Thirsty /thursday and big squeeze little squeeze
When the both the little happyjoys were realising what words were if they asked for a drink I would ask why they wanted one and if they said they were thirsty I would say no , its tuesday ( or whatever day it was ) ,if it happened on a thursday I would praise them for getting the day right . I suppose it was a lesson in phonemes and intonation but once they realised the deal they did get quite creative in trying to avoid saying the word thirsty , and quite often we all collapsed laughing. They're ten and fourteen now , and we still do it occasionally.

We also used to play big squeeze little squeeze where you say big squeeze is little squeeze and little squeeze is big squeeze then ask which they would like . They ask for a big squueze so you give them a little one , you get the picture . I guess this one was about the arbitrary nature of meaning.

They fuck you up , your mun and dad ,as someone once said
(happyjoy last changed sig on, Mon 24 Nov 2008, 13:57, 3 replies)

My family
are a bit daft, my mum in particular.

Her new favourite thing is to use a made up word to describe every inanimate object. For instance, whilst watching TV the other day, she asked my brother to "pass the oojie boojie" - what she really meant was remote control.

On holiday, she often doesn't sleep very well and it's always muggins here who has to share a room with her. I invariably get asked if I'm awake, and then she starts playing things like I Spy in order to pass the time instead of actually trying to go to sleep - often she ends up playing with herself (no pun intended) as I pretend to be asleep and ignore the childish babble.
(Prawn, Mon 24 Nov 2008, 13:39, Reply)

Goobaroo
Growing up during the 1980s in home of the Big 3 American automotive corporations, we didn’t see many of dem ferrin’ cars about. Organised and promoted fistfights were held over the key issue of ‘Which is the better truck, Ford or Chevy?’, so owning a foreign car was tantamount to shooting a loving family of rivetheads between the eyes, then stealing their truck so you can transport some job-stealing Mexicans across the border.

Sometimes, though, we ventured outside the area, all the way into a different state; a state where liberal open-minded people existed and purchased things like hummus, colour televisions and Hondas.

“DAD, DAD!! What is that car?”
“That, my dear child, is a Goobaroo.”

And so I began to believe that all vehicles not badged with Ford, GM, et al were branded ‘Goobaroos’, despite all the rather obvious and wide reaching evidence to the contrary. Volkswagen, Toyota, Yugo – all owned and manufactured by Goobaroo Inc.

And so the family invented a game; every time a Goobaroo was spotted, we’d shout the colour of the car, then “GOOBAROO UP!” then we would scream and wave our arms in the air until a second Goobaroo drove past. All the while, my father enjoyed the fact that he duped my sister and I into believing his Goobaroo branding for the better part of a decade. And so I remained a small, idiotic, unknowingly racist redneck, shouting ‘Goobaroo’ and waving my arms to the sky at every available opportunity.

Time passed, as often happens. Yet still, when I go back to Detroit to visit friends and family, my sister and I (both 30+ professionals) still shout RED GOOBAROO UP! and jump about like maniacs. Funnily enough, my dad is now a bit ashamed of our Goobaroo-loving behaviour.

I got a job with a large Japanese car manufacturer, where I spent the best part of two years constantly screaming GOOOOOOOOBAROOOOOOOOOO!! in my head while trying to pass myself off as a hard-working level-headed employee.
(TheSnark oh, c'mon, like you didn't see me coming, Mon 24 Nov 2008, 13:10, Reply)

Whilst watching Friends.. Whenever Chandler says "Oh my God", punch Mother.
We like watching Friends in our house.. Mum, Dad, Me and my Brother.

Its Hilarious how often we have to explain that Mother has "fallen down the stairs again".. even though we live in a Bungalow.

Friends is so funny. But we made it funnier by beating Mum to within an inch of her life.. Whenever Ross says "We were on a break" she gets a kick in the cunt, and if Phoebe sings smelly cat..we get her to shit herself.

I can't believe they ended the series..
(TheRiddler Hmmmmm... I concur., Mon 24 Nov 2008, 12:51, Reply)

Food fads
My family didn’t really have any rituals, preferring to leave that sort of thing to the neighbours who were a dab hand with the goat, sickle, wicker man and mistletoe at various times of the year.

However, as a teen I was shamelessly consumed by the food fads, to the point of OCD. One of these was grillsteaks for tea on a Friday night.

(For those of you unfamiliar with grillsteaks, they were a food product of the 1980s that are now probably outlawed in the EU on grounds of taste, health and common decency. They were steak shaped bits of ‘meat’ which I suspect were 70% animal, 20% flavouring and 10% addictive narcotic.)

Friday night was off to the supermarket for the weekly shop, with a teen Macnabbs, gangly, spotty and greasy, used as a beast of burden to ferry the groceries to the car and rewarded with Friday night being grillsteak night. Every Friday for about two years I would cut into my grillsteak to be greeted with a superheated jet of grease and fat that would spurt upwards. In the end, the piercing of the greasy cyst became disturbingly ritualistic. It was the chanting that did it.
(Macnabbs may contain traces of exaggeration on, Mon 24 Nov 2008, 12:40, 7 replies)

“Daddy Tax”…

Whenever I give my kids food or drink, be it dinnertime, or just sweets / snacks etc…as soon as I hand over the goodies, I always ‘nom’ a percentage of it from under their (increasingly annoyed) noses by using the hilarious jape of ‘Daddy Tax’.

Example:

Me: “Here you go kids…here’s a bag of sweets”
Me: *hands over sweets*
Me: *puts hand in bag*
Me: *grabs handful of sweets*
Me: *Noms said sweets*
Kids: “Awww Daaaad!”
Me (attempting rubbish Alan Partridge impression): “Ah HA! – Daddy Tax!”

I’m sure I heard my 5 year old whisper ‘cunt' under his breath once.

Also, this does tend to explain why my kids stay slim and healthy, yet I bear more than a passing resemblance to Jupiter (The planet, not the Roman God)
( Pooflake braces for an onslaught..., Mon 24 Nov 2008, 12:37, 15 replies)

The house that blows you up
Following a house move, we switched from taking the bus to getting a lift to and from school in the car. We lived in the country, and between home and primary school we'd pass only one house on the way.

On the way to school, passing this house meant the car blew up, taking me and my bro and sis with it! Fortunately, on the way back home, driving past this house meant you came back together again.

Hence 3 small children squealing "we've just blown up!" every morning on the way to school, and sighing "phew, we've come-back-together-again" on the way back home.

I don't know why the house blew us up. On the rare occasions that I pass this house now, I still mutter about blowing up under my breath. Old habits are hard to break, I suppose!
(SnowmanSnails, Mon 24 Nov 2008, 12:36, Reply)

Genital sensations
When I was nowt but a nipper I came up with the phrase "willy getter" when my dad drove over small bumps in the road.

Now I'm older I would more accurately describe it as a pulling sensation in the lower gut, like being on a mini-rollercoaster.

Neverthless the phrase has stuck. I am now 31 and still use it, as does my 64yr old father, who deliberately speeds up when he sees a slight knot in the road :-)
(Mean Mad Mutski, Mon 24 Nov 2008, 12:10, 3 replies)

A slight cheat, as this is friends, not family
But a bunch of us all of the same age went on various stag dos and lads weekends over a period of about 5 years where for some reason we'd play that game where you ask someone an obvious question and if they are stupid enough to answer the originator of the question would mime a fishing rod and say ‘Reeled him in’

This gradually evolved to either just a slightly raised eyebrow as everyone of us knew what had just happened and that gesture was enough to make you feel stupid, or the other extreme with the most extravagant mime and ‘REEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEELED!’ said as loudly as possible.

We’d not be able to hold human conversations because anything resembling a question would be treated with utmost suspicion, so we’d communicate in grunts and monosyllables, occasionally punctuated by ‘REEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEELED’ if one of us was stupid enough to answer the question ‘oh, are you going to the bar?’ or ‘do you know where the toilets are’

The game came to a spectacular end when, waiting for a sleazy jet flight at Edinburgh airport, a friend walked up to a guy waiting at the bar, got a copy of Select magazine out of his bag (Oh, that shows my age, that magazine hasn’t existed for years), looked at the front cover, looked at the guy at the bar, looked back at the cover and said, while pointing at the band:

‘excuse me, are you Damon Albarn from Blur?’

And as soon as Albarn went to agree that, yes, that was in fact him, we saw the biggest mimed fishing rod ever and a eardrum shattering ‘REEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEELED!’ and then my friend turning on his heel and running back to us with a look of triumphant glee spread across his face.

I have never seen a pop star look so bemused, then angry. And I have rarely laughed as much in my life.

The game was retired at that precise moment, as we all knew we had just witnessed the finest execution there could possibly be.
( scarpe We Stole Bikes, Mon 24 Nov 2008, 12:10, 1 reply)

Baa
Just remembered a strange ritual of my wife’s that shes passed on. Every time we are in the car and she spots a sheep she will shout out to my kids in the back of the car “Ooh Look kids woolly pigs”.

This ritual has been picked up trait by my kids and will shout it out every time a sheep is spotted, the trouble is that they expect me to be angry about it and will keep repeating “woolly pig” over and over again until I point out that it is a sodding sheep and not a pig. It doesn’t annoy me that they are using some made up animal name but hearing the kids chanting really gets on my nerves:

(Typical situation)

Kids: Look dad a woolly pig!
Me: ...so?
Kids: woolly pig, woolly pig, woolly pig, woolly pig (repeat for the next few miles)
Me: Grah, Ok you win. It’s not a woolly pig it’s a sheep!
Kids: Ha ha ha we knew you would get mad

(I adjust Satnav to redirect me to the nearest orphanage)
(mon bison powered by magnets, Mon 24 Nov 2008, 11:25, 2 replies)

That's the Power of Glove...
It’s 1985. Rakky and Daddy Rakky are out in the car, almost inevitably to buy some kind of tools / DIY equipment / auto parts, anything my Mother wouldn’t be interested in shopping for and we’re having a jolly old time listening to the radio. The DJ announces “and coming up after the adverts we’ll have Huey Lewis and the News…” I started chatting to Dad about something to cover the incessant drone of local radio commercials. As the ads drew to a close, Dad turned to me and said “hush now love, I want to listen to the news…” At which point the opening power chord of the latest Huey Lewis single kicked in and a look of utter confusion descended over Dad’s face. “I thought it was going to be the news?” he muttered. Laughing at my Dad while he was behind the wheel of a car was never a smart move, so I kept in the rising hysteria until we finally got home and I could bear it no longer. I ran in and told my Mum about Dad’s mistake. She immediately barked with laughter and spent the rest of the afternoon ripping the piss out of him. Every time the BBC announcer would utter the words “and next we’ll have the news,” both mum and I would chorus “read by Huey Lewis…”

Now I appreciate that that’s not exactly a great story, but the inimitable Daddy Rakky would have been 67 on Saturday; it’s 19 years since he died, and Mum and I still say, to this day, “read by Huey Lewis” every time we’re together and we hear someone announce that the news is coming up after the break. And it never fails to make me smile.
(Rakky (forgot her password) The muffin maverick, Mon 24 Nov 2008, 11:10, 4 replies)

Its no wonder dad went to prison...
In my childhood home of old with three horrid children scampering about, there was a family song that rang out on a daily basis that none of us can forget.

At varying times of day from the confines of the toilet you would hear the "I've done a poooo poooo" anthem reverbing tunefully, quickly followed by my dear mum scurrying towards the toilet where she would then procede to wipe the excrement from our childish bottys as only mums know how.

On occasion you could be the unlucky recipient of a dad-wiping. After smugly belting out our family hit, the door would spring open and a look of utter horror would spread over your face as you saw dad's puffy red face contorted in distaste.

"Touch your toes" he would bellow, before horning up a wad of toilet paper into what can only be described as a kind of rhino's tusk and then wiping so vigorously you would very soon learn to wipe your own arse.

Maybe eighteen was too old, but who cares...
(wrigglesworth, Mon 24 Nov 2008, 10:57, 1 reply)

Ours
A conscious one in our house is Thanksgiving (last thursday in November). Not because we are Americans (we're English dammit) but because it's a good excuse for a huge meal, beer and Live NFL. Aaaaaaaaah GO BUCCS!
(kitescreech still here, Mon 24 Nov 2008, 10:50, Reply)

Mrs Kite
asks odd questions; more as a reflex than a considered response. Typical:

Kite "Im going for a wee"
Mrs K "Why?"
Kite "Cos my bladders full and it's uncomfortable."

FFS.
(kitescreech still here, Mon 24 Nov 2008, 10:47, Reply)

Search for the Walrus inside yourself
Back in the day when cars still had cassette players instead of these fancy new CD deelies*, my parents had a box full of tapes, including one which contained the M People's Search for the Hero.

My father is rather a large gentleman, with a very deep voice and a formidable moustache. It would be unfair to say that he bears a passing resemblance to a walrus, but he does look a bit like a heftier version of Prof Lord Robert Winston.

Now the M People are most famous for Heather Small's unusually deep voice (for a female singer). Consider the first line of the song:
"Sometimes, a river flows but nothing breathes.
A train arrives but never leaves.
It's a shame."

On that last phrase, she does hit some pretty low notes. So my father, whilst pulled up at the traffic lights, this song running through the tape player and my sister and I in the back, decides to surprise us. At the right moment, this huge, wobbling walrus face turns round to us and bellows, in best basso profondo
"IT'S A SHAME!"
And left us laughing hysterically, to the point whereby every time this song was on the tape player, we'd sit there quietly hoping that Dad would do it again. We probably should have realised on subsequent occasions that it was better for him to keep his eyes on the road - at least, any resulting traffic incident would have been a bit tricky to explain to the police.

Today, I find I have been blessed, similarly, with a very low voice. Maybe in years to come, when I have my own sprogs, I shall be tempted to do the same to them, and make them laugh in the same way. I just fear that the hypothetical son will log on to b3ta years later and tell the story about his own Dad, turning round in the car like an oversized novelty crow and bellowing
"IT'S A SHAME!"

_{*Which invariably seem to break down, while the dealer and garage insist there's nothing they can do to repair it - couldn't you put a new one in? Oh nooo because that would mean you'd have to charge us more money, even though it's surely under a fucking warranty. You bone-idle sheisters.}
(LongJohnBaldry, Mon 24 Nov 2008, 10:26, 4 replies)

Family motto
The family of a friend of mine adopted their family motto from a real incident:

"Mind your foot in the"
(ubergeekian, Mon 24 Nov 2008, 10:02, Reply)

3 Words...
Tangerine In Stocking.
( Agnostic Antichrist Baltimora, Mon 24 Nov 2008, 9:12, 7 replies)

nothingworn's story of being waved out of sight reminds me of something I do.
I always watch my kids out of sight, and if they're on a train or in a car I don't turn away until I can't see or hear the vehicle any more, and I don't stop thinking about them until I lose track of where they'll be on their journey.

Mums're like that.
(Juan Quar is clinging to her front teeth on, Mon 24 Nov 2008, 8:22, 1 reply)

N-n-n-nineteen
On long car journeys, we had a far-too-competitive game where we had to add up number plates, and won a penny from dad if you saw one that added up to 19.

Over the years I must have made as much as three, maybe four pounds. Wow.

Of course, with these new number plates, they've completely dumbed it down. And now that I'm dad, my money's safe: there's no way on God's earth these new plates will ever make 19.
( Scaryduck LIKES EGG, Mon 24 Nov 2008, 8:12, 2 replies)

I was an absolute ear-spacked (deaf), thyroid deficient, seemingly lazy kid at school
Every morning my mother would try to wake me up by hitting me, shoving me, shaking me (this was when I was 15/16), shouting at me, none of it really worked, and we didn't really know about my thyroid.

My mum went into my room one morning, and accidentally brushed my feet. Almost simultaneously shitting and pissing myself, I hovered above the bed. My heart beat 20 to the dozen, and I was AWAKE.

That was how they woke me up every morning for school/college/work from then on.

I'm not sure if this should be under 'Family codes and rituals' or 'Child Cruelty'
( Methylene Blue - electrohead, Mon 24 Nov 2008, 1:52, 4 replies)

Christmas and other annual cock ups
I Cant be the only one who always has arguments with their parents, siblings etcetera every christmas day. Never anything big, just claims of selfishness, laziness and such until someone will refuse to talk to someone else or someone might storm off...
On a side note, me and my sister created our 'own language' when we were little nippers. Looking back, the random sounds me and my sister would randomly use to communicate must have confused, and perhaps worried, those who heard us.
(violent pacifist ;now with 20% more paradox...., Mon 24 Nov 2008, 1:14, 1 reply)

The washing up
Every night in my house after we all watched Coronation Street and had our tea my mum would tell me and my brother to do the washing up. Cue 20 minutes of fighting about who's washing and who's drying. You see my brother, he was wise to my crafty drying technique. Ever the boy scientist I thought I had mastered the domain of drying the dishes by letting them sit there for hours, evaporating all the sudsy goodness so all I had to do was put them away. My brother became all too wise to this and after routinely beating me for doing it came up with a most noble retort. This involved him pouring a jug of cold water all over the crockery every 15 minutes so they'd remain wet meaning I'd have to dry them.

Oh the fun we had, the longest stand off went on for three days with him even setting his alarm clock to get up two or three times during the night to wet the lot and in turn wash away my dreams of a washing up free childhood.
(KnackerDwarf, Mon 24 Nov 2008, 0:55, 2 replies)

birthdays
every time without fail, whenever its someones birthday my dad will insist on doing the following joke

"hey rocknroll_pirates dad, could you hand me the (random object) please?"

"what do you think it is YOUR BIRTHDAY!!! BWAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA!"

every year without fail

you would think I would learn from my mistakes and not ask him for anything but i cant bring myself to deny him pretty much the only thing that makes him laugh hard enough to lose his eyeballs

simple minds simple pleasures i suppose
(rocknroll_pirate had a dream involving holly willoughby and custard, Sun 23 Nov 2008, 23:56, 3 replies)

Cup of Tea
Like a lot of the previous stories this one is about trying to relieve the never ending boredom that was a 2 hour car journey when you were a kid.

This one particular journey was pretty much the same as all of the others we had endured as children. The green Ford Cortina was stacked to the rafters with large camping gear. This is before the time of easy to put up, lightweight tents. These things were made of canvas and steel, came in 2 or 3 massive bags and took up most of the car (inside, the boot and on the roof rack).

So I was squashed in the back, my older brother to one side and my younger brother to the other.

After a quiet period, we'd probably been told off for something, My younger brother, Scott, turned to face me, and said "Would you like a cup of tea?"

I was quite taken in, "yes, I'd love one", I said.

He then punched me square in the middle of my face.

I was crying, laughing and confused. I'd been promised a cup of tea, I got a punch in the face.

The three of us in the back of the car were a mess, we didn't stop laughing until we got home...and even then we probably didn't stop.

From that day on we would always be wary of a friendly offer of a tasty warm beverage and use it as a warning to each other when things were getting a bit out of hand.

I recently told my wife this story, the first time I'd thought about it in 10 years. She just looked at me and said. "Yep, I can imagine trying to come up with an excuse to punch you in the face during a long journey"

Oh well.
( bacon and egg roll is going to be big downunder, Sun 23 Nov 2008, 23:36, 1 reply)

Closing the front door
By putting our hands through the letterbox.

I unscrewed the door handle and hid it under my bed.

Length? No, I didn't think so.
(Mr Idiot Sshhh...my yeast are rising..., Sun 23 Nov 2008, 23:31, Reply)

Chocolate namesakes
Every birthday my parent's have made what is known as a Chocolate (insert name here). As children my sister and I once cards and presents were open we would run to the fridge and come face to chocolate face with the confectionery treat.
I will be 24 next month and still cannot wait to see what the dinner plate size creation will look like this year. When I show my friends they always look perplexed and slightly scared.
I'm considering growing a beard in the hope of getting a larger ratio of hundreds and thousands this year.

Length - The average size of a strawberry lace posing as hair.
(Horatio_the_3rd, Sun 23 Nov 2008, 22:44, Reply)

Waving goodbye
I know this isn't a unique phenomenon, but from time immemorial everyone in the family, wherever they're going, has to be waved from the door of the house for as long as they're visible.

Leaving the grandparents', and we (big sister and I) would be embarrassingly stuck in the back of the Metro for what seemed for an eternity from the backseat, while Dad finished packing the car, reversed out the driveway, checked soft toy attendance, ran back inside to collect Pongo the gorilla, and drove off. Then we'd be chased half-way down the road, mercifully without white handkerchiefs.

I had this for about 10 years of leaving for school as well, every morning. Waving with one hand, while cycling away. I realised eventually this ritual would end when I stopped waving back. I don't have anything against any family members, but I think the neighbours thought my parents were potty.

Length: Depends how long the road was.
(nothingworn didn't eat cheese on, Sun 23 Nov 2008, 22:28, Reply)

Christmas is coming!
I still have to write a letter to father Christmas so that my grandmother doesn't have a mental breakdown.

In fairness, EVERYONE, including her, has to write one. And everyone over 18 in the family gets to read them and people arrange what they buy for who. It's a good system. I am also always the last person to hand it in (deadline was yesterday evening - pah!) as I never know what to ask for.
( morrybyte made a subtle namechange at, Sun 23 Nov 2008, 19:37, Reply)

Some family rituals are better cunted in the fuck
Not a funny one.

Throughout my childhood, the only male member of my father's side of the family who didn't "have a go at me" was my father. From the age of 18 months, Uncle Thomas was caught having a fiddle inside my nappy. I remember at around four years old asking, "Mammy, why does Uncle George do nasty kisses?"
"What do you mean pet?"
"I don't like his kisses, they're all wet and he puts his tongue inside my mouth."

And so it went on. Never any nakedness or penetration, just inappropriate fondling. Constantly being told how gorgeous I was by my grandad, as he slipped £5 inside my skirt.
"Didn't you get a birthday card from uncletony this year?" my mother asked.
"Er, no. Maybe it got lost in the post?" I suggested. I had received his card - a picture of a woman wearing a wet vest, complete with sticky-out raspberries. It read, "To Sexpot, from Stinky". I was 11 or 12, and far too embarassed to put this one on display with the other cards. He was by far the worst. Every Christmas he'd buy me extortionately expensive gifts. Buying my silence. Etc.

So I grew up believing that was my purpose in life. There were frequently other adults around, none of whom seemed to react or notice anything amiss. "It must be ok then", thought my innocent little mind. "I don't like it, but none of the grown-ups ever say anything."

At 8 years old I developed alopecia. My GP diagnosed me with depression. However, my mother was discouraged from seeking any treatment for me as "it would remain on my medical and school records permanently". To say she still feels guilty about that is an understatement.

I took an overdose at 10 years old (24 paracetamol washed down with 2 litres of cider) to no avail. From 14, I began drinking really heavily, getting shitfaced to the point of oblivion. When I lost my virginity to rape 2 weeks after my 16th birthday, it wasn't any big deal - it was par for the course.

I left home at 18 to begin my nurse training. Then began my promiscuity in earnest. So absent was my self esteem, and so desperate I was for affection, I'd hop in the sack with any bloke. It was worth enduring the filth of sex to get a cuddle afterwards.


Then I found DG. Or he found me. We didn't sleep together for 4 weeks. We shared a bed, just cuddling all night. He respected me. He didn't just want sex. He wanted to know me, was interested in who I was. The more he knew, he still stuck around; accepting and respecting me regardless.

Here we are, almost 6 years later. He knows every nook and cranny of my darkness, knows all the vile things I've done over the years. And he's still here; accepting, respecting and loving me regardless. He makes me feel it's ok to be me. I'm not a bad person; I'm not dirty, contaminated goods. I'm ok.

On the 8th April next year, we're getting married at Gretna Green. Then we're in Edinburgh for the weekend, attending teh b3ta bash with lovely people. I'm more than a tad chuffed about that.
( Tourette's ( . )( . ) has a monkey hair in her fried egg, Sun 23 Nov 2008, 19:12, 60 replies)