Hmmm
Not long ago one of my flatmates died in a horrific accident heavily involving the heavy use of some rather heavy drugs, some whipped cream and a very heavy car battery, some rusty bicycle spokes and a pig machine. We needed a new flatmate and pronto. Stringent cash and time constraints decreed the immediate recruitment of a replacement. A mate of a mate's girlfriend knew 'a great guy' who was looking for a place. Perfect timing thought we and so, without any measure of social screening, 'Hollywood' duelly lowered himself into our midst looking, it must be said, as close to a potato with crap glasses as any human ever has, in the history of humanity.

Within minutes, it became blatantly apparent that the boy was a numpty. Re-arranged the fridge, labelled shelves, set up a rota for cleaning the bathroom and retuned the telly all in his first hour in the flat. Just like, totally, like totally like messing with our like, programmes? Man. He was an utter bellend, dominating every conversation with his banal platitudes in his nasal monotone, and attempting to top anyone daring enough to dare to attempt to take the spotlight from him. So what we did was me and Steve picked him up and without warning each booted him in the balls three times, hard, and told him through his sobs that if he didnae glass himself right now, the world would soon become a dangerous place for his family to live. And their mates.

You should have seen his face! Him prone on the floor in a pool of his own pish and blood, too terrified to shriek, in too much pain not to. Us standing there, telling him over and over to glass himself, giggling. How we laughed as, his eyes filled with horror, we forced him to repeatedly glass himself, Steve and me. Blood going everywhere, no teeth left in his face or anything! Ha ha, fuck that was funny.

Shouldn't laugh I suppose. But it was quite funny.
(Artimus Pie purred, unconvincingly, Sat 24 Jul 2010, 5:13, Reply)

the holocaust
one of the top places one probably should not be laughing hysterically is a Holocaust museum. it was not my fault. no one should have let children create tiles interpreting the holocaust and adolf hitler, and then plaster a hundred foot wall with them. if you want a good laugh (and good practice at stifling uncontrollable laughter) visit the basement level of the US Holocaust Museum.
(jessekillerkay, Sat 24 Jul 2010, 3:25, Reply)

My nan died a couple of years ago...
It wasn't particularly sudden, she'd been unwell for a long time. She'd always been tiny, 5 feet tall in her prime & never more than seven stone. The day she died she weighed just under four. Anyway, my uncle & brother had gone out somewhere & my mum was in the kitchen & it was just me & my tiny, frail nan alone in her living room, the telly was on & it was showing her favourite programme, "Street Crime UK" & some Smack-head was being arrested & kicking up an almighty fuss, screaming & shouting & fighting for all he was worth & I heard my nan, in a barely audible whisper, say something at this Mancunian Junkie. Fifteen minutes later, she passed away. She never said anything after uttering those words, I was the only one who heard them.

Later that day, I went to see my little sis who was understandably devastated. We sat & talked & I told her that I'd been there just before she went, & how she died watching her favourite programme. "Oh yeah" I said, "I know this is a bit weird, but I heard her last words as this smack-head was being arrested on telly". "What did she say"? asked our Meg... "Dick Head", I replied. Through tears of laughter & sadness, we sat pissing ourselves for about 15 minutes
(Dr Fishfinger Want's to see a fat man give a tit wank, Sat 24 Jul 2010, 3:08, 1 reply)

Helen Keller
One bored day on t'internet, for reasons unknown at the time and even more nebulous now, I decided to search for photographs of Helen Keller. I found a random Google Images result and clicked on it, and sat staring at a sepia photograph of two young ladies sitting side by side. Not having seen Ms. Keller before, I wondered vaguely which one she might be.

Ten seconds later, I promptly burst out laughing as I realised that it certainly wasn't the one reading a fucking BOOK.
(Leda74, Sat 24 Jul 2010, 1:29, 4 replies)

I teach snowboarding
specifically: I teach kids snowboarding. Now, I'm not sure how many of you have tried, but for those who haven't: when you learn to snowboard, you fall. It's an immutable fact, a law of the universe, a triumph of raw physics over ego. It's also, sometimes, quite cripplingly funny.

Now in any given hour teaching, you expect any beginner to catch an edge at least once. Best example I could find was here. I'll not lie, it's pretty funny, but sometimes you get a kid who really wants to push the envelope (And the instructor's blood pressure) to the limit.

My favourite was the kid who, at the end of the lesson, asked to slide down the practice hill sitting on his board. I thought "Why not?" and duly gave permission, only for the poor child to hammer it down the hill, across the stopping zone and straight into a nearby shed. You know in the cartoons where Wil-e-coyote slams into a wall, then peels slowly backward off it? Well this kid managed a pretty fair interpretation. I raced down the hill to make sure he hadn't killed himself, picked him up, and then had to turn away so he wouldn't see me trying to contain the laughter.

Poor bugger...
(Kendal, Sat 24 Jul 2010, 0:51, Reply)

Laughing at a funeral.
My mate Gav died nine years ago this month. He had motor neurone disease, which did him in rather slowly and piecemeal - he'd be able to walk a bit less one day, or he wouldn't be able to pick up his guitar, or - horror of horrors - be unable to open a tin of beer.
Dead, phone call from girlfriend, funeral, arrangements, got a wedding (no seriously) that Friday, want anything brought over?, no fine, right see you there. Wore my bike jacket (seemed appropriate, to the funeral of another biker mate), 12-hole para boots and Royal Stewart kilt. Ancient Royal Stewart is really my tartan, and rather more subdued than the fire-engine red of Royal Stewart. Ah well, needs must. Many other mourners commented that they'd wished they'd thought to wear a kilt. "Oh well, maybe next time then" ho ho ho.
Back to Gav's parents after, with many relatives and friends. I notice some of the aunts and uncles are looking rather askance at my crimson kilt, and some of the odd friends I'm hanging about with. There is a certain element of eye-dabbing and sniffling there, and public show of grief. Us? No.

I'm amid a group of old uni friends of Gav and I (we went to RGIT together) telling the story of him dropping the step-through moped at a petrol station while wearing the full leathers and full-face lid - it's a teensy bit untrue, the petrol station wasn't really crowded but Gav will have to take that up with me when we next meet. Raucous laughter at poor old Gav, on his backside in a patch of spilled diesel. This is how we remember him, not as some dead guy but as our friend, who we shared beers and pizzas with, laughed with, played tricks on and had tricks played on us by, and who would most certainly have been up our end of the garden. *Lots* of glowering from the aunt-and-uncle contingent, and it only got worse as the afternoon went on and we swapped Gav tales.

Guilty laughs? Hell no. Not even when a spot of summer thunder prompted several remarks of "FFS, give a kid a new toy..."
(gordonjcp, Sat 24 Jul 2010, 0:41, 2 replies)

We've had a lot on funerals
and it's reminded me of my best friend from school dying in 2008 - he was 26. It was totally out of the blue. I'd spoken to him a few days before and all was well.

I got the call from his sister and went back home from London to Birmingham for the funeral. The whole thing was very sudden and tragic and I'd been asked to do a reading at the ceremony.

I steeled myself as much as I could, but there was no way I could get through it without blubbing. I was a mess. I was upset afterwards that I'd been in a worst state than most of the family, and felt I'd let people down by not being more in control.

Getting a lift back to the station after the wake, me and a few friends from who'd known him well in school were talking about James and sharing what our memories of him were.

After a lot of talk about the sort of memories any group of teenage friends would have (drunken escapades, stupid jokes, embarrassing stories, etc.) Julie, who'd always been the only girl in the bunch through school, said 'You know, my abiding memory of him will be that he was absolutely lovely, but I don't think I ever spent more than five minutes with him when he didn't try and touch me.'

It made me smile for the first time in a week.

He was a wannabe raconteur. A smoothie-in-training who came over as a teenage Roger Moore. He had a huge crush on Julie and never saw any need to hide it. He would have thought it dishonest to do so. He was indeed, absolutely lovely, and I've no doubt he did relentlessly try and touch her. I'd much, much rather remember him funny and flawed and a bit ridiculous than as a helpless victim of the fates who's character is second to the fact of his early death.

I bought a few cans of beer, got on the train home, found a quiet spot, and managed to cry and giggle all the way back. Probably a bit of an odd entry, actually, as I don't feel guilty in the slightest...
(SnowyTheWereRabbit the Leporid from Hell, Sat 24 Jul 2010, 0:31, Reply)

If she's reading this... I'm so sorry.
Having been with my girlfriend for about a year and being on good terms with her parents, I once took a car ride with her and her mum where we talked about the mother's difficult pregnancy. Apparently her mum had had complications and had almost lost my beloved before she was even born, with other very personal unpleasant experiences of the same sort before.

After the appropriate and murmurs of concern and mutterings of "Oh, I'm so sorry" and "Yes, how unfortunate" I could not stifle my chuckle. A quite inappropriate chuckle, as I'm sure you'll agree. Both ladies asked what was so funny. "Oh, nothing. I just remembered something." "What?" "You really don't want me to." "No, what is it?" Closing my eyes and throwing caution to the wind, I then told this joke: www.sickipedia.org/joke/view/61

We drove home in silence.

We are no longer together.
(Galemp makes FreeSpace better, Fri 23 Jul 2010, 23:55, 1 reply)

Yesterday I met a blind man at the cash point.....
...who asked me to check his balance.

So I pushed him over.
( The only Dave is pushing things forward, Fri 23 Jul 2010, 23:41, Reply)

What makes it even worse was it was a leaflet for a special offer of two tickets for £10
www.theargus.co.uk/news/8288692.Grieving_man_hurt_by_letter_blunder
( funnylittlefrog, Fri 23 Jul 2010, 23:39, 3 replies)

Just right now...
I'm working in appliance sales currently, in a lovely big showroom full of fridges, cookers, dishwashers... the lot.

So here I am, five minutes ago, flicking through the new newsletter, noting this week's QOTW theme on my way, when the door chimes and in walk an elderly ultra-orthodox Jewish couple.

"We are looking for ovens of gas." Says the wife.

I had to excuse myself for a moment to book a ticket to Hull outside of their earshot.
(warmidea, Fri 23 Jul 2010, 22:59, Reply)

In Tescos Once...
...I saw a pair of toddling twins, with mum & gran pushing their respective trollies round with the kids running around. One kid runs down an aisle, and gran lets go of her (already moving) trolley. Mum stops, second kid wanders slightly... and gets twatted by gran's trolly and burts into floods of tears!
I laughed, as did several others. Then we all looked at one another and buggered off in different directions. Just because it's funny doesn't mean it's right to laugh. But that doesn't stop you doing so anyway!
( Alex Save a Tree, Eat a Beaver!, Fri 23 Jul 2010, 22:02, Reply)

Not funny. Not at all.
Years back, young and fancy free. Staying with some friends in the South of France, who had somehow become friends with some local youngsters, who happened to have been left in charge of a reasonably large yacht in Cannes Marina.

Set off for a party on said boat. Arrived and just ourselves (me, friend, friend's girlfriend, and friend's bro) and about six of the rich youngsters. All of whom were looking somewhat down-in-the-mouth. Not in party mode at all.

Appropriate noises were made and lead young-toff said that they were all going to have to head back to the UK that evening becase they had lost their baby sister.

"And they need all of you to help find her?"

Needless to say, we left immediately after.
(dibledo, Fri 23 Jul 2010, 21:49, Reply)

Not me but all of my mates...
...to a man laughed when I explained how my much loved Maine Coon (a humungous black fluffy beast of a cat) died. It did complete a full 360 degree back flip in the snow before keeling over and suffering from catastrophic renal failure but still.....fuckers!
( number5 has been fighting tramps and losing., Fri 23 Jul 2010, 21:37, 6 replies)

A few years back, I was on the bus to work....
...early one morning. As the bus was about to turn a corner a monumentally fat middle aged woman stood up to ring the bell.
As the bus turned, sharply and a little too quickly, said woman lost her footing and toppled back onto the seat. Although she managed to get herself wedged between her seat and the back of the seat in front.

As the other passengers and the driver frantically try and free her, she actually begins to sob and wail, all the time waving her fat legs in the air.
And I sat at the back of the bus, unable to move, because the pain from laughing was so great. My face hurt, my chest and stomach hurt... but I couldn't stop laughing.


She was finally freed and sent on her way, and I was treated to glares, scowls and harsh words from the other passengers.

I did feel guilty afterwards... Was still funny as hell.
(NoStrings Tastes like zombies!!, Fri 23 Jul 2010, 21:13, Reply)

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)

Mexican suicide
She's very for the royal family, so when Blackadder or whatever it was, was interupted on the BBC for an announcement to follow she said

"It must be something to do with the Queen Mum she's not been well"

"She's committed Mexican suicide" says I.

Blank looks followed by "What does that mean?"

"She's died peacefully in her sleep"

So when the announcer stated that the wife had to try and stifle her little snort and then tutted at me for showing no respect.
(Yellow Car is now red, Fri 23 Jul 2010, 17:55, 7 replies)

Cannonball dwarf + hippo
I know it shouldn't, but the story of the circus dwarf who was shot out of a cannon and straight into a hippopotomus's mouth cracks me up. Then I get guilty, because the poor guy died in a pretty horrible way. Then I start laughing again...
(moon monkey is busy making memories worth repressing, Fri 23 Jul 2010, 17:01, 4 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)

Toddlers, buses and ice creams
A couple of months back, I was riding the bus with a couple of friends, part way through a stag weekend incidentally, and a young family hop on. They were very much like Modern Parents from Viz - all tie-dye and upturned noses at some (only slightly) intoxicated chaps, who are by-and-large behaving themselves. So we moderate our language, start talking more quietly and try to look slightly less unsettling. The youngest, a toddler, is completely oblivious to his parents' distain of us and is kneeling on the seat in front and waving to us, so we wave back, and the parents seem to thaw towards us a little. The cheeky little chap then turns round and promplty drops his ice cream in the footwell. Unperturbed, he leans forward to retreive it, but rather unfortunately the driver chooses that moment to stamp on the break, sending the little chap headlong after his lost ice cream. I turned back to see his chubby little legs windmilling wildly in the air with his top half wedged under the seat in front, from which rather a lot of muffled wailing was coming from. It was great - it looked like something from a cartoon, and this was reinforced when his Dad pulling on both of his legs to free him.

When he was finally extricated, covered in snot and ice cream, I gave up frantically biting my knuckle and finally cracked into something that sounded Sid James if he'd swallowed a hyena. I was still crying a little when we had to get off at the same stop as the family (the little fella was fine by this point, and back to his chirpy little self).
(luckybluecoat, Fri 23 Jul 2010, 16:39, Reply)

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)

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)

Charity theft lols
I miss my local rag from back home, The Gloucestershire Echo. They either have a complete genius or a total buffoon writing their headlines.

They once carried a story with the headline "Thief steals charity collection from police officer's funeral" with a strapline comment underneath from one of their top nobs "We'll leave no stone unturned"

The mental image of loads of policmen pushing headstones over was too much for me.
( Draconacticus Reject shampoo. Demand real poo!, Fri 23 Jul 2010, 15:57, 3 replies)

I keep going on about this
but the Mongol Rally again.

It's halfway through Kazakhstan, two weeks into our trip. We've spent half the day on new, pristine, perfect highway on our way to the capital, Astana. And then we hit roadworks.

For the next 150 miles.

We spend the next two hours driving at a maximum of 40 miles an hour, dodging potholes and dried-up water courses, slipping on sand and avoiding rocks. Our convoy spreads out and takes slightly different roads. Our beautiful Punto does this a little better than the accompanying 2CV, Corsa and Felicia, so we go on ahead, until 20 minutes later, disaster strikes! We hit a rock, rupture our fuel line and put a hole in our sump. It's still 100 miles to Astana and 50 miles back to the last town of any consequence.

I frantically jump out of the car and grab all our tools. I dive beneath the car, using my hands trying to stop the petrol pissing everywhere, while I try to simultaneously wrap the self-amalgamating tape round the hole. I fail miserably.

Luckily at that moment I hear the unmistakable sound of a 600cc 2CV engine, jump up and wave frantically at our approaching convoy. Thank god, they see me and they stop. But as they walk over I can see them whispering to each other and laughing. I am rather annoyed at this. They continue to laugh throughout the rescue, while we drain the petrol tank and begin to tow our crippled beast back to the nearest little Borat-hole.

I continue to be annoyed at the fuckers laughing at me while I was frantically waving my hands attempting to get help and desperately trying to fix my car, scrabbling around in the dirt on my back.

Until I realise I'm still wearing the chicken suit I put on that morning after losing a game the previous night.
(cypherspace is not a toaster, Fri 23 Jul 2010, 15:55, 1 reply)

A cracked rib maybe...?
*Possible pea roast alert* I can't remember posting this here before, but it certainly has appeared on Land Rover fora.

I was sat in my Land Rover waiting for the lights to change when I noticed a wobbly light getting nearer and nearer and CRASH! Something had walloped into the back of the Land Rover and it didn’t sound metallic!

I hopped out and saw a couple of youths not wearing helmets on a motor scooter. The driver was holding his chest was clearly in pain. Before I could offer my assistance the scooter was ridden off in an even more wobbly fashion as the rider was still holding his chest and steering one handed! It was then I noticed the absence of a number plate and began to chuckle heartily!! The scooter was clearly nicked and the rider had received a well deserved whack to the chest!
( Vambo, Fri 23 Jul 2010, 15:52, Reply)

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)

Odour emitting from safety apparel
Some years ago when business was actually good, my company decided to treat its best customers to a day go-karting. As an employee it was basically a day off so we were all keen, but having customers there meant you were supposed to be on your best behavior at all times.

As a generic work drone, I and a few others were treated to a lengthy lecture by our boss prior to the event on how to conduct yourself when out with clients. You know the drill, make chit-chat at all times, makes them feel special, don't do anything to soil the company's reputation.

Skip forward a few hours and we're all at track-side getting into our suits and making sure everyone has the right equipment. One of the young girls in our team isn't particularly happy with the fragrance of the equipment she's been given. Turning to our most important customer and shouting over the noise of the engines, she's says with absolute innocence: "Tim, have you got a smelly helmet?"

Thank god you can't hear people laughing when they've got crash helmets on.
(BinDipper, Fri 23 Jul 2010, 15:33, 1 reply)

Down Syndrome kid vs Troll
My friend has recently returned from Russia as his working Visa has ran out and he needs to wait a while to get it sorted.

Anyhow he told me this story (which i REALLY hope is true).

Whilst he was over there he was chatting to someone who told him this story about how their son who has down syndrome is in big trouble.

'But why?' my friend asked.

Well - The father had recently gone out and left his down syndrome son alone in the house for a while, whilst he went shopping. During that time his son kept ringing him and thinking it was an emergency he answered the phone to hear his son saying 'The troll is trying to escape, the troll is trying to escape', so the father just humoured him and told him not to worry.

Ten minutes later, the phone rang again and it was his son saying 'Dad, dad the troll is trying to escape from the cupboard, what shall i do?'

The Dad was a little bit concerned at this point, because he could hear a loud banging sound in the background, so he asked his son what was going on, to which he got the reply 'Dad it's the troll in the cupboard, he's trying to escape!'

Beyond curious now, the Dad rushed home and walked into the house to find his son sat with his back to the cupboard under the stairs, with something banging and moaning inside. The nearby furniture was upturned and the house was a mess.

Alarmed - he opened the cupboard to find a terrified and angry midget. Who had been kidnapped from the streets, who had previously been dropping leaflets through peoples letterboxes. Now the confused down syndrome guy must have assumed he was some kind of plaything and promptly dragged him into the house and locked him in the cupboard.
(mr-lizard Hell's teeth man!, Fri 23 Jul 2010, 15:28, 5 replies)