letters to my house and my parents house, turning up at my work, love letters, valentines cards, screaming abuse, violence, accusations of abuse and violence, accusations of responsibility towards this persons mental health, threats of violence towards my loved ones, etc. I decided I no longer wanted to live. ended up cracking my skull and having a trip in an ambulance bloodied and unconscious.

But, in the words of Monty Python "I got better".

I worked with this lady and she stole my personal info from the personnel files. She got my parents numbers from my Bosses' (whom knew my father) address book.

Length was requested and Goddamn I gave it...
( SauronWibble I'll hold it, you lick it..., Thu 15 Nov 2007, 14:12, 3 replies)

Recently ....
... I partook of a large luncheon of goat and lentil vindaloo in a locally run restaurant, washed down with a couple of pints of "Scruttocks Old Faithful" real ale.

Over the afternoon, several ominous rumblings came from the direction of my colon but I thought nothing more of it.

On the way home, the rumblings became more sinister, and one trouser cough too far, I soiled my underwear with a couple of square inches of sticky, foul smelling effluent.

I drove, dear reader, like the proverbial wind for the final 5 miles to my house, and - clutching my hands to my posterior as though it might fall off - I ran hot foot, like a paedophile away from an estate full of angry daily mail readers, into the toilet.

I relaxed my doughnut and released a torrent of guano into the cool waters below, rounded off with a loud, raspberry blast from my poor puckered sphinctus muscle.
Having 'blown mud' 2 times more, I relaxed my marmite jar and breathed easy.

It was then I noted with horror, that there were only 2 squares of toilet paper left, and I was left to either run the terrble gauntlet of playing 'stinkfinger' or pulling up my trolleys and doing a penguin walk to the airing cupboard in which the new roll could be found.

It was a desperate time.
(Vic Flange, Thu 15 Nov 2007, 14:08, 6 replies)

I sometimes walk home from work when I do night shifts
It's about three miles or so, so no big deal really. However, there is something about brisk walking that seems to increase circulation to the digestive tract - meaning that I am always desperate for a shit roughly half an hour into the walk. It doesn't matter if I go before I leave the office, or if I wait half an hour before leaving to see if I need the toilet then - I will still need it half an hour into the walk.

Normally I end up sprinting the last mile and just make it. One day though, I know I will be too late - and the thought terrifies me.
(Seance Trumpet has got no beef with a man enjoying a croissant, Thu 15 Nov 2007, 14:04, 2 replies)

Another dope one..
I roll my joints at my computer desk, and I have to admit that on a particularly stressful night at the end of a particularly stressful week, not having had any gear for about a fortnight IIRC and having no alcohol in the house... I took every single key out of my keyboard to get at the year's worth of blims that had fallen between the keys while rolling, seperating it from the random fluff, biscuit crumbs and fuck-knows-what-else with a small screwdriver I use when rolling.

It took a good hour, it only made one very, very small joint (single small rizla FFS!) and it tasted like a bonfire made of carpets, but it was simultaneously the best and worst joint I've ever smoked.
(misanthrope is so adjective he's verbing nouns!, Thu 15 Nov 2007, 14:01, 5 replies)

I'm sorry too
A couple of years back I helped publish a weekly news letter, the original plan was to cover the events of our small village, cake bakings, fetes etc.

Sadly the editor went to see a popular film starring Johnny Depp, Orlando Bloom and Kiera Knightley and absolutley hated it. With a passion i have never seen before.

He ordered us to change every single article in the newsletter to be about how utterly, utterly dreadful said film was. He even insisted on renaming the publication.

Only one issue was published before we all gave up and went our seperate ways.

So if anyone ever saw the "Dis Pirate Times"

Sorry
( Bazongaloid, Thu 15 Nov 2007, 13:51, Reply)

Having a Skunk habit
I do the "living off baked beans on toast" thing for two weeks of every month.

A cannabis habit won't cost you your job, but wow am I bored when the weed runs out* :(

* a good month means I run out at about the 20th or so - a bad month means bread and water from the 10th onwards
(mercemployee, Thu 15 Nov 2007, 13:39, Reply)

I'm so sorry....
A few years back, and for about 6 months, I had a beautiful tropical bird with a wonderful colourful plumage. It squawked, spoke and even crooned old brat-pack songs. Because of this, and after the great Mr O' Connor, I decided to name him ‘Des’.

Those were happy days…

…(Brace yourselves)…


I call them my ‘Des-Parrot Times’

*Ba bum tish*

*gets coat*

*Thinks Prince is a cunt*
( Pooflake braces for an onslaught..., Thu 15 Nov 2007, 13:25, 2 replies)