The Tena for Women Assesment Test - (TWAT for short)
Whilst having a conversation with one of my friends whilst 'slightly' inebriated, we were interupted by the TV advert for Tena lady pads. Being men, drunk and probably too immature for our age men, we started discussing the possible efficacy of these magical pads.

After an extensive discussion, we decided that it would be of great benefit to women, and maybe men, the world over if we experimented with them just to see how much pee they could actually hold before what we dubbed 'total urinary containment failre' occurred.

Very soon after this decision to test the pads was made, the experiment was designed.


Method
======
Basically myself and my friend had a pee at the same time (not literally, thats just wrong) and ensured we didn't drink anything for at least 6 hours so we were 'empty' - then based on the fact that the bladder will only hold around a pint (ish) we both drank 600ml of water. We then obtained a box of Tena lady pads and tossed a coin to see who would wear the pads (the other would be the control.)

I won the toss so decided to wear the pad - a bold and clever decision so I thought. So I placed the pad into my undercrackers and waited until we were both bursting for the loo.

The time came - we were nervous - we knew that there was no real way to quantify the test, so we would judge the result by two things: size of pee patch on control vs tena pad and amount of time taken for pee patch to form.

We stood in front of the mirror, me with my pad and my mate with nothing for protection. Then we counted down.


3



2



1





PISS!



We both started. It felt warm and uncomfortable and the patches on our jeans were growing uncontrollably. After what seemed like an eternity - the wee flow ceased. Both of us COVERED in our own piss looking like we had a map of russia on our jeans.


Results
=======
Epic failure for the tena pad. It seems if you leak more than a thimble full of liquid onto them, you lose containment. More importantly - the realisation that we were standing in a room and had just pissed ourselves dawned on us. Then I realised that not only was I covered in hot piss, I had a damn incontinence pad in my pants...


Conclusion
==========
We learn't that Tena lady pads will NOT contain an entire wee and that we are both clearly imbaciles of the HIGHEST order.


(NOTE: this is my first post - be kind!)
(Spangulum nailing your mother since 1824, Thu 24 Jul 2008, 13:05, 11 replies)

Home alone
mum and dad are at a wedding... gone for hours

Brothers are away on holiday...

after 3 hr of casual masturbation, i decided to make the most of the empty house..

what did i do?

Microwave a poo...

not a good idea... the house stunk sooo bad...

how did i fix it? well i couldnt, so i deliberatley burn some paper just so i could get the blame for something alot less offensive..

we got rid of the microwave shortly after because it didnt smell right.
(Dan dan dan They tik urh jerbs!!!, Fri 25 Jul 2008, 22:40, 8 replies)

Scat cat
Question: What will happen if I swing my grandparents cat by its back legs?

Answer: I will get covered in shit.
( stopmeandslapme Cometh the hour, cometh your mum, Thu 24 Jul 2008, 14:58, 4 replies)

B&Q Tannoy System and Customer Experiments
I spent a while working in B&Q in Sutton whilst in the 6th form. After a particularly boring Saturday morning, me and one of the section managers started trying customer experiments with the tannoy system. The first announcement was:

"Will the man with the beard come to reception please"

Classic. Eight blokes with various styles of beard turn up. We tell them none of them are the right one. Next announcement:

"Will the man with the beard who looks like The Master from Doctor Who come to reception please"

Very hard to keep a straight face at this stage. Two more customers turn up at reception (one of whom had come up on the previous announcement - but thought he might look a bit like The Master). Both told despite having a passing resemblance to The Master (and beards), they are not the droids we are looking for.

Carried on this game for some time, including some crackers like:

"Will the customer who has left an mechanised automaton in the car park please come to reception"

Three people turned up "in case" ????

"Will the lady in the short skirt and high heels please come to reception"

"Will the owner of the mobility scooter currently on fire in the car park come to reception"

One petrified granny turns up on a zimmer. (felt guilty about this one)

Anyway, we got away with it for several hours till the store manager got wind of it. He went mental.

Not really much about experiments I suppose.
(Mandrill, Thu 31 Jul 2008, 2:39, 8 replies)

Mind control
The human mind is a subtle and delicate thing, and putting it in front of 120 psychology students and expecting them not to tear the wings off to see how it flies is an act of stunning naivety. Still, every year people choose to put themselves in the firing line and try to lecture the little bastards. And boy, were we bastards.

The greatest experiment we ever tried was inspired by Pavlov. Reasoning that the dogs didn't have to consciously reason that the bell meant food was coming, I figured that the same should be true of humans. All I needed was a victim, a lecture theatre full of like-minded bastards and a way of keeping score.

The like-minded bastards were easy to find, and I had an opportunity to recruit them fairly early on in the term when a lecturer failed to show. This gave me the opportunity to take to the front and launch the grand experiment.

The question I asked them was simple - just as Pavlov made dogs salivate when they heard a bell, could we make a lecturer sweat when she thought a lecture was going well?

Obviously we couldn't measure a lecturer's sweat directly, unless one of us was prepared to seduce the luckless victim and take regular swabs - and even our flexible moral code drew the line at this. Instead we reasoned that the closer the victim was to the radiator at the side of the lecture theatre, the more they'd be sweating. Simple.

Thus the game began. When the lecturer moved towards the radiator, we leant forward and tried to look interested. When the victim moved away, we sat back and started getting distracted. The first couple of lectures were agony - trying to look as absorbed as possible whilst 120 people all try to stifle giggles because you once stood up and suggested something stupid - is nearly impossible.

After a month, my records show, the lecturer was spending 64% of her time within about 10m of the radiator. Within three months we'd got that to within 90% and we were pushing her more and more often into the 5m zone - a position so ludicrously uncomfortable that she couldn't actually see her own slides. By the end of the year we actually managed to get her to collapse with heat exhaustion after some clever bastard (not me, sadly) thought to bribe the caretaker to put the heating on full blast for two hours in the middle of summer (for "servicing", apparently) - we had conditioned her so well that she was unable to move out of the swiftly christened "death zone".

I guess this doesn't qualify for a pointless experiment as it taught me quite a lot. For example, if you're humping a radiator to get attention, you're best off getting a new job for the sake of your health. It also taught me that subtle mind-control techniques are amazingly effective. Now you will send me all your money.

(No apologies for length, because it was clearly enough to fuck at least one mind. No apologies for not naming lecturer nor university - but we told the new undergrads the secret and I like to think they've passed it on so that she's still there, hugging the radiator. Imagine the damage it'd cause if she realised the reason behind her addiction to Hammerite?)
(psd eats stuff. Often., Thu 24 Jul 2008, 20:32, 4 replies)

An Experiment in Gender Double-Standards
Like most men, I have often asked my girlfriends (past and present) the very important question, 'do I have a big cock?' and the common response always seems to be, word for word, 'Yours is the second biggest that I've ever had, and the only one that I had which was bigger than yours was too big, it hurt, and I didn't like it.'
I've heard that exact same line, verbatim, from at least three women.
So, it got me wondering, aside from the obvious, 'Do women all sit around, discussing this stuff, and coming up with ways of appeasing their insecure partners?' and 'God I wish mine was so big that it hurt. Sometimes.' I wondered whether a woman would be insecure about something similar, if the shoe was on the other foot.

You see, men are renowned for being egotistical, over-sensitive and downright silly about the size of their penises, whereas I've met very few women who even care at all about how tight they might be down there.

So, to the experiment, I was going to repeat the line that I'd heard from so many women, including my current partner, back at her, with certain aspects reversed, obviously.

After Mrs Sexmonkey and I had engaged in another one of our now legendary, acrobatic, marathon-esque sex sessions, we collapsed on the bed,

'Wow,' says I, 'I swear, you have the second tightest p*ssy that I've ever felt in my life.'

A look of horror, shock, disgust, revulsion and disbelief spread across Mrs Sexmonkey's face.

'Oh, don't worry though, the tighter one was too tight, I didn't like it at all, it actually hurt a little.' I said, as re-assuringly as possible.

She left shortly after that, and three days later, she's still not talking to me.

Conclusion
Women have enough neuroses about their weight, looks, hair, make-up, careers, skin, men and life in general, without adding, 'You've got a fanny like a damp windsock' to the equation.

Arse.
( Bert Monkeysex is waiting for the mods to delete him, Mon 28 Jul 2008, 9:11, 45 replies)

I have found snails to be sporting types, in that they happily participate in my serious scientific experiments.
Here are three examples - incidentally, no harm was caused to any gastropod and all were released into the wild afterwards.

1. What do snails like to eat and drink?
A. A snail placed on a saucer with a choice of beer or milk and chips or lettuce will go for the beer and chips every time.

2. Can we vary the colour of a snail's poo?
A. Yes, by feeding it multicoloured foods. The snail will poo straight afer eating and the colour of the poo is decided by that of the food.
Hundreds and thousands give a striking 'rainbow' effect.

3. Can a snail be induced to hold a white sugar strand in its mouth, so that it looks like a king-sized fag?
A. Yes, after about half an hour's gentle coaxing.
(Doing this had my young nephew in helpless tears of laughter.)

Experimental snails - more fun than chimps or beagles.
(Juan Quar is clinging to her front teeth on, Tue 29 Jul 2008, 16:54, 10 replies)

£4.99 Children's Microscope
- used in an experiment to prove that i had manly sperm and not gay sperm, as my friend believed. You can actually see a great deal of yr lads swimming about even though it's through a kid's microscope intended for snot and hair.

Outcome: Two of my knuckle children were wriggling at each other head-on. I took this to mean that they were fighting and therefore very manly, testosterone filled shperm. My friend said they were kissing.

Result: Inconclusive.




As a happy epilogue to this story, I moved out of that flat soon after the experiment, forgetting I'd left my test tube of love juice on top of a bookshelf. I opened the tube and the fermented stench was so powerful that someone had to throw up their partially digested dinner three floors away.
(Hernandez Fiendish probably won't be here until at least, say, Thu 24 Jul 2008, 12:36, 8 replies)

improvised flamethrower
I fear this may be a little toff popic, although I’m quite sure any rational bloke would insist when it comes to desirable gadgets an improvised flamethrower is right up there with a Jessica Alba Android and TeleportationTrousers, therefore not technically a pointless experiment. However, whilst pyrotechnical experimentation should always be nurtured in the young and reckless, the choice of firing range in this instance may be at best filed as ill advised.

Many moons ago I worked for a fairly rubbish ‘New Media’ company with a lot of bored, disillusioned staff. Jinks were always high. We had a set of steak knives in the kitchen, not sure why but they were perfectly balanced for my burgeoning knife-throwing act – until that is the semi-psychotic boss (same bloated buffoon as in my ‘Only 14 Hours to Bristol’ post) raged into the studio during an all staff meeting demanding to know who had been using his office door for 'bloody knife throwing practice'. Cue blank looks all round. I did find it indicative of our work ethic that he immediately (and rightly) assumed knife throwing had occurred. Other experiments included creeping up behind people on the phone and liberally wrapping parcel tape round their head – securing the phone to their noggin (this works best when they are also resting their chin on their free hand so you can cocoon that too) thus ensuring they must continue an (albeit muffled) conversation with Mr Self Important Client Tosser. Other japes involved cutting the corners off large boxes then arranging the boxes as crumple zones for stunt man ‘death’ leaps from filing cabinets. Using the wet & dry vac to hoover up peoples coffee from their mugs in one greedy slurrrrp always got a response too - usually ‘for fucks sake Spimf, fuck off will you, you fucking idiot’. Shooting out the bulbs on the desk lamps across the room with an air pistol tended to unsettle/enrage the occupant of the workstation a fair bit as well. So you get the picture – a committed and focused bunch of highly trained imbeciles.

One particularly slow day I spotted some large heavy-duty cardboard tubes lying innocently, yet temptingly in a quiet corner. Like any right minded person I immediately thought: Hmmm… Big Arnie-style RPG launcher! I chose a fine sturdy tube about 4 foot long with a plastic end cap then selected a slightly thinner tube that would fit inside. A great big wodge of bog roll was taped around one end to make a sung and effective plunger for my makeshift munitions. Initially, this was simply ‘plunged’ to make the plastic end cap fly off with a satisfyingly low frequency ‘THHHONK’. Put simply i had fashioned the worlds biggest pop gun.

Soon my bodged bazooka sprouted a shoulder strap, side handle, plunger grip and nicely weighted cardboard ‘RPG’. Menacingly, I strutted around the studio attempting to shoot large things off high shelves and generally breaking stuff. With it's Kappa board fins and conical nose my ‘RPG’ flew surprisingly well. Boredom however, is a relentless staggering zombie that never lags far behind dear Spimfy. It was then I spotted the lighter fluid we used to clean Spraymount off stuff. I think I may have heard a small internal ‘ping’ as a little light bulb fluoresced in my head. A fist sized ball of bog roll was given a liberal soaking, lit to a near invisible Sambuca style blue flame by a willing assistant then rammed down the barrel with a broom handle, the plastic end cap was then popped on to provide a bit of back pressure. Clearly the restricted amount of air inside would only last so long, so launch had to be hasty. This however meant aim was a secondary consideration. I plunged the fucker with aplomb.

Fuck. Me.

It would be no exaggeration to say ‘a fucking great big fireball’ streaked from the end of my cardboard contraption with quite spectacular results. The pressure combined with a sudden rush of nice oxygen rich air produced angry red and yellow flames. It made a fantastic roaring noise as it soared across the studio trailing acrid black smoke and a deep thud as it slammed into the window recess resulting in an even bigger ball of flames. HOORAY! Everyone whooped and cheered - the few sensible ones (developers mainly) standing well back, shaking their heads and muttering about inadequate fire exits. The flames rapidly subsided to a little smouldering clump of blackened bog roll - the hilarity waned in harmony. Then, quite unexpectedly... Whoosh! The fabric window blinds went up in flames – big style, eagerly assisted by the dust and cobwebs around the ancient window frame (did I mention our office was a converted mill in a World Heritage site? Probably best not to). Dust and cobwebs and dead spiders burn like a motherfucker by the way, which I discovered while trying to ‘clean’ my garage with a blowtorch once.

In a blind panic I belted across the room and (with some difficulty) yanked the burning blinds down and proceeded to stamp on them with some considerable urgency. This had an immediate effect; being that it set fire to my shoes. I can honestly say the spectacle of me rain dancing with flaming feet did seem to lift the mood for a while.

A couple of days later the (increasingly psychotic) boss was eyeing the scorched, melted patch of fuzzy office flooring and looking for answers. Blank faces again. Good job he didn’t turn round to see the hastily installed non-matching window blinds stolen from another department.

length? fully extended about 5 foot mate.
( spimf ™ is whoever you want him to be, Sun 27 Jul 2008, 12:06, 11 replies)

The Great Guiness Experiment
Thankfully, I was not the experimenter in this case, merely the documentor of evidence, but it's a story that deserves to be told.

A few years ago now I was one of a number of first year university students living in halls, doing no work, essentially on summer camp for a year. Next door lived a guy named Jezz, known for his hare-brained schemes. One day he comes round all excited.

"Hey, you know the other night, we were rinking Guiness, and you told me you heard somewhere it's possible to survive on a desert island with no other food?"

It was true. I had told him this. In my defence, I was drunk, fairly confident of the facts, and in actuality only slightly wrong (later investigation revealed that a pint of guiness and a vitamin c tablet per day contains your RDA of everything vital). It was unlucky for Jezz that students have that peculiar combination of limitless trivia, poor research skills, and limitless free time that can mean that such a misunderstanding could be pursued so much further.

He outlined to me his idea. One week, no food, only guiness and water. And we were to catch it all on camera. My housemate still has all the tapes of that week somewhere, one day soon I'm going to have to compile them. Unusually for one of Jezz's plans, we were all quite supportive, another friend, Tom, even offering to try the all-guiness diet as well. After some consultation, it was decreed that marmite would be allowed as well, being a by-product of guiness.

On day one, the fridge was stocked and the first cans were cracked open. Having had no breakfast, the boys needed a couple of pints to feel properly full, but one of the bonuses of the guiness diet is the heaviness of the stout, a factor which at least makes it feel as if you've eaten a tolerable amount. By mid afternoon, we were all a bit pissed, and the day passed in a pleasant enough haze, the only low point being the guys' inability to get stoned for fear of forfeiting the diet in a moment of munchie-related weakness.

It was on the morning of day two that the trouble started. Firstly, I'm sure the factor that has been playing on your mind since reading the first paragraph has been the infamous 'guiness shits'. Well, on the morning of day 2, they hit, and when they hit, they hit hard.

From this point onwards, both men must have spent at least a third of their time engaged in ejecting a viscous black gruel from their bowels into the toilets both next door and in my house. The stench was unbearable, so much so, that on more than one occasion I would head round the corner to the student union to do my business rather than contend with it.

However, the fine Irish stout kept pouring down, and by the end of the afternoon, a Friday, we were suitably tanked up to entertain the notion of heading out clubbing. "But I'm too depressed", protested Tom. Nonsense, we argued, going out would distract him from the monotony of his diet, cheer him up. In fact, in an environment where there was nothing to do but drink, they might stop seeing it as a chore, and return to seeing it as a pleasure.

Unfortunately, we did not plan on Brighton's stringent ID policy, which left us unable to get into any club apart from the horrific West Street slagheaps that we always avoided like the plague. Unable to face the prospect of having an even worse time in a club that we all hated, we elected to go to a late-night cinema screening instead.

The only movie showing that late was the godawful Paris Hilton vehicle House of Wax, which we paid up and saw anyway, drunk as we were, we thought we might enjoy it. By this point, Jezz and Tom couldn't even last through the trailers without having to rush out of the room to evacuate bowels once more.

The film was terrible, and did nothing to lighten the mood. At one point I forgot myself, and offered my popcorn round, garnering cold looks and an invitation to go fuck myself from Tom.

When we got home there was nothing for it but to drink until the sweet embrace of sleep came to save them from their nightmare. Unfortunately, the worst was yet to come.

When I came round the next morning, Jezz answered the door, a peculiar shade of grey. He looked drawn and pale, a combination of hangover, rampant diarreah, and the promise of nothing but more of the black stuff for a further 5 days. We spent the morning trying everything to vary the diet. First, the boys ate marmite with their fingers. Then came the real low; a hot, frothy brown mess that was optimistically named 'Guiness soup'. I tried a mouthful and could do nothing more encoraging than proclaim it 'not completely evil'.

In the afternoon we went to the pub, and over a few pints (orange juice for me, a couple more liquid tars for them), we watched England play the USA at football, one of the most dire games of football it's ever been my misfortune to see. After the first half, Tom, being Welsh, could stand the horror no more and left. Me and Jezz stuck it out and were rewarded with a ground-out victory, but he was hardly in celebratory spirits. We trudged back up the hill to our houses.

When we got there Tom was sitting in the kitchen, looking quietly ill. When we asked him what he had been up to, he cracked.

"I'm sorry...I couldn't take it any more..."
"What did you do?"
"I...I...had a lion bar."
"You bastard!"

What followed was one of the worst attempts at fighting I have ever seen. Both contestants weakened from poor nutrition, managed to get each other in half hearted headlocks before Jezz got out his mobile phone from his pocket.

"What are you doing?"
"Fuck this, I'm calling for a Chinese."

And so the Great Guiness Experiment ended acrimoniously after only 60 hours, proving that
a) man cannot live by guiness alone, and,
b) to attempt to do so is among the most depressing activities man may ever endure.
(jabboy, Sun 27 Jul 2008, 1:54, 6 replies)

On testing a pub's Mank Rating
An experiment YOU can try in any pub or bar in the name of SCIENCE

Any evening down the pub can be made more exciting by testing the establishment's Mank Rating.

- On your first visit to the toilet, put a 20p piece in the urinal.

- On the next visit, check to see if it is gone. If it is, replace it with a 10p.

- Repeat as necessary until you find the lowest denomination of piss-soaked small change the pub's clientele will fish out of the urinal.

- If they take the 1p, then you are in the wrong end of town with no money. Leave immediately.

Congratulations - you have either found the pub's Mank Rating, or have been beaten up for hanging around the Gents'.

The full lowdown with clickable map goodness HERE
( Scaryduck LIKES EGG, Fri 25 Jul 2008, 13:54, 8 replies)

The Social Experiment…

I have spent virtually my whole life in the laboratory. As a consequence, I have never experienced the very fabric of ‘real life’ that you people take for granted. Recently, I decided to remedy this and go out ‘into the world’.

Of course beforehand, I decided to research the process through the medium of affirmative practical testing, to ensure that my integration in common society would be seamless.

I have recently become particularly fascinated with studying the human effects when a certain hydroxyl group (-OH) is bound to a carbon atom of an alkyl or substituted alkyl group. The general acyclic formula is CnH2n+1OH.

As you are no doubt aware, I’m talking about alcohol.

Now I have never experienced the effects of this substance, either first or second hand, but I have always been curious after reading such wondrous volumes on the subject.

Therefore last Saturday I decided (after preliminary research) to venture out and conduct this controlled conditions social experiment by covertly overseeing activities at the nearby drinking establishment called The ‘Stiff and Mimsy’ Public House.

I was indeed fortunate as I had appeared to choose the very night when some individuals from the local rugby team were holding their weekly meeting.

I had cleverly disguised myself as a normal member of the public by covering my 5ft 2 slender build with my finest purple crushed velvet flares, diamond checked tank-top and my grandfather’s ‘Enola Gay’ kipper tie. I was confident of effortlessly intermingling with the public and, despite some initial looks of bewilderment from the surrounding patrons, I soon settled down to monitor the surrounding environment.

Here are my notes from the experiment:

7:15pm: Some 3 pints each with ‘whisky chasers’ have been consumed by the group. No noticeable differences evident on the subjects other than a slight reddening of faces, an apparent general muttering and complaints. Conversation seems to focus on the following issues: the cost of their beverages, their overall spousal displeasure and a collective willingness to give the barmaid a unit of a certain denomination that I could not quite quantify.

7:25pm: Upon gaining a closer vantage point, it appears that I am in the presence of some wise sages indeed. I overhear stories exchanged of such profits made & female conquests that I begin to realise that I was indeed fortunate to be in the company of such supremely intelligent, successful and sensitive fellows. I make a personal note to consult them in the future on any possible financial or sexual situations that I might encumber.

7:45pm: Conversation is interspersed with bouts of loud, unmelodic singing. Unfortunately I am unable to recognise the composer, or adequately translate the lyrics in their entirety. However, I am impressed not only by the group’s exuberance, but also by their collective knowledge of the activities of a certain ‘Fishmonger’s daughter’. At this juncture I approached Subject ‘A’ (a sweaty, 20st buck-toothed hairy gentleman, height approximately 6ft 4) and asked if he could provide me with the address of the individual in the song. I am promptly instructed to ‘Fuck off, twat-nappy’.

8:00pm: Conversation volume and levels of general profanity have taken a decided increase. Subject ‘A’ now seems incapable of contributing to a conversation without pointing his finger in an aggressive manner and insisting that his fellow protagonists know ‘cock all’

8:15pm: Upon attempting closer inspection on the pupil dilation of subject ‘B’ (a particularly large, heavily tattooed man in an extremely reclined position at the bar), I am asked if I ‘Want some’. When I ask him to clarify exactly what goods or services he is offering, he proceeds to punch me in the face.

8:30pm: Subject ‘C’, a rather burly chap in the gent’s toilets appears to not take too kindly to participating in my peripheral experiment in the affects of alcohol on penis size. When I attempt to enlighten him on my actions and assure him that I only wish to measure his phallus for scientific research, he rebuts my request by knocking my clipboard out of my hand before placing my head into a lavatory bowl and repeatedly slamming the seat onto it.

9:00pm: A stumbling, dribbling Subject ‘D’ puts his arm around me and informs me that I am not only ‘alright’ but I have indeed become his ‘pal’. I decide to capitalise on this new found bond and request an opportunity to get an even closer assessment of the group’s activities.

I subsequently ask the man if I would be 'permitted to penetrate his intimate inner circle’…

9:30pm: I regain consciousness to find myself being flung into various items of furniture by several cheering individuals. From behind the bar, a serving lady wearing heavy make-up advises the group to ‘Leave it, he’s not worth it’, and I am thrown in her general direction. Upon greeting the female, I ask her if her charitable act was with ‘possible amorous intent’. The female then proceeds to grab my hair and force a broken bottle into my eye socket.

9:45pm: I make my way beside two individuals who appear to be competitively engaged to see who can consume the highest volume of something called ‘Ouzo shots’. My request to join their activities is taken quite positively; as it is explained to me that the ‘rules’ of such a competition denote that as a newcomer, I am required to ‘pay for all the drinks’. I am relieved of my Spiderman purse and I am given a seat next to the gentlemen.

9:46pm: My two companions and I are each handed a small glass containing a colourless liquid. They quickly drink their quantities in one mouthful before slamming the empty glasses onto the table. The surrounding group then advise me on my next course of action by collectively and loudly encouraging me to ‘Down it!…Down it!…’

Monday, 4:30 am: I awake to find myself naked, covered in what after closer inspection appears to be someone else’s vomit, and handcuffed to an orang-utan on a cargo plane which is halfway to Jakarta.

No further testing is planned.
( Pooflake braces for an onslaught..., Fri 25 Jul 2008, 11:33, 9 replies)

Poor students + cheep caffeine = 20 year old heart attacks
Some of these stories have brought back memories of a very strange period of my life.

A few years back me and my friend repeatedly found ourselves coming to the weekend with the highly unusual desire to punish our bodies and chemically induce our minds to leave the harsh reality of living in our run-down little town. (Imagine that!)

As many stories involving ill-advised experiments go it was conceived though an unlikely combo of the above desire, and a lack of cash with which to achieve it.

We would have to improvise!! We sat down and a plan was devised,

We concluded the cheapest way to get off our trolley was to stay at home, where it was warm and had TV, internet and terrible, terrible films. We also assumed that budget supermarkets and bulk goods would be the best way forward.

OFF TO LIDL!!!!

Yes, that fantastic shining hub of organized commerce that is Lidl, we stumbled in and began to look around for their biggest, finest, cheapest alcohol. (Or something that resembled alcohol) This part was easy, we came across a bottle of 40% German vodka which was, and I believe still is, being sold at 0.7L for £6.99. Now…. The mixer.

We paced up and down the isles trying to decipher the cheap knock-off labels and work out what the hell we were buying when we happened across something special…..

Tiger Energy Drink! It shined and unholy orange shine with a big pissed off tiger on the front of it, it looked absolutely awesome the can itself looked like it was about to fuck you up. We then looked at the back and to our utter astonishment it was chemically, identical to red bull, in nutrient, ingredient and, all importantly, caffeine levels. Then there was the price – a student friendly 24p per can. It was at this point it was clear what we should do. The math’s was quickly done and we concluded that one crate… 24 cans would cost £5.76. Picking up one delivery crate each we stumbled to the tills and made our purchase.

Though neither of us had said it, we both knew what would be happening tonight… at that price how could we NOT try and drink a whole crate in one sitting.

We got home, crate in hand, and grin on face. Sat down and opened the first can. It smelt like acidic death… we poured some in to our cheap German vodka…. It looked like bright orange tramp piss. We tasted some…. It burned, far too sweet, yet far too acidic at the same time. Like drinking pure sucrose mixed with bright orange tramp piss mixed with acidic death.

As the night progressed we each slowly made our way through our crate, sinking one after another, gradually REDUCING the amount of vodka just to see if we could actually drink that much caffeine. As time went on I noticed my heart start to beat faster and faster. It felt strange but it was clearly nothing I couldn’t handle, not when I had my friend to beat. So I drank faster and faster and my heart began to beat more and more. ¾ of the way (18 cans) and I went to the toilet. Pissing bright orange tramp pissy acidic death, my heart hammering away in time to the finest 1000bpm jungle gabba I began to feel like I couldn’t go on.

It will not end this way I told myself. Sod my health and my heart. I will not be beaten by a crate of cheap stimulant. I ran out of the room, bounced off the sofa with finest matrix wall running skills landing gracefully on my intended sofa (at least in my mind that’s what I did, I was reliably informed the next day I came stumbling into the room at speed, hit one sofa, slammed my face into the wall and collapsed like a sack of shit onto the other sofa) Quickly sat up and downed the last 6 cans one after another in quick succession. A short while later my friend too finished his crate and we sat in triumph staring at the wreckage of the room and congratulating ourselves on one of the most pointless and stupid things we had done so far in our short lives.

Then there was the aftermath, rocking backwards and forwards, the paranoia, the sweats, the giggles, the “why oh why were we so stupid to have done this”, the genuine terror at the fact our hearts were beating so fast and we couldn’t stop it. We were surly going to die. The morning came and went, the afternoon came and went, then evening the next day rolled around and we were still sitting there, awake for over 48 hours, still buzzing, still panicking that we were about to die any second.

Eventually it wore off, we thanked the great sky people and the various gods that we had begun to pray to that we were still alive and vowed never to do anything as stupid as that again…..

The next weekend we went straight to Lidl and brought another two crates of the stuff

And the weekend after that…

And the weekend after that….

For nearly 3 months, almost every weekend we sat down with 24 cans of cheap red-bull knock-off and drank until we felt our hearts exploding in our chests. Every weekend we vowed never to do it again, but kept coming back for more… I have no idea why we did it to ourselves….

It was just so cheap…..
(The_Mighty_Spleen, Thu 24 Jul 2008, 21:18, 1 reply)

2001 Sleep Deprivation Study
For the whole year of 2001, I conducted a study on sleep deprivation. Like I've said on many a QoTW, I've never had many friends. I wanted to see how lack of sleep effects the brain so I avoided it at all costs. I would stay up for days at a stretch and succumb to the eventual sleep, waking up and trying it again, this time for longer. My mind at that time swirled with enlightened thoughts and I was sure I was the Buddha incarnate. I had found the meaning of life. But when the sleep study ended and I went back to my normal and somewhat sane self, all I found as proof of my enlightnment was pages and pages of this (these are actual excerpts from my sleep deprivation journal):

Time moves slow and so do I -- everything seems to be happening behind a waterfall of maple syrup. The air seems palable.

If that which doesn't kill us makes us stronger, old people wouldn't be so frail.

The clock just struck 4:25, as it does everyday at about this time.

The world has closed its eyes to me and everything else, and your thoughts detatch and become real, somehow, moving breathing lifeforms that you no longer have to feed.
Day is breaking. Smash.


At the pizza place we went to, there was an entire, possibly epic game of chess going on on the ceiling, and everyone around me was too busy to notice.

The Spanish channel is yammering on and on inside my head. I wish I could understand it; maybe they are saying something important. Instead he just talks and talks, in a language that I don't understand, words seem to overlap as the tempo of the talking gets faster. Is this even Spanish, or something that just sounds like it?

Hammers and nails, hammers and nails, it's what we use to kill garden snails.

Pippo was a normal boy with extraordinary powers. He seemed to see things that the other people around him didn't even bother to take notice of. For instance, as long as Pippo could remember, there was always a giant comet hurtling towards Earth. One day he looked up and cried, "Holy fuck, a giant coment!" Since then he's always been praised for his above average perceptual skills.

If I were to pour a cup of coffee for the sole purpose of dumping it on someone, than I probably wouldn't put sugar in it first.

Right now I have the word "irrelevancy" stuck on repeat in my head. I don't know why. But it seems strangly...irrelevant.

Just now I was walking under some trees, and acorns kept falling on me. I think the squirrels are trying to kill me, but I can't prove it.

Today I figured out that if you take any monosyllabic word and double it, you'll have either the name of a monkey or a panda bear.

Today I was talking to Erika about having a purple toilet in your kitchen. I postulated that a good way to con someone would be to simply invite them into your house. They would see the toilet, and go, "My God! A purple toilet!" and then, "Hey! There's a toilet in the kitchen!". Finally, they would put it together and exclaim, "Holy fuck! There's a purple toilet in the kitchen!" While they are standing there all confused, you could take their wallet. I even wrote a song about it.


A guy with two glass eyes only looks like he can see.



As you can see, sleep deprivation gives you illusions of profound enlightenment while really only providing you with a vast and playful insanity. Sort of like college...
(BrainSurgerysFun, Thu 24 Jul 2008, 23:54, 8 replies)

Perhaps not pointless
but ultimately fruitless.

My first experiment at text sex:
Beware predictive text. No woman wants to learn you want to kick her pussy.
( Boss Keloid Got your mother's maiden name tattooed on my arm, Thu 24 Jul 2008, 18:31, 7 replies)

I can't think of a pointless experiment
but I badly need to say that the person in the queue in front of me in the co op this morning asked the hapless assistant if they accepted "Lord Card of Debitshire".
( browser still relating boring anecdotes into a void on, Tue 29 Jul 2008, 11:32, 6 replies)

Mad Max has much to answer for.
Near the start of the second film, our hero brings the interceptor to a halt by selecting reverse gear whilst the car is still moving forward. The car slows dramtically with the rear wheels spinning wildly in reverse.

This got me thinking.

There was no danger I was ever going to try this in a car I actually owned but I do get issued hire cars reasonably often and sooner or later I'd get one that was rear wheel drive (I figured there was a high chance of death if the wheels you also rely on for steering were spinning in the wrong direction). As it happened, after a few front drive cars came and went, a 2.2 litre manual Vauxhall Omega hoved into view. The test could begin!

Ever mindful of the consequences of doing this act on a public road, I elected to use one of the vast car parks that serve as employee parking for the industrial estates so numerous in my current place of residence. The test was to be conducted as follows;

Traction control switched to OFF, Car to proceed forward at 60mph in fourth gear before I stepped on the clutch and brought the gear round in a savage U shape through the protective gaiter designed to prevent you from putting the car into reverse whilst going forward. Then step off all pedals and keep the car pointing in the right direction whilst it thundered to a halt.

Essentially this is what came to pass.

The word "essentially" is important however as there were some facets of the experiment I did not anticipate. The first is that the revs do increase rather substantially once the clutch is lifted- the car had been doing 2800rpm at 60 in 4th- This increased to "Vauxhall" some way past the little "7" on the dial in reverse with the clutch off. The second is that having ceased to travel forward, the car accelerates violently backwards whilst you strive to engage neutral. This leads to the third problem- the car wasn't coming out of reverse. Eventually neutral was selected (and by selected I mean was acheived by sitting on the back seat and violently kicking the gear lever) again after which reverse was no longer an option on this particular Omega. Furthermore, a series of warning lights suggested that the engines brief foray into the upper echelons of its design envelope had not been without incident. With a heavy heart, I did what any man has to do at this point.

By which I mean, I drove it to Tesco and into a parking space. I then called the hire car company told them their car had inexplicably failed and I was stranded and very disappointed. They proceeded to apologise and send an upgraded car as soon as possible. I noted with as straight a face as was possible when the chap from the agency came to collect it he cheerfully informed me that this was happening quite a bit with the Omegas and it was a source of confusion to both the company and Vauxhall.

So there you have it. It works for Mel Gibson but is less lastingly successful in a car park in the UK.

Length?- two pretty substantial rubber lines would have greeted the workers on the monday.
(Leonard Hatred briefly did some work on, Thu 24 Jul 2008, 15:24, 5 replies)

Tricked out sardine, crying child, upset old lady.
I had the 'pleasure' of spending the last 7 years of my life working for the wonderful establishment of Tesco. Most of which was on the counters, as lowly assistant and eventually as manager.

Being stuck in a dead-end job with an
over-active imagination can help one come up with many fascinating, yet pointless experiments.

One such resulted in a small child almost being blinded and some poor innocent old dear being yelled at, whilst the guilty party (yours truly) got away scot-free!

My experiment was to see how many people I could trick into thinking the fish on the fish counter were still alive.

I ran a wire underneath the ice, attaching one end to my foot and one to a sardine.

Wiggling my foot whilst serving customers gave the impression the fish was not dead yet, and flipping about trying to escape it's morbid situation.

Most people stared for a few seconds before shaking their head and wandering off. One old dear got upset and tried to find a bucket of water to save the sardine.

But then my innocent little experiment took a turn for the worse.

Que 'Timmy', an inquisitive little 6 year old with a love for fish. He loved coming to the supermarket to marvel at the colourful motionless little critters on the ice. Suddenly, one of them started to violently flip out, making its way rapidly toward him across the counter.



He fled, terrified.



Face first into a basket held by a passing old dear.



It would not have been so bad but his eye made contact with the corner of said basket, letting out a (satisfying!) squelch! Choas erupts, as Timmy's mother yells at the old lady for carelessly gouging little Timmys eye. She then turns her anger onto little Timmy, whacking him around his already sore head for being so stupid as to lie to her and tell her the (now motionless) fish were alive and trying to get him.His screams could be heard from the carpark.

In the background, Roddimus slowly exits stage left, trying not to die of laughter.

I may not have finished my experiment, but at least I could take delight in ruining 3 people's day! Oops!

Pop! First post after 5 years lurking!

Length, etc.
(Roddimus_Prime Should be revising, Wed 30 Jul 2008, 14:52, 6 replies)

How to become a superhero by drinking cleaning products....
Have a delicious roasted pea, in the form of something I wrote on LJ four years ago:

Investigation into the effectiveness of Mr Muscle with The Power of Oranges^tm in battling cosmic villains.

New Mr Muscle has The Power of Oranges^tm.
I set out to discover what this means.

Firstly, we must learn more about oranges. A thorough web-search has revealed the average diameter of an orange - 7.5cm.
From this we are able to calculate the volume of said average orange using the formula v=4/3*pi*r^3
so v=1.33*3.14*3.75^3
therefore v=220.781249cm3
which we will round to 220.8 for the purposes of simplification in the subsequent calculations.

This allows us to estimate the weight of an average orange. As we know, 1 litre of water weighs 1kg. 1 litre is 1000cm3. An orange is largely water, so a 220.8cm3 orange will weigh roughly 220.8g. Again for simplification and because I'm not sure of the exact makeup of an orange, not to mention the fact that oranges are more ovoid than spherical, we will round this figure to 250g.

Now, The Power of Oranges^tm. What is it? I have racked my brain thinking of what this might be, and the most likely conclusion is that the colour orange has some intrinsic power. The best-known manifestation of this power is The Power of Ten Tigers^tm as used by Phantom off of Defenders of the Earth.
(Whether or not Phantom ever actually used the power of ten tigers, as we never saw more than seven superimposed over him while he summoned his power, is a question to be investigated at a later date.)

Another web-search tells me that the average weight of an adult male Bengal tiger is 220kg.
A tiger is only half orange however, so for this calculation we will use the figure 110kg, or 110,000g. We will assume that half of the power of a tiger is also derived from the black bits.
To find out how many oranges are equivalent to the orange half of the tiger we simply divide 110,000g (mass of orange half of tiger) by 250g (mass of average orange).
110,000/250=440
However as half of the power of a tiger is assumed to be derived from the black bits, to equal the power of an entire tiger we need to double this figure, and therefore 880 oranges are equivalent to one whole tiger.
Multiply this figure by ten to get the power of ten tigers:
880*10=8800
or 8800 oranges=1 Phantom.
so 1 orange=1.136*10^-4 Phantoms
=0.0001136Phantoms
=113.6microPhantoms

Next we investigate the price of Mr Muscle The Power of Oranges^tm cleaning products, and find that a 750ml bottle costs £1.57. I will calculate the power of this bottle financially rather volumetrically, to give the greatest possible power value.
In Safeway on my lunch break I discovered that the price of a single orange is 19p. Assuming that there is no profit margin whatsoever and that Mr Muscle has some method of extracting and concentrating The Power of Oranges(tm), each bottle may therefore contain up to (157/19) 8.263 oranges, giving a total power of (113.6*8.263) 938.6768microPhantoms, or (to 2sf) 0.94milliPhantoms.

Thus we are able to conclude that:
a) A cleaning product made from Phantoms at the same ratio would be 8800x(4sf) more effective than Mr Muscle with The Power of Oranges.
b) Eating 8800 oranges in a single sitting would allow you to absorb enough power to kick the shit out of Ming the Merciless.
c) It should be possible to achieve a similar effect through ingesting 1065 (8800/8.263 to 4sf) 750ml bottles of Mr Muscle with The Power of Oranges^tm cleaning solution, but this can not be endorsed by the author.
(wellgroomedwookiee is a filthy-minded hobgoblin, Mon 28 Jul 2008, 19:40, 6 replies)

Stupid idea
I was in the bath once and suddenly had a thought come into my head, I thought "I wonder what water actually smells like?". So, without a moment's hesitation I dunked my head underwater and took in a deep breath, only to come back up immediately, puking water everywhere.

I really don't know what I was thinking. At the time I thought it was the most original idea ever. I wasn't even a child when this happened, I was around 14 years old.
(kabukisteve, Thu 24 Jul 2008, 16:29, 5 replies)

Duke of Edinburgh
Tents had been set up, spliffs had been consumed, I had run out of vodka. What other alcohol might be available on a camping trip?

That's right, meths.

Seeing as meths is undrinkable neat, I combined it with the most logical mixer.

Custard.

Such was my alcoholism in the day, I actually managed a whole bowl of meths custard.

Don't do it kids.
( Madam Marlboro wonders if you've found her yet, Thu 24 Jul 2008, 13:26, 12 replies)

57 varieties
I had sexual intercourse with a tall glass of Heinz baked beans in an attempt to simulate the sensation of a lady's nether parts. I was 14.

The attempt involved standing on my head and jabbing my urgent young tool into the beans, which were cold - even at that age I was aware of health & safety considerations. The sensation was curiously like jabbing one's tool into a glass of cold beans, but I managed to climax all the same.

In later life, obviously, I realised that baked beans were not remotely suitable. Although, to this day, I cannot have sex with my wife without having two slices of toast and some HP next to the bed.

[thanks to Pavlov's Frog for allowing me to contravene company policy and use this site, putting my job in jeopardy.]
(frankspencer, Thu 24 Jul 2008, 13:16, 20 replies)

One quick one.
This is a speciality of my brother.

When driving along an empty motorway and encountering a member of the middle lane owners club, how many anti-clockwise circuits (where you pull out two lanes, overtake, pop in two lanes and allow yourself to be overtaken before repeating) can you perform before the car moves in?

On one extraordinary occasion- 22.
(Leonard Hatred briefly did some work on, Thu 31 Jul 2008, 13:21, 7 replies)

A tale of experimentation...
Gather 'round, kiddies, as I tell a tale about experimentation of a wholly new and different sort.

Some years back I was very young, very thin and very broke. I was living in what might be most charitably described as a hovel- we lacked money for heat, so most of the winter was spent shivering under layers of clothing. Food was similarly scarce- my roommate worked as a waiter, so he at least got one good meal a day- but I was not so lucky. I was living on the cheapest food I could get from the grocery store, and not exactly thriving.

Desperate times call for desperate measures.

At the time I was my current just-short-of-six-feet height, but weighed maybe ten stone. The winter had made me very thin indeed. My cheeks were hollow, my clothes hung off of me, and I looked quite pitiable indeed. However, with blond hair and grey eyes and a waifish face I apparently appealed to women on a certain motherly level that quickly moved to a wholly different level. I looked a lot like the kid that played Anthony the sailor in Tim Burton's Sweeney Todd.

I knew the location of a strip club that catered to women and had male strippers. I had encountered women leaving there before and noted the looks I got from them. The quality of their gaze was one of hungry lionesses sizing up a gazelle.

So one night I decided to take the next logical step.

I wasn't exactly raking in huge money, but I was suddenly able to afford better food and was often fed well. Looking like a starved innocent was paying off nicely indeed. I quickly learned my new trade, and in fact became very talented in the bedroom, judging from their reactions. Sounds heavenly, doesn't it?

Trust me, it was not. I didn't have the luxury of being overly choosy about who I was going home with. I wasn't pulling the beauties, really. I was getting older women who liked being somewhat predatory. This led to some... interesting times.

One woman in particular took me home several times. She was very much into being dominant. She delighted in having me go down on her until she orgasmed, and insisted on doing this while sitting in a chair while I was on my knees between her thighs. This progressed to her binding my hands behind me, then to being tied to her bed. She especially loved paddling my arse until it was quite tender. She also delighted in sticking her fingers inside me. This also progressed until she was inserting toys in me while I was tied. I enjoyed that, truth be known... as long as it was done with plenty of lube and done gently.

Only thing is, she kept taking it a bit further each time.

There are people whose brains are wired such that pain feels quite sexual to them. A bit of pain during sex is a kick, a bit of spice that gives it an edge. Well, I'm not one of them- to me pain is pain, and I don't like it.

The last night she had me tied quite tightly in a submissive pose, with my arse in the air and unable to do more than wriggle. She had never done so thorough a job of restraining me before. She gave me a couple of slaps, then she produced a riding crop.

A note on using one of those: you use a sort of flicking motion with it so that the little flap on the end is moving quickly and delivers a light stinging slap. Done that way it delivers a nice little sting, but doesn't do any real injury. But if you follow through like you're beating a carpet...

I can still hear the whistle of it as she swung, and can feel the line of fire it laid across my thighs. I yelped, but couldn't move. She did it several more times across my thighs and arse, my cries turning her on even more. Then her hands caressed the welts lovingly for a couple of minutes as I gasped for breath through gritted teeth.

Then she applied some lube and I felt her fingers working it into me for a moment. I heard her putting something on, then felt her hands grab my hips as something entered me- something quite a bit larger than anything she had inserted into me before.

This I can tell you- the pain from being raped like that is far more intense than anything I've felt since.

Again my cries got her very hot, and I could hear her gasping with orgasms as she rammed me again and again. Finally she pulled it out of me and collapsed on the bed, spent, and pulled me over onto my side. She snuggled close, holding me as I sobbed, her fingers tracing the welts...

I left there with rope burns, welts and a large chunk of cash to ease my pains as I walked home. It was a warm night in June, and I took a long route back to the flat. I thought long and hard about what had just been done to me, and about the bundle of money in my pocket.

The next day I started applying for jobs as a waiter, and eventually landed one. I quit my old job and started hustling for money in a more legitimate way. My experiment in sex work was at a very definite end, and I saw no point in ever trying it again.

EDIT: a *click* would also help to alleviate the pain, you know...
(Shimrod, Fri 25 Jul 2008, 14:06, 10 replies)

Fifty one things Davy is no longer allowed to do.
If you haven't read Skippys list I suggest you do so. It's one of the funniest things on the internet and never fails to make me laugh.

So much do I like it, I'm inspired to start my own. I'm using his rules for inclusion. These are all things I have done, or attempted to do, and been forbidden from doing again.

1) The company’s internet policy is not “Google for porn.”
2) I may not create a Wikipedia entry about our business competitors and their nocturnal habits.
3) That goes double for Encyclopedia Dramatica
4) Nobody wants to hear about my hard dwarf.
5) I must not attempt to enter the United States illegally.
6) When told to put my hand up in order to ask a question, that means up in the air.
7) “All work and no play makes David a dull boy” is not an acceptable answer on a work performance self assessment form.
8) Five bottles of champagne at a Cam game is not a legitimate business expense.
9) I should stop singing in the shower, as the neighbours have complained.
10) My housemate is not my butler, no matter how often I say he is.
11) I am not a ghost, and must stop pretending I am whilst we are trying to hold a séance.
12) I must stop trying to charge children to join my fan club.
13) I must not proposition my boss.
14) Especially not if I back off sharpish when she accepts.
15) Firestarter and Smack my bitch up are not appropriate music to play at a wedding reception.
16) The tear-off bits of card inside Swan Vesta packets are not acid tabs, and I should not sell them to teenagers by pretending they are.
17) I must stop listening to white supremacist county & western in the bath
18) Nobody wants to hear the noises I can make with bubble gum
19) I must not stir my boss’ tea with any part of my anatomy
20) I must not watch Jean-Claude van Damme’s Bloodsport on loop whilst my housemate is trying to revise for an exam in the morning
21) (Thirty minutes later) I must not act out the entire script of Jean Claude van Damme’s Bloodsport in the living room whilst my housemate is trying to revise for an exam in the morning.
22) I must never allow anyone into my house with an axe again.
23) My boss’ name is not ‘petal’.
24) My sex life does not have a comedy soundtrack, and I should stop acting like it does.
25) I may not shout “By the power of Greyskull!” in bed
26) I may not pretend to be a German porn star in bed (“Das ist gut, ja, fraulein? Uhh! Uhh! Oh, ja, ja!”)
27) I must not wear those socks to work again.
28) “Just blowing off steam” is not a good enough reason for playing lasertag round the building during work hours
29) I must not talk about ‘the really cool thing I did at the weekend’ during client meetings ever again.
30) I am not allowed to change the office answerphone message again.
31) I must not see how loud I can burp in the cinema.
32) The French are not a ‘lesser servitor race’.
33) When my boss rhapsodises about the club scenes in The Matrix, I must not say “To you, that’s a movie fantasy. To me, it’s Saturday Night.”
34) I may not enter the United States without submitting to a body search.
35) “I’d rather not get paid than make you any money” is not an acceptable reply to the question “Why aren’t you working?”
36) I must not ask Master Chen Chi’en Li to show me the death touch (This was more of a warning and less of a prohibition.)
37) I must not lie on the floor of my office scratching my beard when new employees are being shown around the company.
38) “You should’ve knocked” is not an acceptable retort to the above, even if it is true.
39) I must not distribute this Onion story round the office whilst the born-again Christian is away on his Honeymoon.
40) This year's school play will not be Equus.
41) I am not allowed to have a Mohican until I have left school
42) (One week later, still at school) I must grow that Mohican out again as soon as possible.
43) “No, my gun is quite blunt” is the wrong answer to the question “Is there anything sharp in your hand luggage?”
44) I must not eat three bowls of all-bran before going to visit friends ever again.
45) I do not have divine powers.
46) I am not the ‘pinnacle of human evolution’, even if I can justify it.
47) I must not convince my boss that I'm a satanist by listening to 'devil worship music'.
48) "I realised that I wouldn't lie on my deathbed wishing I'd spent more time in the office" is not an acceptable reason for leaving work at 2pm.
49) I must not heckle the punks.
50) My job description is not "Pickin' cotton and bring the boss his Mint Julep"
51) My job title is not "Lord high everything else", and I must change my email signature file immediately.
(davywavy, Thu 24 Jul 2008, 14:19, 5 replies)

my brother
once decided to see what a fart looked like, well, what the EXIT of a fart looked like.

Being, as was normal at that time, a bit drunk, and alone in the house, he decided to "bend over and watch in the mirror through his legs".

He never did find out, as a big poo decided to exit instead, leaving a large poo-stain on MY fucking carpet.

I only found out cause I came back while he was trying to clean said stain. Weirdo
(bamboozled Can hear you getting fatter, Thu 24 Jul 2008, 14:04, 7 replies)

My father in law was legendary at dangerous experiments
As a child/teenager he created TNT and various other explosives, resulting in various craters, burned science blocks and more.

My favourite one, however, comes from when he was an adult in charge of a nuclear reactor. They had a major problem with seagulls, so he got hold of some sodium and put it in a jar of fish oil (in case you don't know, sodium is kept in oil to prevent it oxidising and exploding). He then cut it into small pieces and put them on the roof. Seagulls come swooping down, swallow the pieces whole, fly off and BOOM! No bicarbonate of soda needed thanks!

Picture the environmentalists reaction seeing seagulls flying over a nuclear reactor and exploding.
(teasus likes tea, Fri 25 Jul 2008, 2:47, 1 reply)

[Various] Assorted Pointless Experiments
This QOTW was made just for me, but some of my experiments are so utterly pointless that they've probably just been forgotten about completely. So I've racked my memories and here's what I remembered from the deep and dark archives of the mistaspakkaman research institute.

-

[Physics] Does something good happen when you stick things in plugholes?

One Wednesday afternoon aged 5, I thought electrical wall sockets were mysterious. Things go in them and they can be turned on. Somehow, I had gotten hold of a piece of wire where both ends went into a headphone socket. Headphone plugs fit nicely inside Continental wall-sockets, so I wondered what would happen if I stuck both ends into both holes of a plug.

Result: A blue spark flew out and the electricity in the house stopped working. Not realising how a fuse had saved me from 220 volts of electrifying goodness, I had more immediate things to deal with - my angry mother (although she may have been more glad I was still alive). That night, we had our dinner by candlelight, as we couldn't get the lights back on. In fact, we enjoyed the candlelight dinner so much that we started a new tradition at our house - every Wednesday, we'd have dinner by candlelight.

Conclusion: Fuses are your best friends. And besides, as any regular reader of QOTW knows, there are better ways of spending a Wednesday afternoon. And do have a candlelight dinner afterwards.

-

[Biology] Can girls wee standing up?

Aged 12, it was something I was curious about. Not having the right *ahem* apparatus to test this out myself, I would need to find a subject. Being shy, I was unable to bring this up, but I came up with a plan. At the time, me and my dad were on holiday staying in some kind of bed-and-breakfast place with shared toilet facilities. So what I did was to sneak into the girls' toilets and lift up the seats. The idea being that any women entering would assume the previous occupant of the stall had done it standing up and this might encourage them to try doing it standing up themselves, rather than it being done by some 12 year old boy feeling disorientated from the sudden activation of his pituitary gland. The acoustics of the place were such that I could hear what was going on without being in a suspicious position.

Result: Sadly, I always heard someone putting the seat down on entry. However, it was only many years later that I discovered this.

Conclusion: The Internet rocks!!!

-

[Psychology] Does subtly imitating someone make them fancy you?

In my final year on my school bus, I was feeling bored. On top of that, I had a crush on two of the girls on the bus and was too shy to do anything about it. This had been going on for some time and I was getting fed up of it. For various reasons which I won't go into I'm saving for a future QOTW, I had just gotten into the habit of wearing a Walkman (we had proper Walkmans back in them days - Discmans were around but were too seedy for my tastes).

So there was this new girl on the bus and she too was wearing a Walkman. I remembered reading somewhere (possibly me sneaking a read of my sister's 'Just 17' magazine) that subtly imitating someone would subconsciously flatter them and cause them to fancy you. She was sat just a few seats in front of me and I could see how she moved and rotated her earphone-clad head. In a fit of boredom, I copied her movements exactly.

Results: Nothing happened. No chatting up, no marriage proposals, no attempts to initiate the baby manufacture process. However, there was one major flaw in my method. This was because she was facing away from me most of the time (and only occasionally glancing sideways to look out the window). As for me, it did not cause me to fancy her either, but it did offer a brief mental distraction.

Conclusion: Inconclusive.

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[Psychology] How are women affected by their menstrual cycle?

Noticing that various girls I knew changed their personality without warning, I decided to see if the patterns followed the menstrual cycle. I knew that the menstrual cycle was approximately the same length of time as the Lunar orbit, so I installed a Lunar calendar on my computer that showed what the phase of the moon would be at any given time. By comparing girls' moods with the current phase of the moon, I could see if I could notice any patterns.

Results: Seeing that I was actually nerdy enough to think this way, it meant that I didn't get enough contact with my 'subjects' to properly test this hypothesis.

Conclusion: I needed to get out more!

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[Psychology] Am I strange enough to automatically get the blame if something strange happens?

At one of my jobs, we had this system where there was a pile of sweets/chocolates etc. and you took one and the company had faith that you'd pay for it by putting in some money or an I.O.U. in a small nearby plastic cup. Just to see what would happen, I put in a worthless banknote with a high numerical value from a certain east-European country in the plastic cup.

Result: At first, I heard nothing and I thought that was that, but several weeks later, we got a company-wide email from a shocked receptionist asking why we had done this (she was so shocked the e-mail was in all-capitals). This lead to an e-mail flamewar from two of the bored employees that had somehow descended into a discussion on Scottish banknotes. I got away Scott free (I did pay for my chocolate bar and the banknote was absolutely worthless, even though the denomination was four digits long).

Conclusion: I hadn't yet established my unusual-ness. Perhaps I should have posted my previous experiments to the office-wide e-mail system beforehand.

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[Psychology] Does sending a postcard once a year alter someone's perception of me?

I once spent a night at a B&B in Blackpool. After having come back in from a night on the town and not yet wanting to go to bed, I went down to the B&B's bar and stayed around a bit. Feeling a bit overly-excited, I decided to let out my weird imagination in its unrestrained form. This was too much for both the other guests and the proprietors and they just couldn't handle my unorthodox personality. I was getting frustrated with their closed-mindedness, and my weirdness was causing their heads to explode.

After I left, I had a sudden urge to send them a postcard a few days later. Since then, I've been sending them a postcard once a year. Currently, they have no means of contacting me. This experiment is ongoing (even though I've not sent a postcard for 3 years). I'm not sure where I want to go with this one. If anyone has any ideas for where to take this, the mistaspakkaman research institute would like to hear from you.

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OK. That's my experiments. Does the mistaspakkaman research institute get a grant?

^{Previously... | Next...}

( mistaspakkaman and the inedible shifting caterpillars, Wed 30 Jul 2008, 15:46, 4 replies)

Pearoast from the Captain

Those were the days

Back in the days of real chemistry teaching, I found the delights of "vigorous exothermic reactions".
Having made my "vigorously exothermic device" I found the ideal place for it, a 6" pipe which ran under the school pond which was a 3' square concrete affair, shunned by all aquatic life due to the cleaners regularly tipping their mop buckets full of bleachy water into it. With the delay set at approximately 10 minutes I waited, watching from my chemistry lesson, for the gout of flames from the pipe I was expecting.


There was a deep thud, felt through the floors of the whole school followed by a VERY loud bang as the whole pond blasted off into the air, over the chemistry block, over the main hall, over the swimming pool and landed on the all-weather pitch, some 150 yards away. I was impressed, my teachers and the bomb squad less so.

This was merely one of the incidents that prompted my headmaster to brand me "a charming, witty and erudite thug" in my final report.






Git.
(Captain Placid 24/7 ball gags, brownie mix and clown porn, Thu 24 Jul 2008, 16:58, 4 replies)

Do men respect women who put out on the first date? A scientific approach.
Research hypothesis
Based on a claim made by my flatmate, men do not want anything long-term with women who sleep with them on the first date. The research hypothesis (H₁) is that there exists a significant difference between a man’s respect for a woman who sleeps with him on the first date (condition 1), a subsequent later date (condition 2) and not at all (condition 3), thus (H₁): x-bar_first ≠ x-bar_later ≠ x-bar_never. The null hypothesis H₀ is that there is no significant difference between conditions.

Ethics
This work did not pass ethics committee scrutiny, but participant confidentiality was assured.

Sample (x-bar)
The population was “men I fancy” and thus the experiment was conducted on a subset, or sample, of these men.

Pilot study
My life prior to the experiment.

Stimuli
Me in a short skirt, getting drunk.

Participant A
Friend-of-a-friend. First date. Got very drunk. Fell into bed. It wasn’t great. Decided to give him a second chance and the fecker turned me down. Didn't see that coming, which was pretty much what I said the night before too.
Conclusion: he did not respect me in the morning.

Participant B
The Lovely-ex. In pub after work. Vaguely knew him. Got very drunk. Fell into bed. After a rocky start where I bullied him into dating me we got it sorted and were together for two and a half years and lived together in domestic bliss disputes bliss harmony for a year and a half of that.
Conclusion: it was indeed long-term. Hmm, one-all.

Participant C
A lengthy (for me) courtship before dragging him to my lair, and I have no idea if he respects me more for it, or if he respects me at all, but hell, he can do things with his tongue that'd make you go blind.
Conclusion: inconclusive.

Participants D-Z
All the men I wanted to shag but never got to shag. I'm sure they respect me more, now that my cries of "pleeeeease sleeeeeep with meeeeee" have faded.
Conclusion: I'm sure they'd all be on for something long-term, oh yeah.

Statistical analysis
I can’t be arsed running stats tests.

Results
i) It shouldn’t matter a damn.
ii) The only thing I learned was that if the hypothesis is true then it works both ways: there’s been a very lengthy courtship with the one person I want more than anything.
iii) I'd forgotten how tedious it is to run experiments.
iv) I should've applied for funding from some social sciences research council, then I'd have broken even on drinks and condoms.
( crackhouseceilidhband Fuck off back to Mumsnet, Mon 28 Jul 2008, 13:00, 21 replies)