Some of you may remember from one of my longer tales
that a girl I was seeing for a while turned into a rug-muncher.

It happened that the girl that she hooked up with was Jewish.

This Jewish girl and her (also Jewish) housemates decided to have a "bad taste" party to celebrate something or other.

You know the drill, horrible jumpers, 80s clothes, that sort of thing.

Apparently a bacon waistcoat was not acceptable.....
( Vipros. clever got me this far, then tricky got me in, Thu 19 Mar 2009, 17:15, 4 replies)

My victory over the witnesses
It doesn't happen often, but it feels oh so good when it does...

(I should mention beforehand that I have, when I want to, an extremely unnerving grin. "It looks like you're wondering where to bury the body parts" said one friend who is sometimes on the recieving end of it)

Picture the scene. A lovely, hot summer's day back in 2006. I was in the middle of making something in the garage, and had just cut my hand on something. Quite a bad cut, so blood liberally over both hands.

Then they walked down the drive. To see me grinning manically, covered in blood, clutching a bloody (literally) enormous saw in my hand and walking swiftly toward them...

They ran away. Not just from me, but from the entire part of the estate I live on. Go me!
( MatJ LOOK, Thu 19 Mar 2009, 17:07, Reply)

Christenings
One of chickenlady's childhood friends sent us an invitation to their baby's christening a few weeks back. Now chickenlady and her pals all know each other from Catholic school, which to be honest as a boy raised as C&E in it's loosest sense is all a little new to me.

The weekend before, we were mooching around town when chickenlady remembered the upcoming christening and announced:

"We do need to get the little chap a christening gift"

Fair play and all... I can count the christenings I've been to on less than two fingers.

"What do you normally get for these occasions?" I asked

"It's got to be something they'll keep forever" she patiently replied, in a tone of voice that suggested that perhaps my own suggestion for a present might be welcome.

Something he'll keep forever... Hmmmm.... *thinks*

Apparently it's not the done thing to offer to get your friend's baby tattoed.
(Bicycle Repairman "you're also a bit of a wanker", Thu 19 Mar 2009, 17:06, 1 reply)

Suspicions
My Grandma is a very, very devout Catholic of good, one-of-nine-children Irish stock. Until her marbles started to slowly roll away from her, she was up at 6 every morning to pray the Rosary for a couple of hours before going to Mass. She was like this even when her children were young, and even now she lives in a home run by nuns and is still going to church every day.

Both her and her three sisters were sent to convent school, with the intention that they would become brides of Christ. The three sisters managed it*.

For some reason, though, my Grandma didn't. She was considered to be "not nun material." Which is somewhat puzzling, given that even her sisters think she's a bit keen.

There is part of me that wants to know exactly what she was doing at convent school that she's spent the rest of her life trying to make up for.

Then I remember that I'd probably have to take my brain out and scrub it in acetone if I did find out.


*including Sr. Celine, a magnificent jolly Guinness-supping, squeezebox-playing specimen
(Concrete Cow, Thu 19 Mar 2009, 17:04, Reply)

Is there a god ?
Click on here for the definative answer

www.400monkeys.com/God/
(Betty Boothroyd's Love custard Tourettes at the KOB, Thu 19 Mar 2009, 17:03, Reply)

i'm not the kind of person who believes in god but..
on the day of my youngest cousins christening, i was sure someone up there liked me.

my great grandma is not a nice women. she acts horrible towards people, plays people off against one another and she always has done throughout her life.
at my cousins christening i showed up to be met with the usual

"are you still wearing that goff stuff?" (i was wearing a black skirt)
"so that nice boy get sick of you?"
"why are you so fat?" (i'm a uk size 8)
"you should go to church more often why don't you go!?"

the "why don't you go to church?" thing then turned into a rant about how god was going to smite me down the minute i stepped into the church.

my great grandma decided she was going to be the first one out of us to walk into the church.
as she did the door slammed back as she was half way through it, hitting her in the face and pushing her out of the church.

i guess thats the closest to a smiting i could have hoped for.

.
(i eat crayons, Thu 19 Mar 2009, 17:02, 2 replies)

Rainbow-Coloured Booze, Fire, and Addiction
Several years ago my sister had the misfortune to fall in love with and marry a man named Kevin.

My sis had a BIG church wedding, the type of affair the Beckham's would probably have scanned the itinery for only to say: "Fuck me, this is a bit pricey."

Being the helpful, useful individual that I am my sister forbade me from having any involvement in the arrangements whatsoever. All I had to do was turn up to this leafy part of West Sussex on the right day, on the right month, on the right year and stand still for a few hours.

No probs, sis. Consider it done and dusted.

So I turn up at Kevin's house the night before the wedding. My sister's off somewhere else being a big girly. Kevin's a bit of a boring fucker so we stayed in and played on the Playstation with his little brother. My suggestion that we go into Brighton and pick up some tarts was a complete non-fucking-starter.

And this is where my problems started. You see, I'm a smoker. I fucking love it. If I had a choice between sex and smoking I really would probably plum for the fags (err, cigarettes, that is - not the bum love). But my family don't know I smoke. Sounds rediculous, but quite frankly I don't see them that often and its just easier to sneak off and have a crafty smoke, eat some mints, and tut at "those evil fucking smokers," while secretly wanting to go and snog anyone who has so much as had a drag of a Marlborough Light.

And so begins the game of cat and mouse. Spanky pretends to go to the off license to pick up supplies, Spanky is actually hiding in the bushes at the end of the road, sucking the life out of two cigs in a row, chomping down on some mints, and then returning back to the house.

I knew my sister's wedding day was going to be a monumental fucking nightmare as I fought off nicotine withdrawl.

Fastforward a fair bit - its the next day, a glorious sunny Sussex afternoon, my sis and Kevin are now married. My parents have flown in from Italy and are mulling about, the church is full of relatives and well wishers. And I'm sitting near the front thinking: Fuck me, I could do with a fag. I'm incredibly aware of the packet of ten burning a hole in my jacket pocket.

After the ceremony the assembly stands and piles out of the church, we all trail next door to the hotel where my sis is having her reception.

My mum corners me and starts asking when I'm going to provide her with some grandchildren. I duck out of that one and go to the bar.

Big mistake.

I ask for some lager and the fella passes me a bottle. I go to pay him and he utters those two little words that mean so much, those two special, incredibly wonderful words. He says:

"Free bar."

And I'm in paradise.

Roll on a couple of hours. I'm stood at the bar with Kevin's little brother. He seems to have become a bit of a sidekick of mine. We've gone through all the colours of the rainbow for the spirits on offer. After we've downed some bright green stuff I beckon him closer.

"Don't tell anyone, Kevin's-little-brother, but I'm going for a fag," and I put my finger to my lips and go "shhhhhhh," and I fuck off in search of a quiet place to have a crafty cig.

And then I realise I am absolutely fucking hammered. I can hardly fucking walk.

Thankfully, its getting dark by now. I shouldn't have too much trouble finding a quiet area. Fuck! My auntie Maria's grabbed me! She wants to talk about my fucking job! Fuck off, auntie Maria! I make my excuses and move away.

Now, this hotel where my sister was having her reception was a big, posh place with big posh gardens. I stagger out and away from the noise of the gathered crowd and find myself walking towards the church, over the rolling grounds.

By this stage not even the sweet smell of the whole roast suckling pig could sway my attention. I really desperately needed a fag.

Then I walk into something on the ground and fall over. What the FUCK is THAT? I ask myself. It looked like a weird cylindrical parcel, or rather series of parcels, tied to a metal trellis of some kind. Jesus, I'm pissed. I didn't even notice it. Then, as my head clears slightly, I notice there's quite a few of these weird objects spaced out in my vicinity. I look back at the trellis I fell over, its laying on its side. I pick it up and plant it back down as best as I could, and continued in my quest to find a quiet place to smoke.

Eventually I find a secluded spot behind a tree to have a fag.

Later, much later. The dead of night. The rain has come and everyones huddled under a balcony in the hotel gardens. We've eaten, we've drunk shitloads, I've been accused of being a sex pest by my cousins, and now its the big event.

The firework display.

Oh, fuck...

Kevin stands infront of us and goes on about the weather, and says that the organisers are in a hurry to get the show on before the rain fucks up the entire display. It really is hammering down, I see a group of fellas rushing round, checking shit on the ground, only they seem to be doing so far too fucking quickly. Jesus, its only a bit of rain, well, alot of rain...

And then, with a thunderous round of applause, the fireworks start. Kevin's little brother comes and stands next to me. We watch in awed silence.

Wooooshhhh - BOOOOM!!!!

Wooooooooooossssshhhhhhhhhhhh - CRACK CRACK CRACK!!!

Suddenly a set of fireworks which just happened to be in the area where I was stumbling about earlier shoots off - but at an angle.

And three or four incredibly large and powerful fireworks slam into the side of the church just next door, just below the clock tower. It was like something out of Desert fucking Storm.

And there's a little bit of fire and a lot of smoke.

The display continues, but no ones looking in that direction anymore.

All eyes are glued on the church.

Oh, fuck...

And all the way through this I kept my gob well and truly shut.

So, when it comes to being in God's bad books, I reckon setting fire to one of his gaffs is pretty high up on the list of no-no's.

Thankfully the fire didn't last very long, but it did cause an incredible amount of damage to a three meter squared section of clock tower.

If my sister ever found out about this she would fucking kill me. Thankfully, she was insured and that covered the cost.

And anyway, I blame the cigarette and alcohol companies - they've made me the man I am today, not me...
( SpankyHanky, Thu 19 Mar 2009, 16:52, 8 replies)

Go ahead and convert me!
Dear religious folk of B3ta,

I'm an atheist. I always have been - I've never found any reason to believe in any of the various gods on offer. Most of them don't sound very nice. However, I'm ready and listening - go ahead and try to convert me! I will listen patiently and reply politely.

Love,

Ennui
( Ennui loves you, Thu 19 Mar 2009, 16:48, 10 replies)

Jesus Paul
A bit of a pea-roast from "Office Nutters", so here are the edited highlights.

Jesus Paul was once merely Paul, the office hell-raiser, drunkard and womaniser.

All of a sudden - the result of trying to get into the knickers of a girl who he found was a regular at a happy-clappy church - he found God. In a big way.

Jesus Paul was one of these 'all-or-nothing' people, and he threw himself completely and utterly into his faith.

From leaflets on the desk, he soon moved to sending religious tracts in letters to claimants. This was the Dole Office, and, frankly, they didn't like it one bit. I'm a deity-curious atheist, and found it all hugely funny. The unemployed of Reading, it turned out, did not.

After the first few dozen complaints, they showed the kind of blazing incompetence for which the civil service is rightly renowned, and stuck him on the reception desk, answering phones and meeting real, live actual people.

Typical conversation:

"Where's me fookin' dole money?"

"Have you got Jesus in your life?"

"No, an' where's me fookin' ..." *THUMP*

After the first few smitings, our fighter for Jebus was shown the door.

The army had him.


Full 12-inch remix, you say? It is HERE
( Scaryduck LIKES EGG, Thu 19 Mar 2009, 16:41, 2 replies)

How
do you get a nun pregnant?




Dress her up as an altar boy.

Boom tish!
(Pill Popper Thank you Sasha Shulgin, Thu 19 Mar 2009, 16:39, 3 replies)

holder
holder
(powervator and NONE SHALL PASS, Thu 19 Mar 2009, 16:28, 4 replies)

Principles...
My Grandma asked me if I believed in God when I was about ten.

I said I wasn't sure - it all seemed a bit odd.

She was shocked and told me it was really important to believe in God. What we believe in gives us our principles and makes us who we are, and Jesus was the Son of God who had been sent to show us the way to God.

'So what Church are you Gran?'
'Well, I was raised Chapel but I joined the CofE when your Dad was young because I wanted him to be a choirboy and they had a better choir'

Oh, right. Glad to see you stood by what you believed in then....

I suspect an awful lot of the replies we'll see on this question could also have been answers to the 'Hypocrisy' QOTW a while back.
(SnowyTheWereRabbit the Leporid from Hell, Thu 19 Mar 2009, 16:28, Reply)

I'm a dyslexic agnostic insomniac...
I lay awake at night wondering if there's a dog.
( Noeli overtheshoulderboulderholderthingstraplatchboobs, Thu 19 Mar 2009, 16:28, 4 replies)

How I lost my faith.
Well, who would have thought there were that many wavy lines available.

So, back when I was a youngun the local CofE used to have a huge garden party with fun, games, tombola, tea, cakes and little sarnies. You know the drill. Being of the ragged arsed crew me and my mates would go and peer through holes in the fence at all of the posh people (read people with their own teeth and shoes) having their annual good time. This one year we discovered someone had left a gate open and we could sneak into the grounds but not the area where the party was, that was behind a big stone wall. A big stone wall with cracks, lumps and handholds galore. We were 9 years old and did as you would expect. We climbed the wall.

We managed to get to the top of that huge wall and sat on it with our legs dangling at what seemed like a huge height. Even then the fear of God had been drummed into us at school and (Methodist) Sunday school so we never thought of jumping down and joining in. There we were sitting like a row of rather delinquent dolls on a side-show shelf, just waiting to be knocked down. Luckily for us the local vicar was a very accommodating fellow. Up he strides with a furious look on his beetroot face, shouting at the top of his ecumenical voice.

“You boys! Scruffy urchins! Get down now!”

As it happens I’ve always had problems with blind obedience and asked why as we weren’t doing any harm. We were only sitting watching, chattering like shaven monkeys.

“This place isn’t for the likes of you!”

He spat the words with unbridled disgust and grabbing my leg he pulled me down from the wall. I landed in an untidy heap and found myself propelled to my feet quicker than I had fell. The kindly reverend grabbed my arm and marched me from the grounds of the vicarage. Unfortunately for the vicar it was Sunday and as such bath night in the Porky household, whether one was needed or not. My mother was used to me being covered in scrapes and cuts but she was shocked by the hand shaped bruises. I owned up, expecting a clip round the lug or a good telling off. She did neither. Saying nothing she went and got my father. He took one look at the state of my skinny little frame and left, grabbing his cap and jacket on the way out. I’ve no idea what my Dad said to the vicar but knowing him it probably involved either some threat of physical injury or the insertion of one of his damned crucifixes in an orifice not usually designed for worship.

Whatever happened, I never attended church again, even though it probably ruined my parents Sunday mornings. To be honest I didn’t want to go to a place with people like that vicar.

Not a life threatening disease or a huge turbulent event in the run of things, but it’s strange how small things can kill faith as well.
(porkylips looks better as the sun goes down., Thu 19 Mar 2009, 16:26, 1 reply)

Praying
I am not religious, my parents didn't christen me and I have never been to church for anything other than weddings and funerals. However I do have the typical wants and desires that I may or may not get depending on effort and basic chance. In these situations I often feel the urge to pray in order to improve my chances of getting what I want. However, this would make me feel like a hypocrite as I’m not convinced that there is an almighty creator, and if there is, surely begging him for selfish reasons is only going to incur his wrath and lesson my chance of success.

Therefore I need a different figure to pray to. After careful consideration I have decided to try praying to Enzyme. Now before you write me off as a nutcase here are some similarities he shares with my current receiver of prayer:-

1) I've never met him.
2) I don't know his real name
3) I'm not sure what he looks like
4) He's responsible for a couple of books being written
5) He's knowledgeable
6) People have pointless arguments over stuff he’s written
7) I wont know if my success or failure can be attributed to having prayed to him

He also seems like the kind of guy that gets things done which is a quality I am looking for in a focal point for my prayers. It will be interesting to see if I can improve on my current success hit rate with this new figurehead for my prayers.
( Colonel Dracula Two manky hookers and a racist dwarf, Thu 19 Mar 2009, 16:26, 10 replies)

It was the summer holidays
and my first proper girlfriend and I had recently started exploring the joys of the horizontal tango. With her mum and sister constantly at home, we had to find more and more novel places to go for a fumble.

We'd taken to packing a picnic and going for walks in the countryside, stopping in secluded thickets or crop fields to exchange naughties.

The time in question, we'd walked about three miles and came to a village. In this village was a church. Being less of a god-botherer than an appreciator of grand architecture, I dragged her in the church for a look around.

While the missus sat on the foot of the font and rolled her eyes at me, I enjoyed the Norman arches, the detailing on the eaves and the little faces carved into the candlesticks. A sarcophoegus with a thick marble top held a local dignitary, whose details had been painstakingly carved into the top for all to see.

Anyway... eventually my girlfriend tired of waiting and piped 'I'm horny!' knowing this'd certainly get my attention. I walked over and pulled her to her feet, giving her a peck on the lips. She pulled me in for a deeper kiss and soon we were in full flow, snogging and groping like the lustful teenagers we were.

Things were gathering pace, and soon enough she was unzipping me and started playing the pink oboe with some skill.

It didn't take me long to reach my peak and I warned her of my impending explosion - she hadn't warmed to the idea of swallowing and usually finished me off by hand, which is what she did.

She stopped sucking and started tugging away, and I came hard...

Into the font.

We kissed, I zipped up and continued on our walk.

Now I know there's no god, cos I'm sure he'd have smited me good and proper for that.
( Noeli overtheshoulderboulderholderthingstraplatchboobs, Thu 19 Mar 2009, 16:24, 1 reply)

How to have fun in church
Step 1: Hide behind the baptismal font with a massive block of sodium.

Step 2: At the first mention of "fire and brimstone", chuck it in.

Blatantly ripped off from somewhere, I can't remember where. Wish I'd thought of it myself. Wish still more that I had the balls to do it.
(grandmasterfluffles Come to my Armageddon party on, Thu 19 Mar 2009, 16:22, 5 replies)

Ah, God
Ah, religion. The answer to a question when you don't know all the facts. A bunch of primitive tribesmen made it up, so we should just trust them. After all, in their ignorance and superstition they somehow knew better than we do now.

A lot of people come to South Korea curious about religion. Well, I've got news for you. It's dominated by Presbytarians with Confucianist values. Korean Christianity is, in every way, worse than any form of Christianity you're probably familiar with. Basically, it entered this country by converting the wives of rich businessmen, telling them their husbands would lose all their money if they didn't give money to God (who really cares what some Asian jagoff's wife does in her spare time). From there the big churches became temples of opulence and conspicuous consumption. I know that probably describes nearly every church, but it's worse here than I've seen elsewhere.

I could (and will) tell some pretty horrible stories about Christianity here. The church that sends missionaries into war zones, and then when they get captured, forces the government to pay their ransoms. The minister who told female followers that the only way to erase Eve's sin was to get raped by him (currently starting a ten-year sentence, woohoo!) The religious fanatic president who announces "Let the Buddhist temples burn to the ground!" The countless girls who shoot me down because "I want to marry a man who is kind and Christian." But I'm going to tell you the one that makes me angriest.

My wife really dislikes most of her inlaws, but there's one family in particular. The father wasn't religious, but the mother and daughter were both hopeless Christians who believe God rewards faith with cold hard cash and top grades. There also used to be a son, but well...

He had a very serious disease. I don't know the name, in English or Korean, but something leukemia-serious. Fortunately, there was a cure. It was expensive, and not 100% guaranteed to work, but it could save his life, and they had just the right amount of money saved up. The mother knew what she had to do. She took all that money, and donated it to her church. God would cure him. Rather than pay for the actual medical cure, the only thing that had a remote chance of working, she gave it all up hoping for a miracle.

You probably think you know what will happen next. Yes, the boy passed away. But what elevates this from sad tragedy (and in a rational society possibly warranting criminal charges of child abuse), to sick twisted tale possibly eligible for a Darwin Award, is the non-religious father. What did he do next, after his wife signed away the money for the fucking cure? He joined their church.

This god they worship, if real, is clearly less advanced than modern humanity. Today we know more about life, more about the universe, and we still don't know why there's something from nothing, but we're closer to the truth. The god who instructed Joshua when to slaughter his neighbours probably didn't even know there was a Korea.
(racetraitor has an alibi for, Thu 19 Mar 2009, 16:20, 3 replies)

Religion is all wank
`I refuse to prove that I exist,' says God, `for proof denies faith, and without faith I am nothing.'

I know that's from HHGTTG but its true. He only exists because people think he does.. if we all don't think it, he wont... but doesn't that imply he does, because to not exist first you must believe you do exist.....

And lets face it, most of the wars are religious so surely that makes it a bad thing and something NOT to be celebrated?

I love god myself.... deep fried with chips and curry sauce.. tasty!
(scowners shagged his mum on, Thu 19 Mar 2009, 16:13, 4 replies)

I was going to hell, now it's about religion!
my first pea....

Picture this, I grew up in a small Cornish Village at the heart of which was a Methodist church where I was forced to go to Sunday School. I was 11 and had long ago decided that the whole religion thing was not for me.

I think it was about 1983 and I had just began to develop an interest in Heavy Metal and Iron Maiden in particular.

It was just before Christmas and the church had decided that the older members of Sunday School would each read a passage of their choosing from the Bible at one of the services leading up to Christmas.

I chose a passage and duly practiced it for the few weeks preceeding the big day. However, on the day an 11 year old Vauxhall Burgundy approached the pulpit, placed a hand firmly on each side and fixed the congregation with a manic glare and proceeded to deliver the opening spoken lines from 'Number of the Beast'. (If you don't know what they are then this story may well pass you by!)

Nobody stopped me and when I had finished a sea of horrified faces stared at me. I stood back, took and bow and left - never went back to Sunday school, the Minister had a word with my parents and suggested that my attitude wasn't quite right!
(Vauxhall Burgundy, Thu 19 Mar 2009, 16:09, 4 replies)

Comedy in all senses of the word
I went to a comedy gig at my uni once (Norman Lovett was playing) wearing my "Jesus Is A Cunt" t-shirt. My girlfriend at the time was not too impressed.

Even less impressed were the people sitting in the row behind me when I stood up for the interval. I turned round happily, faced them all, watched their faces turn to thunder and then realised who they were.

15-20 members of the Christian Union.

Oh, such fun.
(cypherspace is not a toaster, Thu 19 Mar 2009, 16:08, 2 replies)

My Grandma's funeral
Firstly a bit of background for you all- I come from a very strict Roman Catholic family (my Grandfather was a Deacon ffs- for those of you that don't know that's one down from a Priest).

My Grandma was, to put it bluntly, a bitch. She was sent straight from Hell to torment my mother and her four brothers every day of their lives. Her twat of a husband (Deacon Grandpapa) was Satan himself who abused his kids both mentally, physically and sexually. As you can imagine, me and my two sisters weren't all that keen on the pair. But, for some reason, we always had to stay in contact with them for my mother had been brainwashed by them Catholics from an early age and believed that ten commandment crap about respecting your mother and father and shit.

So when my Mum died 8 years ago me, my Dad and my two sisters jointly thought, 'Fuck them.' And never spoke to them again.

Cut to 5 years after that and Deacon Satan pops his pickled-livered hip-popping cloggs. Did we go to the funeral? Did we fuck.

Exactly a month after that- Grandma decides to hop it back to Hell too. Now, for some strange reason - maybe Catholic guilt, maybe drugs, I just can't say- me and my sisters suddenly feel a little bit guilty that we never spoke to her again.

So we decide that we will go to this funeral. We weren't looking forward to seeing 'the faaaamily' again, but off we popped.

Turns out that the two hour drive we were expecting was actually 2 and a half. So we arrived late. Yes, LATE to my Grandmother's funeral. But not only were we late, we were doing a very noisy 75 down an old biddy style quiet country lane and did a handbrake turn into the church yard. We SCREECHED into the church yard and looked at the whole family, waiting outside, watching the coffin being carried in, utterly disgusted by us black sheep.

To top it off, my sister who had driven decided she needed to change from her 'driving shoes' (a concept I've never understood as I can drive in any shoe imaginable) so she lept out of the car- WAVED at people (remember, they hate us, we hate them, we haven't seen each other for years)- then proceeded in vain to attempt to change from her ridiculous little leopard print ballet pump things to black knee length boots. I don't know which type of footwear was less appropriate. At this point my little sister spots an Uncle crying and bursts out laughing. To this day she doesn't know why and puts it down to nerves. Her giggles didn't stop. All through the service.

So anyway, were (obviously) last to enter the church. But when we got in the only fucking bench thing left was the second row from front. So down we sat. Lil sis's giggles still making her shake uncontrolably. This sets me and big sis off too.. the three of us are sat there shaking like mad women- the worst thing is people thought we were crying so were handing us tissues. We just had to take them without turning round in case they weren't met with the teary faces they'd anticipated and were instead greeting by three grinning idiots. Disrespectful idiots.

The service starts. My Grandmother had three siblings, two of which in were in t'ground too and one which was sat on the row behind us, Auntie Anne. She's a bitch n all. The Priest talks about Grandma's life n that and then says, 'So of course, Teresa will now be joining her siblings in heaven, Frank, Anne..' and Anne shouts, 'I'M NOT DEAD!'

This of course did nothing to help stiffle our giggles and I just couldn't hold it in any longer- I burst out laughing and I - I don't know why- turned around to face my grieving relatives and laughed in all of theirs faces. Their faces of horror just made me laugh even more.

We didn't stay for the wake. We haven't seen the family since.
(Otter as serious as cancer, Thu 19 Mar 2009, 16:05, 7 replies)

God? Mmm nah!
Yaay thanks B3ta, I have something I can post this week!

The instant I saw the topic of this weeks QOTW I remembered the time I met the crazy religious nut from Europe.

I was out with my mates at the time when we met her, she was out walking her dogs and you could tell that she wasn’t from the area due to the fact that she was talked with a real hoarse voice and was wearing clothing that made her look like a member of the russian entry into a gymnastic event.

Despite these flaws ,and the fact that my mates didn’t really take to her from the start, I decided to talk to her anf find a bit more about her (And hopefully add another country to my shag list).

I quickly realized that this was to be a none starter as the first thing she did was ask me about God…or more specifically if I was a god. Naturally I said no, she kicked off a mate of hers (A real fat bastard) turned up to try and kill me and my mates.

Still I learnt two things from this incident:
1) The next time someone asks me if I am a God then I say “Yes”
2) Busting makes me feel good
(mon bison powered by magnets, Thu 19 Mar 2009, 16:03, 3 replies)

I used to be an altarboy,
as unlikely as that seems to those on here who know me, but yes, I was a sweet faced angelic altar boy. Sort of.

So, the priest at my school parish was an old Irish chap by the name of Father Michael Corry. He was a thoroughly nice person (so no paedo jokes here I'm afraid), although he did used to pat you on the head when he came to visit and nearly crush your skull in doing so. He was quite a large chap also and I don't think he knew his own strength. As Altarboys we used to get paid a small amount of money for serving at funerals. Usually a fiver from the Undertaker, but back then my pocket money was only £1.50 a week, and so it was like Christmas had come early. One of Father Corry's favourite stories was how he had to chastise me and one of the other altar boys when he caught us going through the obituaries section in the local rag to see if anyone had died recently and whether we'd be getting paid that week.

Anyway, that's not the story I wanted to tell. The story I wanted to tell was about the time we were serving one of said funerals, and it got to the Eternal Rest part of the mass.

For all you non-catlick types, the prayer is as follows:

"Eternal rest grant unto them O Lord,
And Let perpetual light shine upon them".

I have already mentioned that Father Corry was rather an old chap, and one of his many quirks (apart from sending schoolchildren to hospital with affection-related cranial injuries) was that he would sometimes get his words mixed up. Sometimes in a spoonerism kind of way, sometimes in a confusing words that sound similar kind of way. It was on a rare occasion such as this that he did both. And thusly:

"Eternal rest grant unto them O Lord,
And let perpetual shite lie upon them".

So I can now rightfully take my place in hell as someone who burst into an uncontrollabe fit of laughter at the funeral of a man I've never met.

We didn't get paid that day :(
( PMGT -Bacon., Thu 19 Mar 2009, 16:03, Reply)

First time I ever kissed a girl
Was in the graveyard of the local church. I had waited ages, all my friends had already kissed girls, but finally my time had come!

She was a terrible, slobbery kisser.

There is no God.
( Labia Majora You keep on talking but it makes no sense at all, Thu 19 Mar 2009, 16:02, Reply)

I was friends with the Christian Union Rep at college
He was pretty hardcore. He told me that he accepted that God was a vengeful God, and believed that only the righteous who lived according to the Word of God would be saved. Sinners like me would go to Hell, or (he hoped but thought it might be wishful thinking) linger in Purgatory for all Eternity.

Then he had too many drinks in the pub one night and tried to feel my cock whilst whispering that he wanted me.
(SnowyTheWereRabbit the Leporid from Hell, Thu 19 Mar 2009, 16:00, Reply)

"Intelligent Design"
"The Banana is PROOF that we were designed by a greater being, for it fits the hand PERFECTLY"

Yes... It fits the pussy perfectly too.... Is that part of the plan? Tosspot.
( Humpty Dumpty was Pushed Is unaware of having any limits., Thu 19 Mar 2009, 15:59, 5 replies)

I like this quote
"Is God willing to prevent evil, but not able?
Then he is not omnipotent.
Is he able, but not willing?
Then he is malevolent.
Is he both able and willing?
Then whence cometh evil?
Is he neither able nor willing?
Then why call him God?"

Epicurus (341 BC - 270 BC)
( Zuowan, Thu 19 Mar 2009, 15:56, Reply)

The Creation
Dear God,

Pictures or it didn't happen.
( Anthropos Was making beer on, Thu 19 Mar 2009, 15:53, 2 replies)