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This is a question DIY Surgery

Majoringram tells us: I once had a wart on my hand and went to the doc to get it frozen. It hurt, lots. Instead of having to go back for more, I got my trusty rambo knife and cut the thing off. Three years later, and not even a scar!

(, Thu 20 Jan 2011, 12:08)
Pages: Popular, 7, 6, 5, 4, 3, 2, 1

This question is now closed.

I may or may not have mentioned this before.

*hangs head in shame*

One night a few years ago year: Particularly bored and on a bit of a low having discovered that I was dating a cock-magnet, I was sat watching episodes of Simpson's back-to-back, Drinking Guinness and getting slightly hungry.

Hmm.. hungry. I'd been feeling down for the entire weekend and it was Sunday afternoon. Outside it was drizzling, My mates were elsewhere and laziness was beginning to reach new levels.

Earlier that day I'd been to Netto (yes, we do have them in Sweden) and bought - amongst other staples - a catering pack of sugary peanuts. I hauled my slightly tipsy arse off the sofa pottered into the kitchen, got another can and a bowl, picked up the Netto bag and - after filling the bowl with peanuts - hunkered down on the sofa again.

I don't remember much more of that afternoon: I just remember feeling rather sorry for myself and dragging my pathetic self off to bed at midnight, ruing the fact that I'd have to go to work in the morning, and generally wondering "Why?" about my situation.

Monday came and went.

Tuesday rolled along... and then went away as Tuesdays invariably do.

Wednesday was when it started to get a little strange: In the afternoon I started to feel a bit crap. My lunch hadn't really wanted to go down so I'd sat and chatted... by 3pm I was beginning to sweat. "Flu" I thought. I set off home and collapsed in front of the TV with a bowl of sugar puffs.

20 minutes later I was kneeling on the bathroom floor with a nose-full of soggy sugar puffs and stomach acid. Try as you might in those situations, you just can't avoid sniffing... and as the sodden shaven-bumblebees of acidic doom charged out of my nostrils and thudded into the back of my throat, I once again became hunched over as my stomach muscles tried to turn me into pretzel.

I hate the Flu... It knocks me for six once it's beaten my immune system. I headed to bed and had a shit night.


A day later and my stomach was in pain: very un-fluish. I was beginning to wonder what might be going on.... Food Poisoning? I started Working my way chronologically though my past meals - there weren't many; When I'm down I forget to eat - there was nothing that rang alarm bells until my mind latched onto the peanuts. The *big* bowl of peanuts... Jesus no..

I went to the livingroom: There on the table was the empty bag. 2Kg of peanuts. Nice one Humpty you utter arse-hat: you've pigged out on 2kg of junk and turned yourself into a walking keg of peanut-butter.

The Days had been passing, the turds had not. Somewhere inside me was the wrong kind of log-jam... the words "butter-nut-squash" made my giggle a bit, but I decided that if anyone else uttered them, I'll kill them.

Single, Living alone and with my mum a long way away in another country, I did what any self-respecting bloke would do: I went back to bed.

I'll be the first to admit that I'm no professional when it comes to chronic constipation: I reasoned that the blockage needs encouragement and movement. I massaged my stomach, wriggled around a bit and occasionally would jump up and down. It failed. *I* failed.

In frustration I gave my stomach and belly area a good thumping (I'm an engineer, and it's always a fairly good last resort) and at least It felt better.

It was a few hours later while watching Jack-ass and Johnny Knoxville getting his colon hosed out that I hit upon a plan. By this time my temperature was going amusingly high and I was feeling *really* shit: It was a surprise that In my state of bug-eyed idiocy I was capable of any sort of rational thought, but this was it. A stroke of Genuis. McGuyver was trumped.

10 minutes later I had modified my shower hose and essentially had a mix between a super-soaker and Cartman's worse nightmare. I had spent a couple of minutes researching the concept on the web and had discovered that the time to "Stop filling" was "when you felt uncomfortable". Mmmkay. I was feeling fairly uncomfortable about it already, and I hadn't even started. :o/

My first effort was a dismal failure: maybe a tablespoon of water? So "When you feel uncomfortable" may not have been entirely accurate. You lasses who whine about "water retention" and "feeling bloated": you have No Fucking Idea!!!

I had to grit my teeth and go for it. A couple of minutes later and grunting like a hippo in labour I managed to manoeuvre myself over the toilet before exploding. The sheer relief in itself was worth it... but there was nowt solid to show for my efforts.

Another Sitting.
Let me tell you that shoving a squirting hosepipe up your ass is nothing short of fucking hilarious.

... The overpowering odour of Rancid Peanut-crap was horrifying.... though already ill, sweating and committed, I knew it was the smell of sweet victory.

Rinse and repeat. "Take 2 bottles into the shower?" Fuck off Sassoon.

I noted that accidentally turning the water cold was a terrible plan.. My barking spider puckered HARD and threatened NEVER to let go.

Fix the temperature... Re-Fill and Purge again.

It took 30 minutes, but it was an overall success. Giggling like a happy mong in a ball-pit I sat there twitching as the last of the watered-down nightmare fizzed out of my worn arse.

Within an hour I was starting to feel fine again.


A few days later I was offered a bowl of those sugary peanuts at a party. The smell instantly induced involuntary bodily actions: Pavlov grudgingly joined McGuyver on the "trumped" list.

Length? Nuts to it.
(, Tue 25 Jan 2011, 10:08, 22 replies)
I once managed to get a peanut stuck in my ear.
So I poured some melted chocolate in there.

Came out a treat.
(, Tue 25 Jan 2011, 9:05, 6 replies)
Some years ago now
I was having massive sex with several supermodels. I won't put their names because that would be immoral. Anyway, they were fighting over me trying to convince me who could give the best blowjob. Everytime I got close, they stopped. They kept me at this orgasm biting point for 14 hours before I finally came with such force that three of them suffered concussion. Being splattered in my manfat made them orgasm so hard that they couldn't walk for a week. After spunking up about 3 pints, there was one giant spasm and I actually jizzed my bollocks inside out and out through my jap's eye.
Those that were still conscious crawled away in terror still cumming as they did.
I thought I had* better find a way to sort this out. I didn't want to go to hospital so because I'm so ten-men I pushed them back in with a knitting needle. Then to make sure my bollocks still worked, I drove to the zoo in my Honda Accord and raped four lions.

* ninja edit
(, Mon 24 Jan 2011, 14:02, 14 replies)
Low-Flow Priapism - non-invasive surgical rectification
I posted this years ago... Let's air it again shall we?

I was a Teenage lad in the stage of life where the phrases "Fist of Fury" and "Wanking like a caged Chimp" were rather fitting. By day I was a shifty kid who'd run off to his room with alarming regularity, and by night I could be found humping any inanimate object that I thought might be provide a new sensation. One night, pleased with my forward planning, I went to bed with a napkin ring in my pocket.

I'd pocketted the napkin ring because I'd just learned about 'cock rings'. To this day I hold Ferris Beuler responsible. "A little knowledge is a dangerous thing" ... lacking Knowledge such as "Cock-rings are designed to be released" could - for example - be deemed to be dangerous.
You learn these things by experimenting, research, or in my case, The hard way.


Mid session, the stand-in napkin suddenly became too big for its ring... Being the smart lad I was, I reasoned "It'll go down if I get turned off... What's horrible?" Teenage reason kicked in, and closed my eyes and pictured my Gran, Naked, with pus dripping from her crusty crevice. Not only did I manage to maintain this vile image for 5 minutes, but I managed to maintain an erection throughout. An erection that was in fact increasing in size.

I was HORRIFIED: I obviously harboured disturbing subconscious thoughts for my Gran. Subsequently I took no pleasure in the sudden and painful understanding of the bio-mechanics behind my now monstrous and painful hard-on: so long as the napkin ring stayed... so would this throbbing beast...

You know how a love-bite/hickey causes surface capillaries to burst, and make your skin go a blotchy red/purple? well... my Dick was VERY much like that... ALL OVER.

I started to Panic. I mentally pictured A&E (ER for the 'Merkins), and pictured a jovial fireman with some big metal shears quipping "we'll be having it off ina Jiffy"... Sweating with Terror I attempted reason, and realised that I could perform this surgical removal by myself. In my moment of need turned to my trusty Minicraft Drill... Two cutting disks later, the pewter napkin ring was only HALF off!!

Cutting disks whining away at 30,000rpm cause HEAT. Pewter is a fairly soft metal, so it doesn't actually cut well.
HEAT. did I mention that? HEAT!!! Heat in a metal ring, Painfully tight around my man-handle.


Ignore the pain: get on with the job in hand.
So... Water. More water. cut. Water. CUT. JEEEEZ.

You KNOW something's SERIOUSLY wrong when you're naked, on your knees and wearing goggles with your cock in one hand and a miniature angle-grinder in the other.

So... cutting bit by bit I manage to make decent cut, gently working it until its wafer thin - The heat was burning me. I could smell bacon, but it was progress - Sweet merciful progress. And then it happened. The disk snagged, and bit in.

As if the cutting disk shattering and forcing wafer-thin shards of metal into my todger wasn't enough, I then panicked and used pliers to rip the rest of the napkin ring open.

In my panicked haste I firstly pinching skin between pliers and inside of ring, and THEN badly cutting myself with the sharp edges.

While cradling my deflating, blotchy, bleeding, lacerated and smoking cock in a shaking and clammy hand, my misery, pain and horror were compounded my MUM came up to see why I was "making toys" at 2:00am on a school night.

Length? Let's just say "ribbed for her pleasure".
(, Wed 26 Jan 2011, 10:12, 18 replies)
I can't attest to the veracity of this one as my dad told me it long ago. Still induces cringes...
Back in the '80s/early '90s growing up at my parents', my dad worked shifts as a textile worker (Oop North, though on an out-of-town industrial estate rather than in a dark, Satanic mill). The job required regular and respectful use of, essentially, massive fuck-off machines of varying degrees of crushingness, choppingness and mangleability.

Accidents happened, of course. My dad remained unscathed, but other more careless employees had lost a few bits and bobs here and there, ranging from a digit or two to, well, continued existence on the mortal plane. The goalkeeper for the five-aside team was famed for having two amazing shot-stopping hands, albeit with only six shot-stopping digits between them.

So, one of the lads on shift with my dad pays for a lapse of concentration with the loss of the tip of his middle finger, just below the nail. Painful, no doubt, but a lucky escape in comparison to some. Some staunching, a visit to A+E, the liberal application of gauze and bandage, a few days off work in a painkillered haze and a lesson learned. Job's a good 'un.

A few weeks pass and the dressing comes off, revealing his newly foreshortened finger. I always envision is as resembling an uncooked Richmond 64% pork sausage - smooth, wanly pink and unwholesome-looking.

The getting-used-to of it proceeds as more time passes, and soon enough, it's just the way things are. Which is presumably what makes the gradual appearance and growth of a little fleshy nubbin at the end something of mild interest, rather than a potential cause for concern. It's probably also the reason why our hero feels no need to visit a doctor, even if just to put his mind at ease.

Who needs a doctor to tell him what's obvious? It's obviously the lost nail pushing its way back out. Obviously.

So he gets the nail clippers

pincers the nubbin between the blades

and snips

the nerve ending

clear through.

He wakes a full two days later in hospital, finger freshly bandaged. I like to think that a doctor is at his bedside, looking down, his expression an open book. A book with one enormous gatefold page, printed with the words YOU DAFT TWAT.
(, Thu 20 Jan 2011, 17:04, 13 replies)
How not to deal with infection
In the early 1930s, my great-grandma buggered off and disappeared and was never seen again. Having 13 kids, my grt-grandad couldn't cope, mainly due to stress and worry even after spending a small fortune on a firm of private detectives to track her down. The stress made him very ill and within a year he was dead. Within those 12 months however, a few of the kids moved in with my grandad who was one of the eldest and was already married, and the four youngest were taken into care, which in those days meant Barnardo's, the children's home.

One of the women in charge at that particular home was a slave-driving witch and would treat the place like a workhouse. She was truly evil it seems.

The youngest, my great-uncle Walter who was about 9 at the time was given the task of scouring the hearth of one of the fireplaces with some black lead and a handful of coarse wire-wool, which he had to finish before breakfast. Whilst he was doing this, a small length of swarf went right under his thumbnail. Not wanting to get into trouble by stopping his task, he pulled it out again with his teeth, and carried on, in tears.

His thumb throbbed all day, even though he had to do another four fireplaces and then go outside and wash all the windows, and you can imagine what that was like in November.

He hardly slept that night because of the pain, and the next morning most of the underneath of his thumbnail had become infected and gone black. The evil witch lady found him and gave him a bucket of water and a brush and told him to scrub the kitchen floor (or the scullery as it was called). He had been quietly sobbing all morning and putting his hand in the water was just too unbearable.
"I can't do it, my thumb hurts" he said.
"Where? And woe betide you if you're lying" said evil lady and she grabbed his hand and had a look. "Right, I'll fix that". She led him over to the stove and plunged his thumb in boiling water and held it there.

He said he screamed louder and longer than he ever has since, even when he was shot twice in the shin during the invasion of Germany. He was then strapped across the backside with a belt for making such a racket and then locked in a cupboard. A couple of hours later he was dragged out and sent to bed. His big-sister Beattie, who was about 12 found him still crying and bawling. Between the sobs, he told her what had happened and she gave him a big hug and said to wait there. She came back with the head of the house, a Mrs Morfitt, who looked at his thumb.

"Right, come with me." and she took him into town to the hospital where he thumb was treated properly. After this, they then went back to the home. On arrival, they sent for the evil lady. She came to find out what was going on. She saw Walter and shouted at him "What have you been saying? More lies I expect". Then she saw the two policemen Mrs Morfitt had brought back with her and then went quiet. One policeman sat with her whilst the other talked to Walter and then spoke to a number of other young boys who had all received similar treatment. Afterwards, the evil witch was then carted off and was never seen again.

He told me all this when I went to see him after he retired at 80 from his barber-shop which he opened in 1949. His thumb still bore the scars from that awful day even after 70 years.
(, Thu 20 Jan 2011, 15:51, 7 replies)
Definitely one to make the chaps cringe......
Many moons ago, when I was but a lad (about 18 and discovering the joys of inappropriateness with the leydees) I suffered from a condition called Phimosis - feel free to google it but it's basically a foreskin that is too tight to retract without causing pain and swelling.....

One evening, lubricated by a number of pints of the lunatic special at the Old Man and Scythe I managed to get lucky with a lady and managed to "do the deed". It hurt like hell but somehow the old fella managed to perform and all was good.

Until later that night. If you can imagine the scenario - the foreskin retracts but decides to shrink around my bellend. Basically I was priapic with a persistent erection and my helmet was turning an angry purple and getting larger. I managed to live with it for a few hours until the pain became too much to bear.

Now the object of my affection that evening was a nurse and thought (due to the effects of being shitfaced) that it would be a simple process to relieve the pressure until I could seek professional assistance. So we commenced the operation...

Nail scissors sterilised in a ligher flame, ice liberally applied to the offending area to numb the pain and the banjo string and the stubborn ring of foreskin around the base of the helmet is cut! I was very surprised how tough human flesh is, even in the most delicate of areas.....

All was good for about 30 seconds. The pressure subsided and things started to look normal then the pain decided to kick in together with copious blood flow. If didn't know I could bleed so much and live. It was everywhere, the sink, the bath, the floor, the bathmat, towels - you name it, it got a soaking.

We decided at that point that a trip to casualty was in order.....the member for Quimborough was wrapped in a towel and the ambulance was called.

It was worth the embarassment of the consultation as the next day I'd had an emergency circumcision and a few weeks later (once the stitches had disssolved/been picked out) I discovered the true joy of sex.

Absolutely true and the most painful thing I've ever encountered but worth it in the end.
(, Thu 20 Jan 2011, 13:09, 19 replies)
Time for my own entry
I haven't suffered from phimosis, never had a wart, and dealt with verrucas in the standard way. But as for dealing with ingrowing hairs... fuck me that's painful. Last one I pulled out from my neck was an inch long, oily and curled up. I called it my neck pube. Luckily, I took pictures, which tell the story far better than me:

(, Sun 23 Jan 2011, 19:36, 21 replies)
Melanoma misery.....
When I was 22 I discovered I had aquired a large malignant lump. Fairly unusual for a man at such a young age.

Being a man, and and just putting up with these things without seeking help as we do, I soldiered on for some 10 years, each year watching it grow in size, feeding off me and growing ever more nasty.

Anyway, one day I plucked up the courage and managed to excise it myself.

I still see her at the weekends though, when she drops the kids off.
(, Sat 22 Jan 2011, 18:44, 2 replies)
I tried to bazooka my verruca. All that happened was that I blew my leg off at the knee and got 6 years for possession and discharge of military ordnance without a licence from the Home Office and permission from the MOD.
(, Fri 21 Jan 2011, 12:40, Reply)
Fucking magnets, how do they work?
A few years ago I decided to try my hand at flint napping. My other half at the time suggested I do something sensible such as wear safety gloves/goggles lest a nasty razor sharp shard of flint decide to become one with my person. Naturally I ignored this and carried on regardless. After a while I was dissatisfied with my progress, and, not following the simple logic that iron is softer than flint, decided to go at it with a lump hammer. *Something* broke off and sliced my finger open, which bled profusely. It was some weeks before I realised I had something lodged deep, deep inside there. The doctor wouldn't operate as it would apparently work it's way out eventually, but just completely disable my right index finger until it did. It was some years before I was able to get it out, and I discovered my method of surgery purely by accident. The *something* inside my finger was actually magnetic! I spent days at a time at my desk in the office with a hard drive magnet slowly teasing the mysterious object from my finger, until one day it tore through the surface, I pulled out a small cresent-shaped shard of lump hammer from my finger, leaving a strangely not bleeding hole visible all the way to the bone, and the greatest feeling of satisfaction I've ever felt.
(, Thu 20 Jan 2011, 17:19, 5 replies)
A friend of mine, at a party...
...decided to take his bean bag apart.

Lots of little pellets of polystyrene everywhere. Lots of fun having indoor snowball fights and generally drunkenly cocking about.

Until I got a bean in my ear.

Right deep down in my ear.

Couldn't get it out with a finger. Couldn't get it out with pliers.
I'm now completely deaf in that ear as various methods of removal only succed in pushing it further in.

Braninwave. Out comes the Dyson. Hose attachement.

Socket it into my ear, nod, and the power comes on.

Took me two weeks for my ear to stop ringing so I could tell if the process had worked or not.

It had. Dysons are noisy!
(, Mon 24 Jan 2011, 19:49, 4 replies)
She was only a farmer's daughter but she could bang like a barn door
I was 22 and fresh out of uni when I met Barbara - I was between jobs and picked up some casual labouring work on her dad's farm that summer. She was your original English Rose - she'd done Finishing School, Chalet Girl stuff, the works - thick as shit but with tits you just wanted to bury your head in. She was back living at home after a failed engagement, I think she was about ten years older than me . We'd got chatting over a cup of tea and she made it clear she was up for a quick roll in the hay…well, I thought it was that she was after but it turned out that dear old Babs was a bit of a connoisseur when it came to 'unusual' sexual practices. Not perhaps every young man's dream, maybe a few nightmares….but fuck me, she was a goer. One night in the barn she'd told me about how she'd done a Rebecca Loos when she was in her teens (if you don't know what I'm talking about - Google it) but that was fairly normal on a livestock farm - everyone had to pitch in and ….lend a hand…

So, one evening all the farm work was done, her dad had retired to the house to get pissed on gin and Babs came out to bring me a beer as I finished up on the tractor. "I'm not wearing any knickers, you know" was her opening gambit - I almost lost the top of my finger as the screwdriver I was using slipped. She took the tool out of my hand, dropped it to the floor of the shed and then placed her manicured fingers onto the crotch of my oily jeans. A sharp intake of breath from me and then I almost burst out laughing as she said, "Come on big boy, show me your tool. " In minutes she was over the workshop bench, skirt around her waist and my cock pounding away like a steamroller's pistons.

She repeated this every day for about a week and then things began to turn - which is where the 'surgery' comes in….

We'd fucked everywhere around the farm whenever we could - I'd shot coils of hot white man fat all over her amazing tits, I'd rammed my lamb cannon (thank you Pooflake for that one!) up her Gary in the middle of a field in the midday sun and she'd bounced up and down as the vicar drove past at dusk. There was nothing she wouldn't do…or hadn't tried. And then she started to say how she fancied be a Dom to my Sub. I'd got a balaclava but I told her it was a bit warm for that. But no, that's not what she wanted…

So that's how I found myself stark bollock naked in the hay barn tied to an old cartwheel like some perverted early Christian martyr as she spanked my hairy arse with a lump of 4x2, cock and balls slapping in the wind and Babs stopping every so often to slide her meaty fingers into her drizzling clunge and moan about Colin fucking Firth. When she finally stopped moaning about wanting to bugger Darcy with a horse's cock she untied me and pushed me onto the hay bales. Babs had slightly bucked teeth which grazed my balls gently as she sucked and slobbered like a day old calf but that all helped to make me harder than the average Young Farmer on market day. As she slid down my throbbing pork sword and ploughed her own furrow deep and hard my delicate arse was taking a pounding from something sticking in the bales.

The lump of 4x2 that she'd spanked me with was grinding into my reddening cheeks and even managing to send sneaky splinters into my hairy dark hole where the barking spider lives. The strange thing is that rather than making me cry out in pain - and it was fucking painful - this was adding to the frisson. Her huge dark brown nipples were hypnotising me as they jiggled in front of my eyes and her deep crimson pocket gripped and slicked my own seed drill in a way that would have made Jethro Tull's eyes water. When at last I exploded baby butter deep inside her and she moaned like a ewe having a hard shit and only then did the pain begin. It was like I'd had a rusty cheese grater shave the hair on my arse. I turned over and Babs began the painful DIY surgery - she removed every fucking one of the huge splinters that were embedded deeply into each cheek. I almost cried with pain as each one was dragged out gripped tightly between her perfect French manicured nails - the only thing that stopped me was Babs - her nose just like a truffle hunting piglet, she finished up by giving the rusty sheriff's badge a thorough lick.

I had to stop seeing her then though - she gave me ringworm.
(, Wed 26 Jan 2011, 16:17, 22 replies)

i sneezed so hard my eyes popped out and the stalks got tangled so I bit them off and stuck my eyes back in but they were upside down so i had to rip my legs off and put them on the top of my head
(, Fri 21 Jan 2011, 8:19, 2 replies)
Foreign Body Removal - or - Clagnuts Delight - Revisited...
t seems some re-posts are happening. Bandwaggon time - only now I have less shame - More details I think.


I was around the age of 13 that I grew my first pubic hair. It came as a shock. I had a calm and sheltered childhood, and as the concept of hair in wierd places was asociated with dirtyness, I thought it was nasty: so I used to shave it all off. Yes, you can laugh, but noone had told me I was supposed to get hairy there, and I was damned if I was going to ask my mum about anything so filthy.

Anyhow... I had never even thought that my arse was going to get hairy. It never got shaved, and I never adapted my wiping style.

Life rolled on, and before too long I found that my arse seemed to be inadvertently featuring in a b-movie script for "The Attack Of The Clagnuts". Being a Lad of regular diet, and a creature of habit, my wiping style had sufficed for many years, but my arse was NEVER prepared for the combination of good fiberous stoolage coupled with the tenacity of anal hair. Richard O'Brian has been heard to utter confessions of jealousy regarding the lucious density of the afore-mentioned pubic garden...

Moving on Swiftly... My displeasure grew with time. Remember at school when you grew Copper Sulphate Crystals around a tampon string? Well, I figured it had been something along those lines.

It took a year before I investigated the source of my iritation: No less than four serious clag-nuts.... each only the size of a pea, but hard, calcified and causing blisters with the level of irritation that they had yeilded. It's possible that they were not a year old themselves and were just the latest crop - none the less they were there and they *had* to go.

Crouching over a mirror with a pair of scissors, I attemted to take aim and get a good view. No dice.
I tried bending over forwards with the mirror behind me.... that wasn't going to work. Dammit.
I eventually lay on my back, knees up and craning my neck to get a good view... with a mirror balanced on a pillow between my feet, and an angle-poise desk lamp nonchalantly leaning over as if to get a good view.
The positioning was perfect for the job, aside from one thing: My tackle. It kept on literally ballsing up the view. If I shifted one way or the other, it'd flop into the way like a disgtuntled teenage sock-puppet. Shit.. this operation was becoming more and more complex.

Eventually I got a school tie, tied it around my boy-hood, and pulled gently. Sorted: A silken cock-restraint. So.. where was I... oh yes. I started fishing around with the scissors, but couldn't get it right - I was risking arse-damage of a new kind: I was going to need two hands. Gripping the end of the tie between my teeth, holding a single clagnut with one marigold-gloved hand, and snipping with the scissors, Sorted.

It took me a couple of minutes and I was down to the last one... and then my mum walked in on me. I tried to yelp "it's not what you think" but through clenched teeth and silk it probably didn't come out right. She left instantly, and never mentioned it again.... though my dad did look at me in a funny when when the dog next licked my fingers.


Out of sheer morbid curiosity, I kept the removed tag-nuts. Later on in life they were stored with my cufflinks.

Even later on my Fiancé found them and asked what they were.
Now my un-witting Ex-Fiance wears them on a necklace under the dillusion that they are rare evidence of the existance of a specific type of Australian bat.

Nicola, You're wearing a Teenager's calcified clagnuts around your neck.

(, Wed 26 Jan 2011, 14:40, 15 replies)
There was this
MOD EDIT: I've told you before to stop posting pictures of your genitals on B3ta, if you do it again we will delete your user account.
(, Sun 23 Jan 2011, 10:55, 5 replies)
There are only two tools you need - WD40 and gaffer tape.
If it moves, and shouldn't - gaffer tape.

If it doesn't move, and should - WD40.

Brute force and ignorance solves all problems eventually.
(, Thu 20 Jan 2011, 13:27, 17 replies)
The regimental MO was a butcher.
He had owned a rundown meat emporium on the wrong side of Essex before the war. Understandably the men went to any length to avoid coming under his care. Before long it became apparent the best course of action was to shoot off any injured body part. Fingers & toes were removed with a Webley .38, hands and feet with a Lee Enfield. Cartwright, the best shot in the regiment, was much in demand and would often be found Bren gunning the Hottentots by way of practice.
Of course Cartwright himself had shot off his own knob after catching a dose, though the rumour was it had been chewed off by angry Subaltern.
(, Fri 21 Jan 2011, 12:36, 2 replies)
The Hamster
My friend had a hamster which developed some sort of massive cyst thing on it's back. He had bought the hamster on the cheap at the local pet shop so when confronted with a massive vet's bill to remove this cyst he baulked at the cost. He decided to take it home and to put it out of his misery himself. This being a Friday we were all due at his house for some evening drinking and upon arriving were all relayed his tale of woe.

After ingesting some alcohol some intelligent debate ensued and it was unanimously decided by a belligerent Dave (name changed from Mike) that we could pop the cyst ourselves with a small blade which would be infinitely more humane than killing it outright. After all, besides the massive cyst he seemed outwardly happy. In doing so we'd save on the massive vets bill and indeed save the rodents life. It seemed like a reasonable argument albeit one that made me wince.

Obviously the hamster would need some sort of sedative so we located a sleeping pill and cut it into a bite sized chunk. This ended up being a quarter of a nytol. So hammy was force fed the pill and we sipped on our beers and waited...and waited...waited. Half an hour later there was clearly nothing happening. In fact if anything the animal looked more perky than ever. He was out and about and had even managed a long'ish stint on the wheel.

Right, nothing for it. We'll increase the dosage. So we popped in another quarter and waited...and waited...and waited. And still nothing. The petulant fucker wouldn't pass out. Over one hour had elapsed since the ingestion of the first quarter and he was still going strong.

So we commenced dosage number 3. The Final 2 quarters. And to aid the ingestion a small squirt of vodka was administered. We did some rough calculations and worked out that the vodka would have been more or less the same as a human consuming about a quarter of a bottle.

So after a whole nytol and a quarter bottle of vodka you'd expect some sort of drowsiness in the hardy animal, but alas no. Simon, as this was his Christian name, was more frisky than ever. He was darting between his house, the wheel and the various obstacle courses in his manor while resolutely sticking two fingers up at the sedatives coursing through his little veins.

Since this was essentially a life or death situation we were dealing with we decided to go ahead with the procedure regardless. When I say 'we' I actually mean Dave. And when I say 'go ahead' I actually mean he just picked up the small blade and walked towards Simon and said, "Come here you little fucker!!".

I'll spare you the gruesome details of what happened next, but suffice to say the whole operation was an unqualified success and he made a full recovery. Simon lived for a further 12 months after that and died a natural death. The kind of natural death where you come home to say hello to your little friend only to discover he's cold, not moving and his mouth is slightly ajar. I'm sure he would have wanted it this way rather than suffering the indignity of dying with a large cyst on his back.
(, Mon 24 Jan 2011, 10:40, 5 replies)
You'll not like this one
Many years ago I was a proud owner of a Prince Albert in my winkey.
Once in a while it was good to take it out for a clean. To give it a scrape if you like.

If you don't know how a PA works, imagine a C shaped bit of metal (the ring part) which threads a hole made in your cock and out your japs eye. This C ring holds a metal ball (the ball has indents in, giving it a place to be held).

Anyway to open it up and take it out, you get some pliers and stretch the metal C open. The ball falls out leaving a gap to unthread it from your chap.

To put it back in, you thread it back, hold the ball in place and use pliers to crimp it back down. It takes a bit of effort.

However, one time the ring slipped and I ended up clamping down on about 0.5mm of my bell end. On the underside fish gill shaped part. I hit the fucking roof and the blood was everywhere. So much so that I couldn't see how much damage I'd done at the time. Lucky only about two pixels worth of rip; but the amount of blood was a bit worrying. I felt a bit giddy and sat on the floor for a good while.

I think that trumps most of the stories here.

Length, still the same amount thankfully. The lesson - never use pliers on your cock! whoda funk it!?!
(, Fri 21 Jan 2011, 14:22, 17 replies)
Dad, His Eyeball, and The Amazing Outback Nurse
My dad emigrated to Australia from Germany in the 60s. Being largely unskilled, he was sent to work on the railroad in the outback.

They used kerosene lanterns for lighting. One night, such a thing blew up in close proximity to one of dad's eyeballs, which was sliced open by an errant shard of glass.

They were many, many miles from any hospital, and the only medical person available was the camp nurse. They got dad extremely drunk, for want of anaesthesia (he was good at that, so this was the easy bit).

There was a barbed wire fence nearby that horses would come and get bits of their tails caught in. The nurse retrieved one such tail hair, boiled it and sewed up dad's eyeball with it.

The eye was saved, though dad, forever after, looked like he had two pupils in the one eye as a result of this mishap and subsequent impromptu embroidery. I thought it was very cool.

Not my story, I guess, but I thought the nurse deserved a mensh for her DIY resourcefulness.
(, Fri 21 Jan 2011, 10:11, Reply)
Home dental surgery with a screwdriver.
I had a small hole in my gum that I think I caused by accidentally stabbing myself in the mouth at some point. It was really sore, so I decided to try and cut through the lower bit of gum, exposing a bit more of the tooth and basically making the gumline on that one tooth a little higher.

I decided a flathead screwdriver would be the best tool for the job (because knives are dangerous...), so I put it against the gum at an angle, steeled myself, and then smacked the bottom of it like I was chiselling away at a piece of stone or something.

To say it hurt like fuck would be a massive understatement, and it seemed to bleed for hours.

About 6 years later on, it healed fine and the desired result was achieved in that my gums look perfectly normal, albeit one tooth has a slightly higher gumline than the rest.

For those of you that are wondering, this definitely makes my top ten list of "The Stupidest Things I Have Ever Done".

I'd be happy to give a full rundown of that list if anyone cares.
(, Thu 20 Jan 2011, 12:41, 6 replies)
My dad, manly man that he is.
Has a scar four inches long and about 2½ inches wide on his right lower abdomen.

It was a field appendectomy performed in Vietnam in 1974. They were not able to medevac him, so one of his squadmates cut him open while the others held him down and shut him up. They packed it full of gauze, finished their mission, and went back.

Dad got three weeks leave to recover and a slight morphine addiction.
(, Mon 24 Jan 2011, 16:46, 2 replies)
the ol' brush off
Dan was a bloke i met at college. he was one of a group of 8 of us who would have lunch together every day, before heading off to the pub. Dan was very fond of cheese, crusty bread, potatoes....in short, any foods pretty much guaranteed to give him chronic constipation.
as a result of straining to remove his constant bum-blockages, Dan ended up with a very painful crop of piles. he didn't want to tell us at first(i don't blame him), but it soon became apparent that there was a problem with his poop-chute.
we all tried to convince him to go to the doctor, but Dan was far too ashamed of his anal neighbours to go, so he just put up with them. before long, though, the pain just became too much to bear and Dan realised something had to be done.
now, Dan had an older sister with a young child, whom she was trying to wean off his bottle. this meant there was plenty of baby-type gubbins being thrown away, including a bottle brush. being the type that comes up with absolutely stunning plans whilst stoned, Dan decided the bottle brush would be just the job for evicting his rectal tenants. as he told us much later, he drank the best part of a bottle of jack daniels, before girding his loins and shoving the bottle brush where the sun don't shine, hoping to pop his piles and have them shrink down to raisins.
obviously, this didn't work. if Dan thought he had trouble sitting comfortably before his botched bumjob, he was wrong. he was now in such agony that within 2 days, his pain had won over his embarrassment and he took his now infected piles to the hospital for treatment.
after 3 days in hospital and unspecified treatment, Dan was allowed home, sore but wiser.
i went to visit him in the hospital, as did several of our other friends. Dan wasn't as amused by my gift as i was, unfortunately.
it was a bunch of grapes ;)
(, Sun 23 Jan 2011, 18:49, 1 reply)
My combined answer to the QOTW's for the year so far.
My girlfriend is a stunning brunette with massive norks who could be a model in Nuts or Zoo only she is too classy for that so she’s a nurse. Anyway, she has a habit of bringing a clean uniform home and wearing it around the house when her equally attractive and busty French cousin, who is a maid, would come and stay with us as a guest.

Only last week her busty cousin was staying with us at our penthouse mansion in 1960’s Dallas. The missus was wearing her nurse uniform and her cousin was wearing her French maid uniform and they were both cooking my dinner whilst I was writing a workable peace plan for the middle east whilst simultaneously solving the Goldbach conjecture.

Anyway, we had steak, egg and chips with little corn on the cob things and mushrooms. It was really nice especially the steak. I had mustard on mine.

The next day the girlfriend was complaining of feeling constipated from eating too much steak the night before. Being the shy type she didn’t want to go to the chemist so asked me if I knew a home cure.
I had a good think about it and came to the conclusion that if I shagged her hard enough up the Gary then that would loosen her up and make her feel better.

My girlfriend, who is a nurse, then remembered reading something similar during her medical studies so she hitched up her uniform and I went in dry so to make less mess, as she had already washed the sheets that week.

30 minutes later and I was done so I Zorro'd on her tits then hit a couple of last runs up her shoot to make sure. This fixed her nicely and she then happily went off for a poo.

I needed a wee after my Herculean lovemaking so scurried off to the other bathroom. Whilst there I had trouble pissing, looking down I noticed a bit of sweetcorn stuck up my jappy!

I called to the missus and told her about the corn and she told me to go see her cousin as she had a cracking pair of pipes and could probably suck it out.
So I toddled off in the nip to see her cousin. When I got there I found her diddling herself whilst looking at photographs of me winning the world cup.
I explained my problem and she readily agreed to help and started to slobber down expertly on my nob. 40 minutes later I spuffed really hard shooting the piece of cob out of the window and hitting some bloke sat in the back of a convertible in the head. I don’t think he was happy about that!

Anyway, I turned back to the French cousin and splooged another line across her pendulous jugs, slapped her on the arse and went off to watch the cricket.
(, Fri 21 Jan 2011, 15:47, 10 replies)
why DIY surgery on ingrown toenails is NOT a good idea. (pics in replies)
i had ingrown toenails on both feet. i was a: a massive wuss about doctors, and b: too skint and in a job where two weeks off was not a viable option, and no shoes/open toed sandals was NOT an option.
so i tried to fix them myself.
firts cut out the offending bit, cotton wool under. no dice. repeat ad nauseum. no dice, getting WORse. then the v-shaped notch. little buggers were doing their best to become subterranean toenails, like some kind of hideous fleshy spelunking expedition they burrowed nto my poor beleaguered big toes, making walking, running etc painful. eventually after a couple of years of battling, i gave up, and two years ago went to the doc to get them sorted.
as a result of my incompetence and reluctance to be treated, i had to have both taken out and the nail beds cauterised.
to give you a run down, the procedure goes as follows.

swab foot
inject bare minimum anaesthetic to stop me squealing (this time taking into account the supposedly abnormal 'extra nerve' i seem to have in both toes, meaning an extra needleful of stuff per toe- go me!)
ram somethign that resembles a tiny pitchfork up under the nail, using small hammer.
hack/tear nail out at root
liberally slather nail bed with phenolic acid
allow to burn completely through all layers of skin and nail bed

now the nails were well and truly infected when i went in, so i asked about antibiotics. the nurse told me, no, no antibiotics, we only use them when infection develops. so they send me home, with strict instructions to bathe and re-dress the nails daily with saline solution.
now, peeling bandages off a raw nail bed is a whole other level of pain. i'm pretty god with pain, bike crashes, tattoos, burns etc. this was somethign else. the throbbing was supposed to stop after a day or so.
it didn't
it got worse
my toes reached the size and colour of victoria plums, complete with custrd topping, at which point i returned to the doctors and they went 'oh good lord, you need antibiotics (facepalm)
i ended up having to wear crocs for six weeks because it was all i could get to fit over the dressings. i had daily pain for eight to ten weeks,m and couldn't wear normal shoes and socks for twelve weeks. i now have no big toenails.
all this could have been avoided if i'd gone to the doctors at the start instead of fucking about trying to be a hero.
click on replies at your own risk, it ain't pretty, trust me.
smelt like off meat too
(, Fri 21 Jan 2011, 11:10, 14 replies)
DIY dentistry
A couple of weeks before my 21st birthday, I started getting a dull ache in my jaw - I dismissed it as my wisdom teeth settling in and thought nothing more of it, despite the pain getting steadily worse. I was in the midst of planning the mother of all piss ups and nothing was going to stand in my way.

About a week before the big day, I noticed that the area around one of my wisdom teeth was a bit red and swollen. I did what any self-respecting man does, and gave it a good poke.

As any self-respecting man knows, you should never give it a good poke.

Erm, the nicest way I can put this is that it sort of... burst. I'm not really sure what I thought I was going to achieve by poking it, but I'm pretty certain that it wasn't the sensation and image in the mirror of my tongue lolling about on a sea of pus like someone sitting in a bath of custard for Children in Need.

The next 15 mins was spent intermittently vomiting then vigorously scrubbing and re-scrubbing my teeth to get the taste out my mouth. Imagine Barrymore trying to clean his poolside before the cops came and you're getting there. I went to the dentist and he explained that I had a fairly large infection under the tooth, and gave me antibiotics. Unfortunately the one he gave me was metronidazole, which was about to shit all over my birthday. See, this stuff doesn't go well with alcohol. At all. It reacts with booze in kinda the same way as the drug they treat alcoholism with, so when you drink you get nausea, vomiting, racing pulse, flushes etc (but without the pleasure of actually being riotously pissed in between). So I decided to take matters into my own hands.

At the time, I was working in a lab where we regularly used a lot of sterile needles and syringes so I swiped a few and nabbed a bit of neat alcohol too.

I'm not quite sure what the cleaner thought when she saw me injecting pure ethanol into my gums, or what she made of my panicked "please don't tell the boss - I'm not mainlining booze, I'm not a tramp, let me prove it to you" explanation by squeezing my gum at her, which by now looked like a small apple wearing a tooth for a hat. The upshot is that as a result of shooting ethanol into my gum, the infection cleared in a day or two and I never needed the antibiotics, and with a mouth that no longer resembled a whore's fanny, I got pissed as a lord on my 21st! Yay!

Unfortunately Xmas and new year were fucked as the infection came back a couple of weeks later leading to two of my wisdom teeth being pulled the week before Xmas, and the other two being done a week later just in time for new year. Fuckhammers.
(, Thu 20 Jan 2011, 21:05, 1 reply)
Not me, a mate, but eeeuuurrgghhhh nooooo...
Now my mate Nige is prone to the odd incident here and there - there's the cat-rustproofing episode, the brake-fluid-vomiting session, the welding-explosion-and-foot-injury-plus-finger-crush-and-garage-fire combo breaker and regular smaller bouts of misfortune (gear oil bread being the latest).

So, when he recently managed to get a shard of hot metal in his thumb so deep it was stuck in the bone of his thumb, did he take himself off to the doctors to have it sorted?

Of course not - out with the iodine, razor blades and wife's eyelash tweezers and let the pus and blood flow!

As you may imagine, this did not in fact end happily and has become an ongoing saga / burden on the NHS.

I shan't cut-and-paste as quite frankly I am not a fan of stories of home or any other surgery, so I shall post the link and warn you NOT TO CLICK IF YOU ARE EATING YOUR TEA.

Full story from the man:
"my cunning plan was to have sue pull on the string, whilst I held my thumb under water to wash the blood away, and rummage with tweezers"

Yes, we are compiling a book of his exploits. No, really.
(, Wed 26 Jan 2011, 0:22, 3 replies)
like alien only smaller
I had something of an idyllic childhood. My father was an environmental journalist and most of my holidays were spent running around some of the wildest and most beautiful places in Africa. After a long weekend exploring the deep dark coastal forests of Bhanga Nek I noticed a lump on my arm. Being no stranger to insect bites I just left it. Tuesday morning, sitting in maths, my arm really starts to itch. I scratch it absentmindedly and feel this odd "popping sensation". I look down and to my horror all these little larvae are crawling down my arm. Cue hysterical horror from classmates (and I must admit me too). Promptly marched off to Matron who calmly doused it in meths and then covered it with vaseline. One of the yuckier experiences of my childhood :)
(, Mon 24 Jan 2011, 8:16, 4 replies)
Handy tooth
Chris was a bit lary in college (Brighton Poly, late 80s) and would sometimes get into fights. One night Jacqui and me had managed to get home ok from the boozer/nightclub and were sitting around smoking weed and talking bollocks, as you do, when Chris stumbled in, clearly three sheets to the wind.
He'd continued to get even more tanked up on snakebite & black, and managed to pick a fight with someone far harder than he was (or at least, more sober). His right hand was swollen and red where the mammoth haymaker he'd launched had missed its target and clumped right into a wall. And his left eyebrow was grown to a size that would have impressed all the Neanderthal girls where his would-be target has fetched him a good 'un in reply.
Dr Shiny to the rescue!! Well, ok, not exactly a doctor, but a year one pass in BSc Pharmacy's gotta count for something, right? *hic*
So I cradle his damaged hand in mine, and ask if he can move his fingers. Barely perceptible millimetres of movement ensue so, just to be thorough, I grab hold of a finger before his drink-dulled reflexes can pull his hand away, and start bending and flexing it.
"Does this hurt, Chris?"
"Ow. A bit."
"As much as it did before? More? Or less?"
"About the same"
"Aha!" says Dr Shiny. "This means it can't be broken, because if it was you wouldn't be able to move it at all, and if I did it for you it'd hurt much more! You'll be fine, mate! Now, lemme have a look at that face..."
At which point, for some reason, Chris decided he'd come over all tired and wanted to be off to his bed.
the next morning, at breakfast, Chris came into the Halls refectory with his right hand in plaster up to the elbow.


Signing on with my new dentist in Bristol, I was pleased to find she was a fit brunette. Even more pleasing, she reckoned she knew why I kept getting toothache in the one place (right upper premolar) and, with a quick bit of root canal surgery, she'd be able to see me right.
I should have known it would be trouble when the anaesthetic injections proved about as effective as a homeopath's stash. She's digging around in my jawbone with what looks like a miniature bottle brush, while I'm in a flop sweat gripping the chair like it's made of marshmallow.
After a subsequent week of sleepless nights and more or less constant agony, and fearing the thought of going back to see the same dentist/torturer, I walked into the local offie with grim determination, bought a bottle of scotch, went back to my flat, sought out my pliers, and set about getting pissed enough to pluck up the courage to yank out the jagged shards of agony she'd left sticking out of my gums.
The scotch didn't dull the pain at all. I managed to get a couple of bits out over six or seven attempts, in between reeling round the flat in blind agony. The pliers didn't so much pull out the stumps of tooth as crush the bits that were sticking out of the gum, leaving lots of blood to spurt out all over the landlord's carpet.
After a day or two the pain subsided, but it was another two years before I could face another dentist.
Between the brunette's incompetence and my drunken self-mutilation - oh, and the abscess that she'd completely missed which had been the cause of the pain all along - the tooth was so badly damaged that even the fantastic Nigerian bloke in South Acton that eventually cleaned it up couldn't do much more than take out the remaining bits and allow the abscess to drain.

I've still got a gap there now.
(, Thu 20 Jan 2011, 15:52, 7 replies)

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