E.T. stole my biscuit
I can't believe I'm about to admit this to you lot so I'd like to begin by saying that not only is this story totally true, but please don't judge me as an idiot, I was only four years old.

So, when I was four the usual Saturday morning routine was that our parents would leave me and my brother to our own devices while they would have an extra hour in bed, propped up with tea and biscuits reading the paper. Without fail I would come in every week, politely smiling and repeating the phrase "biccy plees". I'd then make a bee-line for the biscuit tin and, as soon as I grasped one in my grubby little mitt, something amazing would happen...

Suddenly a hand would appear from under the duvet, sticking out the side of the bed. The thumb would remain static while the rest of the fingers, as one, would bob up and down resembling a speaking mouth and, lo and behold, a voice would be heard.

"I'm E.T. Can I have a biscuit?"

Okay, laugh it up. See, I knew that was my dad's hand, and I definitely knew that it was his voice but, being four, you're not that confident in what you know is right or wrong. So, feeling a teeny bit guilty I turn my puppy dog eyes up to my father for reassurance. He puts on this hugely sad voice and, looking at his hand with utter dispair says "E.T. is really hungry, he only wants a biscuit."

No. He wanted MY biscuit and there's no way I'm falling for this. Then my mind pipes up with the following. 'What if we're wrong? What if it really is E.T.? After all we were wrong about that whole pooing-on-the-carpet-being-fine thing. E.T. looks really hungry. What if you don't give him your biscuit and he goes all white and crusty like in the film? That really made you cry. Oh no! What if he dies?'

By now my lip is quivering and the guilt is reaching epic proportions. Sniffing back the first of the inevitable tears I step forward and give my biscuit to E.T. He eagerly snatches it from my hand and disappears back into the bed to eat his biscuit in the privacy of the under-duvet area and I quickly leave the room so my parents don't see me crying. I was about to selfishly eat the biscuit and comdemn E.T. to certain death! I felt so horrible.



E.T. ate my sodding biscuit every Saturday for nearly two whole years.

I hate you E.T.

P.S. There is no truth to the rumour that one Saturday morning, when mummy was out, E.T. started being very naughty and touched me in the bathing suit area.

P.P.S. Should I be freaked out by the fact that my real life sounds like one of Stusut79's bizarre ramblings?

EDIT: I still fucking hate you E.T.
( Gleeballs is mostly made out of chocolate and hate., Fri 14 Oct 2005, 9:00, Reply)