Mr Jingles
I have one of those friends who posts status updates to Facebosh to inform all of *everything* that happens in her life. Recently, her status updates ran thusly:

15:46 ...has just rescued a mouse from a horrible sticky mouse trap. Sooo cruel it was just, like, glued there! yay me!

16:11 Turns out the mouse lost quite a lot of fur and skin on his poor belly from the trap. I'm gonna nurse him all better and call him Mr Jingles like in the Green Mile!

16:39 Has just given Mr Jingles a soothing bath/wash and is gonna build him a little home to live in! He gonna be a circus mouse! ;o)

16:54 Mr Jingles is nibbling away at biscuit crumbs! Soooooo cute!

17:44 Would anyone like to come to Mr Jingles housewarming party? Hee hee! Found an old wooden box in the garage and have put some cotton wool and an old catbowl of water in there for him! Don't tell anyone I've taken in a lodger! Hee Hee! x

18:29 OMG! I was only gone 5 minutes and Mr Jingles drowned in his waterbowl :o( :o(
(R. Jimlad twitter.com/sirmarkymark, Thu 22 Jul 2010, 16:48, 12 replies)

Unlucky in love
Since divorcing my mum, my dad – now in his fifties - hasn’t had much luck on the dating front. While this is in part down to his taste in unsuitable women – in short, anything with a pulse – he’s not been helped by a tendency to propose to anyone who can put up with him for three dates or more.

But last summer, Dad finally seemed to have struck lucky. He met a lovely lady (let’s call her Sharon) on the internet. They both liked motorbikes, shared a similar taste in appalling jokes, and generally got on like a house on fire.

Nevertheless, Dad decided to ‘take this one slow’. Sharon – just out of a rough relationship herself – agreed. However, they soon fell deeply in love. While Dad usually had little to say on the phone to me, now he was happy to talk about himself and Sharon and seemed truly content. Certain that she was the one, he bought a wedding ring and prepared to pop the question around Christmas time.

Sadly, he never got the chance. At the beginning of December, Sharon went to the doctor complaining of a pain in her stomach. Bowel cancer was diagnosed, and Sharon was operated on almost immediately. However, the disease had spread too far. Tragically, by the end of the month Sharon had passed away.

My dad takes most things in his stride, but he was genuinely heartbroken. One minute he had been thinking of marrying this woman – the next he was at her funeral.

The day after Sharon was laid to rest, I called to see how dad was getting on. He confessed that he didn’t really know where to turn now, not least as everything had happened so quickly.

“I can’t believe she’s gone,” he told me. “It was only about a month ago that we told each other that we’d like to spend the rest of our lives together.”

He paused for a second. And then, brightening somewhat, he added:

“Well, I suppose she did do that really.”

At which, I almost pissed myself.
(silencer, Tue 27 Jul 2010, 16:22, 11 replies)

My sisters' 40th
My sister recently celebrated her 40th birthday. All and sundry were invited, and the main living room of her house (no bigger than the Great Hall at Hampton Court, or maybe Wembley stadium) was converted into a function room. Lots of tables with white linen and flowers, hired in caterers and waitresses (did I mention my sister is loaded, the bitch?) and (and here my downfall starts) rather a large amount of wine.

This was the first problem, as I do like a drop or two of tasty, tasty fermented grape juice. The second problem is that I was seated next to my brother in law. We have a rather unfortunate relationship, i.e. we are far too similar. We both have an inappropriate sense of humour (might tell the "guffawing at uncle's funeral" story later) and have a disconcerting habit of trying to make the other laugh at bad times.

Now, the meal had been consumed and we were all sitting around repleat. My sister made a speech, my dad proposed a toast, and all that was to happen was for the cake to be brought in before the tables were cleared away for the evening's partaaying.

Here's where things went downhill.

My sister's daughter was 11 at the time and had just taken up the viola. Now, she had decided that as the cake came in she was going to play "Happy Birthday" on the viola from the minstrels' gallery type thing which overlooked the living room (in point of fact, it used to be a hayloft but now converted for this porpoise.) Anyhoo, as the cake came in, everyone gave rapt silence to my niece as she started playing.

Unfortunately, my niece did not know the difference between a major and a minor key, so this version of Happy Birthday was particularly bleak, as if to suggest that this would be the last birthday my sister, or indeed any of us present, would enjoy. By the third bar I made the fatal error of looking over at my brother in law to see an expression on his face that I imagine mirrored my own: a grim set jaw with a spastic twitch at the corners of his mouth as he was desperately trying to prevent spontaneous lolz-combustion. I was biting hard on the inside of my cheek imagining dead kittens and suchlike to prevent the laughter, suddenly becoming focused on the flower arrangement in the centre of the table.

So far, so good. I could lose my laughter in the applause that was soon to come.

Unfortunately...

Three things happened. First of all, my niece fluffs about the 5th to last note. Now, anyone who has experience with stringed instruments knows that they do not suffer errors gladly, and a high pitched *SCREECH* was the reward. Secondly, my brother in law turns to me, and the unmitigated cunt raises his left eyebrow in a Roger Moore-esque expression of humour. Thirdly, the music ends, and there is a split-second delay before the applause, during which time I am heard to all and sundry to make a noise like a freshly enema'd goose as the laughter explodes. This causes:

1: everyone around me to look at me like I had just raped a small kitten.

2: My niece to run off crying.

3: Me to dissolve into uncontrollable fits of laughter to the point that I feel my jaw is about to drop off.

I'm such a cunt.
( Undercovercarrot got done for gross misconduct on..., Fri 23 Jul 2010, 11:35, 10 replies)

In which Chickenlady confronts feminism, cultural differences and naughty boys
These days it seems rare for me to post on Question of the Week and in fact I thought this week would be another no show from me but then yesterday I was down in Ramsgate on the beach with the Chicken Nuggets (my sons - 12 year old twins) and this gave me something to write about....

Warning - CONTAINS MANY WORDS -

So, yesterday it was warm but overcast - a grey sky which matches the grey pallor of most of Ramsgate's chav population. We had walked down the high street past a group of young women pipe-cleaner thin, covered in 'Chinese' character tattoos, Elizabeth Duke bling and the very best that Sports Direct and Primarni can provide. Each had the obligatory snotty nosed, dead eyed baby or toddler Calpol-ed to keep 'em quiet until the next refill of Maccy D's.
What a stuck up cow I've become
Anyway, I'm walking down the street towards the beach with my two sons - one of whom is muttering, 'Chav, Fat Chav, Old Chav, Skinny Chav, Dog Chav, Baby Chav' as we pass the Carbrini clan, the other boy is silent but his eyes say just one word, 'BOOBS!' As we walk on so we hear the Chav mating call sent out across the street to a young man, "You wanna come 'ere and say that? You facking caaant!"
All of this against a backdrop of Pawnbrokers, Poundland, Newsagents, formica tabled cafes and a lingering smell from the fishmongers. A fishmongers! You can't say Ramsgate isn't on the up!

We reach the beautiful sandy beach - Ramsgate has a beautiful sandy beach generally overlooked by visitors who are put off by the town's current dilapidated state and prefer to go a few miles down the coast to Broadstairs which has kept its Victorian charm and remains the jewel in Thanet Borough Council's crown of seaside towns untouched as it is by poor furrin types and beloved by Cath Kidsonesque DFLs.
The strand is almost empty; a group of slender, hairy and tanned Euroteens on an exchange holiday (they come in their millions every summer), an all female Afro-Caribbean family with very young children (probably DFLs revisiting their childhood haunts), a couple of Mediterranean looking families - dad wearing a pork-pie hat and looking like Angel from Dexter while playing in the sea with his small son (probably also DFLs), two Orthodox Jewish families and the only pasty, white British people on the beach - us. An unusual mix but being the middle class white liberal that I am, I took pride in the fact that we were all there for the same reason - to enjoy the sea, sand and.... overcast skies. Family time.

The Nuggets ran off down to the sea and gave me time to observe our neighbours - the Orthodox Jews. I had mixed feelings about seeing their young son run around in swimming shorts while their three daughters were all fully dressed in black tights, grey pinafore dresses, and long sleeved black tops. Likewise the father was just changing from t-shirt and shorts in which he'd been swimming, back to his traditional black suit and shawl, yet his wife and mother remained dressed like the girls and also wore dark turbans to cover their hair. His wife in particular struck a lonely figure - she was wandering along the shoreline looking like a L S Lowry stick figure against a wide band of grey-blue sea. The children all behaved as children do, however, laughing, whooping and splashing in the water and the girls edging ever closer to the Nuggets.
I stopped worrying about cultural differences and the Position of Women in Orthodox Jewish Society vs. the Position of Women in English Chav Society and instead watched Nugget #2 drawing or writing something in the sand. I quietly applauded myself for producing two 'nice' boys, well-rounded personalities, kind and gentle and here was one being creative on the beach - perhaps he was recreating something he had seen on Art Attack - that used to be his favourite television programme when he was younger.
Oh Chickenlady, haven't you remembered that pride always goes before a fall?
Yes, I thought, everything was right with the world and here on this beach only a few miles from France we had a microcosm of international society and culture and we were all getting along nicely.

Until the Orthodox Jewish father wandered over to his daughters who were shyly smiling at the Nuggets and looking at the artistic creation Nugget #2 had made in the sand. The girls looked questioningly at their father as his tense face glanced down at the image. His heavy brows knitted together and the gathering clouds darkened - I'm guessing it's the same face Moses made when he saw the Israelites worshipping the Golden Calf. The girls in their grey and black outfits were rapidly removed and the family began to pack up to leave the beach but not before casting a few disgusted glances towards both me and the Nuggets.

Did they somehow sense my disapproval of covering up their daughters - they kept their black tights on even when they paddled in the surf - surely every child should be allowed to know the feeling of sand between the toes? Did they sense my unhappiness at the freedoms afforded to the father and son but not the mother and daughters? Did they guess at my internal battle - torn between the middle class liberal notion of Multiculturalism and heartfelt sadness of the failure of feminism?

Or did they notice the guilty laughter of my sons?

Guilty laughter caused by drawing in the sand a fifteen foot spurting cock with hairy seaweed balls.
( chickenlady b3ta's very own Elizabeth Taylor, Wed 28 Jul 2010, 13:02, 16 replies)

Blasphemy
I'm sorry but I had to laugh at this devine image of our lord jesus



I'm going to hell
( buffet_the_appetite_slayer ٩(●̮̃•)۶ jacked in to the ICE on, Mon 26 Jul 2010, 20:38, 10 replies)

Necrotic leg ulcers and faeces....oh my!
Why anyone still agrees to work with me on the ambulance is beyond me.

Me and my crewmate (different one from previous stories) were called to a rather nice house on a doctor's urgent. This differs from a normal 999 call as a GP has assessed the patient and arranged an admission, often directly to a ward or assessment unit rather than A&E.

On arrival at the house, we were directed upstairs by the patient's daughter. Of the GP, there was no sign, other than a hastily scrawled letter that looked like a spider had taken some bad acid and freaked out on a page of watermarked A4. The letter intimates that Doris (not her real name) was off her legs (i.e. unable to walk. She hadn't grown bored of her lower limbs) with ? cellulitis (skin infection) and secondary infective diarrhoea.

Nice

I was driving and my crewmate was attending. Despite trying to sell the job back to me as requiring my paramedic skillz, I told him to man the fuck up and find the patient. As we approached the bottom of the stairs, a smell assailed our nostrils. No simile is going to approach the full horror of this, but readers of the Discworld books will be aware of Foul Ole Ron and his Smell. I think we were dealing with a similar level. Imagine if an ammonia tanker collided with a slurry farm on a hot summer's day, with a few rotting beavers thrown in. Magnify by 100x.

As we ascended the stairs, the smell only worsened. In fact, as we reached the top of the stairs, I swear to God it had grown legs and was squealing "mummy". Both me and crewmate were holding back the tides of vomit which were marshalling and requesting clearance from the oesophogeal sphincter control towers of our stomachs.

Long story short, poor old Doris was not very well, bless her. Her legs had ulcerated and had started rotting, and she was covered in layers of her own shit. We cleaned her up as best we could, wrapped her in a blanket and popped her in a carry chair. I took the top end and crewie took the bottom (nearest her feet).

As we carried Doris down the stairs, she farted mightily. Firstly, this smelt like a Nazgul's foreskin, but secondly, as she did it, a little bit of poo came out, all over my crewmates arms. Doris must have thought an earthquake was occuring as my crewmate desperately tried not to drop her, whilst my shoulders started shaking with paroxysms of silent laughter.

We got her onto the vehicle and my crewmate cleaned off his unsolicited fake bake, and off we drove to hospital. Now, what a cruel, sick and depraved person would have done at this point would have been to put the heating on and closed the sliding door between the cab and the back of the ambulance.

As I said, a cruel person would have done that. And yep, it seems I was such a person. By the time we reached the hospital, my crewmate was looking ready to self harm. I still hadn't stopped laughing.
( Undercovercarrot got done for gross misconduct on..., Sun 25 Jul 2010, 12:42, 4 replies)

Repost of Teh Quim Incident

I was once in one of Newcastle's classier* late night drinking establishments, of which there are many. It was a Wednesady night, which was student night. The particular special of the night was double vodka and cokes for £1.50. Now, myself and my esteemed colleagues (more about them in other posts if I can muster the courage) were not that fussy about the nature of the beverage, as long as it was cheap, so vast quantities of vodka and coke were purchased and drunk. Repeat....

Anyway, we were by no means the only people acceeding to the "let's get absolutely wankered on cheap russian falling over water". There were many ladies present, mostly being perved over by my mates. I took the opportunity to leave and have a slash. The toilets were off a short corridor from the main dancefloor. As I entered said corridor, a refreshed young lady came towards me, slipped and fell over. However...

1: Her legs went in opposite directions.
2: One heel got stuck in a crack between a floortile and the wall.
3: The other shoe went flying off.
4: She split her gusset.

So, there she was, lying in the birthing position, clunge on view to the general public, crying copiously.

So one of my mates (who had earlier been chatting her up) runs over.

...slips....

and manages to kick her clean in the flange.

We left.

But not before all 4 of us (excluding James, who was trying to extricate his foot from the young lady's funnel of love) nearly vomited with laughter.





*not really
( Undercovercarrot got done for gross misconduct on..., Sat 24 Jul 2010, 10:57, 1 reply)

Four-year-olds should be confined until they learn diplomacy.
I was out shopping with my four year old nephew.

A woman of (un) healthy proportions was stood in front of us in the queue. My nephew stood behind her, sizing up her backside with intent. Staring, I should say, doing some mental arithmetic and dreaming those toddler dreams. “Auntie Snark! I can fit in her butt!” was his final conclusion, whispered at jet engine level. I went bug-eyed trying to keep the laughs politely contained within my own face.

The woman turned around with the ferocity of a million Twinkies and Godzilla stamped, “Keep your child under control!” By this time, I’d given up on breathing and was solely concentrating on not laughing, which was fairly obvious by my own hand trying to scoop the chortles back into my mouth.

Genuinely hurt and a bit scared, my nephew, too young to understand the intricacies of diplomacy and why you should only ever call a woman ‘thin’, whimpered and said, “But…but…I can fit in her bummy, Auntie,” while doing his best to gesticulate the size of her massive crack.

People were staring, awaiting my next move. This was my moment. Beads of sweat formed on my brow. Do I prove that I am an adult and force this child to make a magnanimous apology to this woman? A hyena-like noise emerged from the depths my guts as I attempted to apologise, and I ran away with my giggling nephew in tow. I thought I was going to sick up all down my tits if I had to keep a straight face.
(TheSnark oh, c'mon, like you didn't see me coming, Fri 23 Jul 2010, 10:54, 9 replies)

Dead Cat, Unhinged Mum
Years ago we inherited a manky cat which had lived a semi-stray existance in some nearby stables. She stank like the place where sealions go to die. She moulted constantly, huge white furballs like tumbleweed would blow through the living room, and she had one fang protruding from her mouth at all times.
Her party trick was to clean her growler in the noisiest slurpy fashion a cat could ever muster, usually in front of some visitor who already gagging at the smell and would now flee in horror, covered in drool and white fluff.
Alas it was in mid slurp that poor puss was presumably overcome by her own fumes and died, leg in the air but stiff as a board. Dad went and fetched her with the intention of burying her in the back yard.

However, due to the Jacko-esque pose in which she had died, the inadequate size of box selected as coffin and the fact that no one wanted to do anything about it, the leg would not fit. Dad quietly went about the business of burial, using moggys leg as a convenient handle.

Mum on the other hand was in tears...of hysterical laughter. There she stood at the graveside, doubling up, unable to speak, but with an occasional mime of the cats final pose thrown in complete with one-fang expression. Absolutely peeing herself laughing at a dead cat.

Its a wonder I turned out even this well, really.
(DownhillGardener no-one does it like that anymore, Tue 27 Jul 2010, 9:36, 2 replies)

I'm really not pleased with myself for laughing at this...
I really wish I didn't find it funny, but I can't help it!!!


( more balanced than jeremy beadle It wasn't me..., Sun 25 Jul 2010, 16:14, 24 replies)

Warning - Nerd story
I used to play *gasp* World of Warcraft. I'm thankfully now cured. For the uninitiated, 'high-end' WoWing requires a lot of teamwork if you want to get all the best stuff. Thus, you generally put your evening in the hands of the other 9 or 24 people who you're playing with. So when someone goes to get a drink, or take a shit or whatever, if they are sufficiently important to the group, everyone else has to wait for them to get back, which is highly boring and inefficient, everyone wants to get on, kill the bosses and get the loot.

So when one of our key players fucked off in the middle of an evening's play, for around an hour without explaination, leaving us all frustrated and stranded, the rest of the group was mightily pissed. 'He'd better have a fucking good reason for this', we fumed over our microphones.

When he finally returned, it was to cries of 'WTF man?' etc.
'My Aunt just died'.

Silence.

Then someone pipes up 'What did she drop?'

Everyone laughed. Surely to Hull with us?
( SigmaX0 Dear Die Hard. You rock!, Fri 23 Jul 2010, 9:32, 6 replies)

A roasty pea-cheek
Once in a supermarket, the young guy on the checkout had what I assume was a form of motor neurone disease. He asked how I was, we made smalltalk, he was steadily keying stuff into the till, and even helped me pack. Although he had trouble opening a couple of carrier bags.

I paid, and he looked at me sheepishly as he took several attempts to fish the correct change from the till. I grinned and said "you take your time mate".

However, the woman behind me was huffing and puffing and getting impatient, and started taking stuff off the belt and put it back in her basket to go to another checkout.

I tutted, and he called over to her in his best exaggerated mong voice, "Is it 'cos I'm a spaz?"

I laughed so hard my knees buckled and I nearly dropped my shopping.
( sandettie light vessel automatic New Twitter - @bollocksreally, Fri 23 Jul 2010, 10:57, 2 replies)

Being a naval reservist, I often hang out with the pride of HM's Navy
one of whom, Dicky (for that was his name), was possibly the worst person I have ever come across. He was a Chief Petty Officer stoker, or engineery type senior rating. Now, those of you familiar with the fair city of Portsmouth will be well aware that among the civilian population thereof, us Navy chaps are none too popular.

This was gloriously demonstrated a couple of years ago when, on a run ashore to the pub after a deployment a man in a wheelchair started hurling abuse at us, and just wouldn't stop.

Dicky, being a big chap and somewhat aggressive to boot, tired of this after about an hour. He invited the wheelchair man to roll outside with him, and, since I was nominally in charge of him, I hurried out to make sure there wasn't a death.

No death. Instead, our hero lifted the wheelchair man bodily out of his contraption and put him in a skip. Then he threw the wheelchair into the sea. I don't think I've ever laughed so much in my entire life.
(Omnizor Spooning bits of road for breakfast., Thu 22 Jul 2010, 19:58, 37 replies)

I used my best rape gag the other day and didn't get any laughs
Got some awesome anal though with only muffled screams
(TheManWithThePlan cussed your mum on, Fri 23 Jul 2010, 16:45, 10 replies)

Occasionally...
I serve on our jewellery counter at work. It is unusual but it does happen.

One day I happen to be serving when two gentlemen walk in. They are both very jolly, rather rotund and look rather similar. Oh and they are very, very gay.

I was happy to serve them with a selection of wedding bands which they were looking at and I asked a fateful question... do you know what sizes you are.? One of them replied...

"Oh we know the sizes, we spent yesterday evening comparing rings".

SOMEHOW I managed to control myself but serving through gritted teeth with a ventriliquist's dummy style smile lasted only until they had left and I was in the stockroom hooting like a hyena.
(elfinpunk Touching Cloth Since, Sun 25 Jul 2010, 21:12, 4 replies)

Knives are fun
I was on the phone to my Gran about a year ago, and she was telling me about a nasty cut she got on her hand while cutting some cheese. In great detail, and to my complete discomfort (as I do not like blood), she explained how much blood was dripping from her hand onto the floor and how she had managed to wrap a teatowel round the wound as a temporary bandage.

Now, my Gran's not too quick on her feet (I'm ninety-two, you know), so she explained how she shuffled through to the bathroom with her zimmer frame to get the plasters, and how she had to clean the wound, and all the trouble of getting a plaster on before the bleeding finally stopped. I sat patiently and sympathetically listening to my poor old Gran's tale. All in, she reckons, the whole traumatic episode took about half-an-hour between her cutting herself and finally getting the plaster in place. Old age is a bitch.

Finally, she cleaned herself up and shuffled slowly though to the kitchen again, where the bloody knife was still sitting. She slowly took the knife over to the sink and gave it a good wash, then zimmered back to the cheeseboard, knife in hand. She positioned herself in front of the cheeseboard, picked the knife up, then promptly dropped it, pointy tip downwards, into her foot.

At this point, I burst out laughing and struggled to speak. Fortunately my Gran is a bit deaf, and did not hear the strangled guffawing at my end. She then explained how she had to shuffle back though to the bathroom, with a sharp knife protruding from her foot, trying not to bump it with her zimmer frame as she inched her way forward. By the time I got off the phone, I was crying with laughter. I am going to hell.
(eukaryote, Tue 27 Jul 2010, 21:00, 5 replies)

On holiday
in Magaluf (the shame; I was only 18) and my friends and I were being harassed those little pikey looking kids and old women that sell flowers and ‘lucky’ heather. I could see Steve getting more and more annoyed at one particular kid who would just not leave him alone; he kept pulling on Steve's arm trying to get him to purchase a manky looking rose.

Despite numerous ‘no thanks’ and then a few ‘not today’s’, the kid would just not give up, and kept thrusting the flower in Steve’s face. We all carried on walking away from him but still he followed us; it was like he was taking enjoyment from winding us up. It was fucking annoying, but I shrugged it off, it happened pretty much every night and I had to admire their resilience as most people told them to fuck off as they approached.

After a good couple of minutes of being subjected to a very bad sales pitch, Steve finally snapped.

“CCCCCCUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUNNNNNNNNTTTTTT!!!”

He shouted with such ferocity that I thought his eyes would pop out. The little kid almost left the floor; I swear his head tipped back slightly from the force of the actual shout. He was obviously rattled and didn’t know what to do. He stood and stared blankly for what seemed like an eternity, whilst Steve sounded the ‘T’ of ‘cunt’ with fists clenched tightly and eyes closed. Steve was shaking slightly, getting every last bit of pronunciation out.

The kid then turned and ran – straight into a sandwich board outside a club. He hit it from point blank range, and with such a force, that he fell to the ground and the board collapsed on top of him. Steve was still hunched over, now shouting ‘cunt’ at nobody in particular, just the void which the little boy had left. We all started to laugh at the boy (who still had the flower clasped tightly in his hand) and he just lay, wondering what had just happened.

To top it all off, a rather rotund woman then went over to him and pulled him to his feet by his ear, before giving him a swift boot up the arse.
(Monkey the Chicken Twitter: death_stairs, Tue 27 Jul 2010, 11:51, 16 replies)

I'm the kind of guy who laughs at a funeral
Oh yes I frigging did.

Yet again, this particular funeral involves my evil bastard of a brother in law. He wasn't dead, he was just a fellow mourner.

This was the funeral of my uncle Mick. His actual name was James Arthur, but he was born with ginger hair, so in the true politically correct style of the time, he was nicknamed Mick (as he looked a bit Irish) and it stuck.

OK, as always, there were certain factors fighting against me, and I shall list them thusly:

1: Funerals are always a time of emotion, and I have ALWAYS got into the giggle loop at funerals. Always. And I was very fond of Mick. He was a cracking bloke.

2: My brother in law, sister and I had a couple of pre-funeral stiffeners (phnar phnar) so we could get through the service a bit more easily without dissolving into sobbing wrecks. Yeah. We thought it was a good idea at the time.

Anyway.

It was a busy day at the Norwich City Crematorium, not helped by the fact it was pissing down with rain. Everything was running a bit late, and we were all ushered in about 10 minutes after the time the funeral was supposed to start. Anyway, the coffin is brought in and put on the bier at the front of the chapel. The vicar comes forward and stands by the lectern.

Although my uncle was a slightly religious man (church on Sundays if he could be arsed), it was clear that they had got this priest from Central Casting, and he did not know my uncle one bit. Rather than being outraged as the altar-boy fiddler bumbled his way through the eulogy, my brother in law and I decided to step into the giggle loop. This was not helped by the fact that my sister was shooting us glances with the kind of ice behind them that would have met Lord Kelvin leap up and down with joy at the proof of his theories. Instead of remedying our stifled laughter, it made our shoulders shake more. I actually thought I was going to cause an aneurysm if I kept it in any more.

Did I mention as family we were in the front row? We were in the front row.

Eventually the vicar said "and we all know that Mike was a family man..." Mike? Who, in the name of the Sweet Virgin Mary's unploughed clopper was Mike?! A tthis stage I could hide it no more, I let go, but luckily managed to turn it into a noise that sounded like a prize heiffer being disembowelled, but passed off (somehow) as a sob. My mother, blissfully unaware of the giggle-loopage, put a hand on my shoulder and passed a kleenex. Luckily, we then reached the curtain-close-and-off-you-go-for-your-last-sauna stage of proceedings, and we all shuffled out.

From a distance, a touching scene was seen of a man consoling his younger brother-in law, who was kneeling down, clutching his sides, shoulders shaking and with tears coming down his cheeks. Oh if they only knew, I would have been fully disowned, and likely excommunicated.

My brother in law tells me that he was "off games" from my sister for at least a month following this event.
( Undercovercarrot got done for gross misconduct on..., Fri 23 Jul 2010, 16:14, 6 replies)

Not the first Auschwitz story..
I live in Poland. My father visits occasionally, and on one of those occasions he said "I really want to visit Auschwitz, so we did.
Anyone who has ever done the Polish Museum Experience in a coach party will testify to the fact that they (the Poles - sorry for the massive generalisation, but this one is mostly true)are really good at that kind of thing, with audio guides, information, directions etc.
However - if you are visiting as an individual, or a bloke and his venerable pa, there is basically nothing for you. Nic, nichts, nada, niente, rien, nowt. It's the same at the museum of the Warsaw Uprising, the War Museum... all of them, as far as I can tell.
I have checked my impression with many Polish friends, and they say the same. Go with a big bunch, or you're fucked.
So - we did the best we could. Dad can walk up to 50 metres without resting, and he likes a clue or two about what he is looking at, where to go, what's next, that kind of thing. We saw what we could find, we listened to the birds not singing, we didn't see half the stuff we knew was there, and there was no-one around to ask.
After 90mins of stumbling over cobbles, my father turned to me and said (with a COMPLETELY straight face - bearing in mind he knew people who died there) "I can't help thinking that this place would be better organised if the Germans were still running it".
I hope that the people who saw us clinging to each other, helpless with suppressed laughter, thought that they were witnessing a very different display of emotion.
This is not a story I can easily relate in Poland.
Incidentally, two days after we were there, some fucker nicked 'the' sign. It wasn't us.
( blyerkit e k trilby, Thu 22 Jul 2010, 23:33, 4 replies)

Kit-e-Splat
my friend anthony loves animals. he's had several pets for as long as i've known him.
a few years back, he had 2 cats, mel and pepsi. one night, he phoned me in floods of tears and told me that pepsi had been run over. i made the appropriate soothing noises, waited for him to calm down, then offered to go down and keep him company. he said no, he'd just needed to tell someone and felt better now.
i hung up the phone and turned to my neighbour chris, who'd been watching telly with me. "what's up?" he asked. i told him about anthony's cat and he said "which cat was it?" "pepsi", i replied. "ooh," says he, "there's nothing worse than flat pepsi."
i almost choked laughing.
i felt really guilty afterwards, but fuck me, it was funny at the time.
( Smash Monkey lowering the tone of the whole internet, Thu 22 Jul 2010, 21:54, Reply)

Not sure but
Back in the days when I got QTS, my first job was at a very middle class school, where there were 99% of parents were happy. But there was always one....

First lesson of AS maths, the class asks about the new teacher, where you from etc, and I tell them that this is my first job. One lad pipes up "Are you qualified?", "of course" I respond, whilst secretly thinking what a dick..

Now the next day my head of department gets a phone call from the father of this boy. He basically implied that a new teacher should not be teaching his son. My boss laughed him off and just said "You always get wankers..."

Now, I thought it would go away. But for the rest of the year, he is a twat. No homework, no effort in lessons; detentions go missed and there is no support from home. At parents evening his dad refuses to talk to me, his sons teacher and goes straight to the Head and tells him I've taught his son wrong. Father has employed an ex-teacher, about 70, and my methods are different. They are new, easier etc. I just get more and more depressed in teaching the class.

Now, AS module exams in June. The Lad wants to do medicne, so straight A's needed. I am invidulating the exam and I'm wandering around the room, and as I walk past him, I see he has done question 1 using the wrong equation. 0 marks. A chuckle starts. I wander around and pass him again when he is on Q4. Not only has he used the wrong numbers (x=5, question said 15), but again completely the wrong method; its actually the one he should have used in Q1. Q5 isn't even the right subject.

Now I can't help myself. I make the laugh snort, and have to quickly get out into the corridor. I am laughing so loudly that the other invidualtor thinks its group of kids and comes out to find me on the floor. I regain calm with about 5 mins left and collect up the papers.

As he walks out, he just says "Well, I think I've got well over 90%, no help from you!". At this point I laugh like Brian Blessed and he walks off...

He got 11%.
(Strump striving for imperfection since, Sun 25 Jul 2010, 17:53, 11 replies)

Big enough to do what dear?
This is actually the story of my friend who is going to Hull for being completely useless in the face of this sheer stupidity of yours truly. So, back story


~~~wavy lines~~~back to the future theme music~~~

So, I occasionally work cash in hand (don't tell the tax office) for a friend helping him to peel potatoes, boil water and help make starters for meals which his partner regularly creates. This particular events was at my friends who name sounds a lot like Pete (for that is his name in the B3ta tradition) parents Golden Wedding anniversary. Being stanch middle class, church going (his dad is a high up reverend in some church or another), highly respectable 70 odd year old folks. Both lovely people as are the family, slightly bat-shit insane with their occasional quirks, like being Welsh, but obviously very caring and loving towards each other.

However, the faux pas comes from the fact that nearly all of them are newly "born-again" Christians and with all the fervour that comes with that. This means

- No swearing
- No drinking
- No hard drugs
- No signs of homersexual love between Pete and his partner
- No b3ta-esque style of jokes

Things which I can mostly live with and after being warned by Pete I am on my best behaviour all weekend, aside from the first two hours and two major faux pas... We're in this lovely, fantastic small cottage, the sort of place old people save up to retire in but end up in a council estate in Peckham instead and it has a very small kitchen. We're in said Kitchen and Pete asks if I can go ask his mum for a pan, how big I ask? "Big enough for all these potatoes" I'm told, so off I go, I will find his mother and said pan.

I find mother dearest talking to her in-laws and remaining brothers and sisters in the garden, full of youth, bravado and hang over from smoking too much Green stuff the night before I politely and meekly ask "Excuse me K, Pete says do you know if we have a pan to boil some potatoes in?", to which she replied "Oh yes dear, off course how big does it need to be". It's at this point my brain rebels and without conscious thought I reply "Oh, about big enough to boil a baby in". Pete is stood behind me at this point to ask his mother about something else, hears what I've just said and the reaction is… Interesting.

His mother *blinks*, looks at me and mumbles something about "in the closet dear", her in-laws look at me like I've grown horns and just spat on their first born baby after it's just been born. And Pete? He's on the ground holding his sides while going red in the face desperately trying not to laugh out loud… Apparently it was akin to "passing a kidney stone" the laughter/pain was so bad.

Secondly?

General conversation with her auntie who has thankfully forgiven my faux pas from earlier and is questioning me on why I abandoned "my faith" and what reasons for this do I have? After a few here and there's we are getting along well, all is forgiven from earlier, yay! Until they start getting ready to go into church to listen to the sermon and bless the 50 years together Pete's parents have had together.

Lovely auntie says to me "Oh, Helo won't you be joining us? The church doors are open to everyone", I politely decline and get on skinning some potatoes. Auntie leaves and I believe the kitchen is empty and Pete has just walked in (behind me, again) and says "Oh yes Helo, you should go in! It's not as if you'll be blasted by lightening for going in will ya?" My rebellious brain at this point has had enough of being "nice" and spits out the following immortal line:

"Oh well, I guess I could give it a try if that's the case. I mean, if the Reverend can get in after buggering all the altar boys and getting pissed on the holy wine I'm sure that I could give it a try".

So I stand up, brush myself around and look around to see Petes mum and dad looking at me in sheer horror. Did I forget to mention that Petes dad was a church reverend?

I didn't go to church in the end. Neither did Pete, he had to lock himself into the toilet and deal with the hysteria that comes from seeing his dad go from pasty white to a bell end shade of purple in a matter of seconds… Oh, we're so defo going to Hull for all this…
(Helo, Fri 23 Jul 2010, 15:36, 3 replies)

Pearoast: a bit long, but this one still cracks me up
years after the old bag's probably popped her clogs.

I had a job where I had to do home visits and do jobs for clients. One old cow used to watch for my car to arrive and then complain to my boss - before I'd even parked - if I had anyone in the car with me. Obviously my time was all hers and I wasn't allowed to give my mum a lift.

I used to have to cash her pension and do some shopping - incontinence pants, haemorrhoid cream and so on - for which I took care to collect itemised receipts, which she would carefully scrutinise for fraud.

All in all she was a hateful old witch, always looking for a way to do me over.

One day I went for the pension as usual and was told that there was a new pension book.

The Post Office clerk said 'I'll have to tear up the old book in case of fraud', while looking meaningfully at me. I swear the old bag had rung ahead to warn the Post Office of the Famous Embezzling Home Help.

So... the snobby clerk then flourished in my face, and ripped in half, the NEW pension book.

The look on her face was priceless - she realised what she was doing just too late to stop herself.

I immediately collapsed into helpless laughter and pointed at her and gasped 'You ripped up the new book! You ripped up the new book!'

The clerk answered 'It's not funny!' but as I assured her, oh, it was, very funny indeed.

She wanted to keep the new ripped-up book until the next week when the replacement came, but I refused on the grounds that Mrs Hagwitch would accuse me of stealing it. The boss was called and she and I stood over the clerk as she taped up every page. Then she had to write a letter of explanation and apology.

I screamed with laughter all the way back, trying to get it out of my system, and really did think I'd kept a straight face when explaining the incident to the old boiler.

Must've let something slip though as she was soon on the blower to my boss, complaining that I had laughed at her pension book.

I wasn't in trouble though as everyone in the office was hysterical too. Happy days!
(Juan Quar is clinging to her front teeth on, Wed 28 Jul 2010, 19:11, 1 reply)

Count yourself lucky...
Many moons ago i was visiting friends down in Brighton. We had been out to all the usual hangouts and met up with a group of people; strangers to me but good buddies with my other friends. After a nights carousing, we went back to one of the girl's flat to get some well-deserved shuteye.

Come morning, we assembled in her bedroom to mull over the previous nights events. As I walked into the room, a hamster cage cage caught my eye.

"Wow, a hamster", I expertly observed, "What's his name?"

Now, the actual name has been lost to the fog of old age and lost brain cells, but it's safe to assume that the name was sufficiently strange for me to pass comment on. Let's say 'Alfonzo'.

"What a strange name for a hamster" (I told you so)

"Yeah, I'm looking after it for my brother. He's got pretty severe learning difficulties and wanted to call it that."

"Count yourself lucky, it could've been called Meerggurrpppeeerrrrdurrrrpp *gurning spaz face and a groaning attempt to eat the back of my head*

The whole room – friends and relative strangers alike – fell silent and, as one, turned their gaping mouths to face me, curled on the floor my face contorted in the ecstacy of an expertly pulled one-liner.

Now, I felt absolutely no guilt or shame at the time. It was hilarious after all. It was only several years when my son was born with brain damage that I felt any sense of what that poor girl must have been going through.

I named him Meerggurrpppeeerrrrdurrrrpp in her honour.
(mark schmark, Thu 22 Jul 2010, 16:27, 3 replies)

He even saw it coming
My friend Alex, who has been mentioned on these pages before, was a bit of a bastard when he was younger (he still is, but that's not relevant). One day when we were about fifteen and in a particularly boring statistics lesson, he decided to amuse himself by breaking my pencils. At first he only broke one at a time - I was trying not to rise to him, and I hadn't used them in years anyway - but then he got ambitious. Out of the corner of my eye I saw him grab five or six and place them over his thighs, ready to break. I, not realising his hand was already beginning the downward motion, casually removed them to spoil his fun.

Unable to stop himself, and with a look of horror I shall remember to my dying day, he punched himself as hard as he could in his man-veg.

We both got detention because we were in too much pain to explain to the teacher what had happened - him for obvious reasons and me because I thought my ribs were about to come adrift from laughing.

Totally worth it.
( MatJ LOOK, Fri 23 Jul 2010, 18:37, 2 replies)

Laughing in the gas chamber
A couple of years ago at the Edinburgh Festival, my friend K and I decided to take a break from the relentless stand-up comedy fest we were indulging in and spend an hour seeing something worthy. Having studied the programme in detail, we plumped for a play set in a concentration camp. All we knew was it was in a cellar and it had some goodish reviews and that the tickets weren't too pricey.

Clutching our tickets, we arrived in good time to find a slightly nervous looking queue watching an actor in a striped camp uniform leaning against the wall, muttering to himself in an anguished fashion. It all looked a bit intense and K and I exchanged looks of consternation. K has just begun to whisper 'Are you sure you want to...' when a *very* shouty actor appeared and, while yelling loudly in our ears, pulled us into pairs - making very sure to split up groups who looked like they were together. I think this was my first inkling that this was going to be a slightly more active hour than I had first banked on.

We were led into the first room in a series of interlinked cellars where for 5 minutes solid three shouting actors stood on either side of us banging sticks against sheets of metal. Behind me was an actress who kept clutching at my arm and whispering something about avoiding eye-contact with the guards. The general idea was that we had all just arrived at the camp and were lining up for processing. To this day I haven't worked out what the banging metal was supposed to signify.

After some more shouting (and possibly some movement in the plot but I wouldn't swear to it), we were split into new pairings and yelled at to move two-by-two into the next room. As me and my new companion got to the door, I did what any mannerly person would do, and standing back said "After you." Then it occurred to me that this was supposed to be a concentration camp and that my speech had to be one of the most incongruous ones I could have uttered. The same though obviously occurred to the poor woman at the same moment and we sniggered... well, she sniggered and I snorted through my nose. Somewhere behind me I heard K giggle. I think that was the point that any suspension of disbelief disappeared for me.

The next two rooms followed the same pattern: You were split into new pairs, told where to stand and the actors playing the prisoners mingled in with you while the play was acted out. I am sure it was a worthy attempt to try and recreate the horrors of WW2 but, once my giggles had started, I spent all my time biting my lip and trying not to make eye-contact with K or the woman I had tried to be polite to as looking at either made all three of us laugh even harder.

In the penultimate room, the actors were told to strip in what I am sure would have been a powerful scene had I been in a less hysterical frame of mind. We lined up again and were marched into a tiny little room which would hold about 20 people standing up and no more. This was the gas chamber. K had gone in ahead of me having been paired with one of the naked actors while I was against the opposite wall with another audience member. The two final naked actors came in last and squeezed through everyone to stand with their colleague so they could play out the last scene of the piece. Now K is quite a short person - about 5ft 1 - and all the actors were tallish. So the last thing I saw of K was her horrified expression as she realised she was about to surrounded by three naked people in a very confined space. As the they acted out their last anguished moments, all I could see was K's head bobbing about as she tried to extricate herself from the centre of the action with no success. My self-control gave way entirely and I wept with laughter while hoping that the rest of the audience would think it was raw emotion that was racking me. I left that cellar a total wreck for all the wrong reasons.

Apologies for the length but even thinking about this still makes me laugh like a loon.
(Innogen, Fri 23 Jul 2010, 16:00, Reply)

I feel that I am safely surrounded by a bunch of pervs...
...so I don't mind sharing this one.

'Want to try something different?', said my ex slyly.

Yes, he was to be the coach, and I was to be his wayward footballer. He would then teach me a good hard lesson. With his penis.

Handcuffs were located, a make-shift blindfold was connocted and I rapidly jumped into any kit that looked footballerish. 'Yay, I'm getting some rough kinky sex' I said to myself, and prepared to roleplay a baaad footballer about to get a Deserving Lesson:

'And I'm going to make you my bitch!' he growled, throwing my writhing, helpless body across the bed. So far, so porntastic. In furious animalistic passion he tore off my shirt...

...tried to tear of my shirt...

They make those things pretty damn sturdy, don't they? I expect there is a special company somewhere that makes apparel specifically designed to be torn off people for porn.

Fighting giggles, I was treated to a impromptu bed-bounce as he yanked ineffectually at my shirt. Frustrated and muttering, he stood up to get a different grip...

But instead, he slipped up on the discarded shiny shorts, went straight over sideways, and landed face-first in the tropical fish tank.

I was still blindfolded, so all I got was:

'Damn this bloody thinwhoawaaaAHHRG GLUB GLUB GLUB'

One way or another, that's me doomed to hell...
(IChewCandlewax, Fri 23 Jul 2010, 14:17, 1 reply)

Midgets and pigeons
A couple of weeks ago, my buddy and I were out at our one horse town fair. After gorging on funnel cake, deep fried avocado nachos and a lot of beer, it was time to piss.
We're stood there at the urinal when a "little person" walked in....which caused us both to stifle our giggles to start with, but then a pigeon flew into the restroom (kind of like a portacabin with urinals so there's a lot of open space in the roof) and landed right by the feet of the midget.
The little guy freaked out, and bent down to shoo the bird away...slipped and fell and got a mouthful of urinal water after falling face first into the trough.
That was it...Mark and I were laughing so hard we had to lean on each other for support and when security walked in and asked the little guy where his dad was - well, we were lucky we didn't end up face first in the trough ourselves.
(nolongernuts, Fri 23 Jul 2010, 5:45, 4 replies)

The Flying Stillborn Burrito Brothers
One of my patients (I have to be super careful here since her husband is the kind of whingy tight-fisted scheming bastard who would sue my panties off) was pregnant with twins. Because of various physical thingies,very juicy but would identify her, she lost both boys. She was a darling but as I have aforementioned, her significant other was a walking turd. (He caused the early delivery and almost cost her her life.)

After the delivery, she held both of them, said her goodbyes and waited for hubby. He said his goodbyes consisting of looking at them wrapped up in blankets and grunting. He left and I entered the room thinking I would check on her and tidy a bit.

The room was dark and she was asleep. These were 14 week fetuses, about 3/4 length of a Barbie doll and maybe a kilo in weight each. Tiny. One of the docs had told me the babies were "set" and I assumed that meant he had put them in the fridge, properly labeled, as one would expect when a person says he has finished that task. Therefore I wasn't expecting any little corpses to be in evidence.

I went around the room quietly, picking up trash, emptying coffee cups and removing dirty laundry. There was a crumpled up baby blanket left on the overbed table so I grabbed it and whisked it off the surface. As you have most likely guessed, a wee little babby whirled out of the fabric, spinning in a trajectory directly toward the mother's sleeping form. Daddy had left his son's body lying in trash, discarded carelessly on a table.

Right at the apogee of Babby's flight, I fielded that fucker overhand neat as anything. Midair! In the dark! Then the film of what I had just done became clear in my mind and I had to run out into the hall clutching a little naked dead body to laugh like a hyena.

Afterward I felt guilty and furious in turn. But never did I tell anyone until now of my awesome catch. God bless that poor woman-I hope she divorced that prick's ass.
(TDub Nunc id vides, nunc ne vides on, Sat 24 Jul 2010, 20:19, 2 replies)

Dog rape
I walked into an amusement arcade (stoned) many years ago and to the immediate left of the doors was the cash desk in which my mate Dave was perched perusing the day's racing schedule. To the right was a row of machines one of which was being played by a withered old hag, fag hanging out of mouth, headscarf, totally transfixed. Her arm was through the loop end of a dog-lead and at the other end of the lead was one of those revolting little brown and white dogs that you sometimes see made out of porcelain on an old person's mantlepiece. A giggling three or four year old little girl was patting the dog while it frantically thrust it's penis into her face, with it's tongue hanging out of the side of it's mouth and it's front legs clamping her head. It was, for a few seconds, the funniest thing I'd ever seen. It was immediately beaten in the laughter stakes by Dave's reaction. I tapped on the glass and he turned to look at me, saw what was happening and went from 'bored beyond belief' to hysterical, crying laughter in a matter of nanoseconds.
( routine has perfected burgers, Fri 23 Jul 2010, 13:21, 3 replies)