Escape from the clutches of the gunge-creature from crabsville.
A few months ago, after a night of partaking in some rather heavy drinking, I found what appeared to be an abandoned, yet unopened, bottle of beer at closing time. Being a good citizen, I didn't want it to go to waste, so decided to find a home for it.

It was around this time that the planets aligned, opening a portal to hell which I almost fell through, for I found myself sitting on the steps outside with a..... no, THE local scutter. To give you an idea, a friend of mine told me the following day that he saw me outside with Keith Lemon

Never having given me a second glance before, had I been capable of sentient thought I'd probably have thought I was safe. Also, I'm usually pretty useless with the ladies (no matter how loose the term may be).

I opened the beer, only to discover someone had emptied some gin into the bottle and resealed it. This was starting to look bad.

In a smooth move Terry Thomas would be proud of, I said "D'ye like gin? I think this is gin. Here..... have some gin!" She downed half the bottle. Something in my brain stirred and I stood up to leave, then I glanced downward to see a hand appear between my legs, grab my clackers gently but firmly and drag me back to a seated position. "You're not going anywhere" she purred/growled as she clamped a claw around my head.

I could suddenly taste gin. Being pissed and evidently being snogged to within an inch of my life, I should have been happy, yet something was troubling me. Then I remembered that several of my friends had, well, "been there" so to speak. Tales of immediate and intensive courses of antibiotics, invasive investigative procedures to the winky-hole and one horrific story of green gunge which I won't even repeat suddenly came flooding back into my brain as I realised what I was doing.

I recoiled with a loud intake of breath and what I imagine must have been a look of abject horror on my face, but she was clamped on and, oddly, began making a sort of whiny noise. I only managed to wrestle myself free by repeatedly saying the words "No, you're a married woman. You're a married woman! YOU'RE A MARRIED WOMAN!" over and over until she let my head go. She briefly tried to get me to go home with her, but I spotted my friends in the distance and made a sharp exit.

It didn't dawn on me until the hangover cleared the next evening that she is, in fact, not married at all. It's amazing what you'll cry out in a blind panic.
( baw__bag contains traces of nuts on, Thu 26 Aug 2010, 2:53, Reply)