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This is a question Helicopter Parents

Back when young ScaryDuck worked in the Dole office rather than simply queuing in it, he had to deal with a claimant brought in by his mum. She did all the talking. He was 40 years old.

Have you had to deal with over-protective parents? Get your Dad to tell us all about it.

(, Thu 10 Sep 2009, 15:13)
Pages: Popular, 8, 7, 6, 5, 4, 3, 2, 1

This question is now closed.

New Girlfriend
When I was 19, I started dating a girl named Rachel who I met down my local. We’d been seeing each other for about 3 weeks when I sensed there was a problem ‘between the sheets’. Rachel didn’t say as much, but I could sense it and there was an underlying doubt in my mind that she was not impressed with my sexual performance, so to speak. No matter what I tried, she didn’t seem satisfied, and I could tell that she was blatantly faking her moans and groans of pleasure. It hit me hard; I was only 19, my girlfriend thought I was useless in bed, and as the relationship progressed a few weeks further, I found it more of a chore to put in the effort when having sex as I knew that she wasn’t enjoying it. ‘If only she’d tell me or show me what she likes’ I thought to myself time and time again, ‘then this relationship would be perfect’.
I was in a position that I hadn’t found myself in before. I couldn’t go to my mates and ask for their advice; I had far too much male pride to do that, and I knew that if my suspicions should come out then they would rip the piss out of me non-stop. Knowing them, they would have offered to have a go on her themselves. I also couldn’t ask Rachel’s friends because, well, that would just be strange. Sitting in my room one night after I’d got back from Rachel’s house, I decided to go and talk to the only person that I thought would be able to give me advice; my Dad.
Now, this in itself was a big thing for me. We’d never had ‘the chat’, and we didn’t really talk about things like this with each other, apart from the odd ‘Don’t get many of them to the pound’ comment my Dad would make in the car when we drove past a busty female pedestrian. I inhaled deeply and went to the front room, where my Dad was watching the TV.

“Dad”, I said quietly. “I...erm...Can I talk to you about something?”

My Dad, eyes remaining transfixed on the TV, muttered “Yes” and so I began explaining to him in great detail about my fears; about how I didn’t think I was satisfying Rachel, about my constant worry that she’d leave me for someone else if I couldn’t please her in the bedroom and that I didn’t know what to do to make things better. It was a long outpouring of my feelings, and I had to check twice that my Dad was actually listening to me as he remained focused on the TV. After I’d finished, he finally looked at me,

“Son, you don’t need to worry about things like that”. He took a sip of his coffee before he continued, “What you need is a pillow.”

“A pillow?”, I was confused.

“Yes son, a pillow. When you’re doing the dirty, slip a pillow underneath her bum. Works all the time, you can’t fail to hit the spot, she’ll love it. Trust me, when I first started dating your mu..”

“THANKS DAD!” I cut him off before he could go any further and retired to bed optimistic about my future with Rachel. The following day was Friday, and we were going out for drinks before staying the night at my house.

Friday came and drinks were enjoyed. We had a good laugh and my sexual fears and frustrations temporarily disappeared. It wasn’t until the walk home that I started to get a bit nervous about doing the deed again, but my Dad’s words of advice the night before were still ringing in my ears. We eventually got home and I checked the front room to see if my parents were still up. There was no sign of them, so I assumed that they were in bed. Rachel and I headed upstairs, and being quite merry, it wasn’t long before we were kissing passionately, and undressing each other, whilst trying to keep quiet so that we didn’t wake my parents, who were asleep in the next room. Before I knew it, I was on top of Rachel’s perfect, naked body and thrusting away. As usual, I was getting nothing in response, so heeding my Dad’s advice, I reached for pillow. I withdrew temporarily, and lifted Rachel’s legs and pert bum off the bed, sliding the pillow under her. Within seconds I was back inside her sponge cavern and was starting to build up a nice rhythm. I then saw something that will stay with me to the day I die.

My Dad stealthly rolled out from under my bloody bed, gave me a quick thumbs up and crept, on all fours, out of my room. The thing that perplexed me the most was his grin – he looked so pleased that I’d done what he told me to do. It was enough to end my night’s action. I feigned a headache to Rachel (who fortunately didn’t witness any of this) and we went to sleep. All I could think of whilst I lay in bed was my Dad’s big, cheesy grin; like a Cheshire cat.

I got a lock on my room after that.
(, Thu 10 Sep 2009, 16:11, 48 replies)
C'mon Smudge..

I could tell stories that'd make you weep for my poor lost childhood about my parents' strict, protective nature, but I save them for "it's not fair" whingeing over Xmas dinner - they had a mid-life liberal renaissance and raised my younger siblings in a fashion so laid back they were practically horizontal.

Hell hath no fury like an oldest daughter watching her 15 year old sister skip in at 8am, straight from her boyfriend's house, having suffered years of being locked in her room for being one minute over the 11pm curfew. While my life was akin to Saffy from AbFab, she's living the rock-n-roll, fags-n-glamour existence of Patsy. Bitch.

But anyway. This is more a tale of dramatically unconcerned parenting, because it's more interesting. At the tender age of 14, being of sound mind (read: a raging hormonal mess) and unusually fast development, I found myself a wholly unsuitable boy - 17 (ooh, dangerous) and a school dropout. All the better to rebel against my sensible-shoes and 9pm-bedtimes upbringing.

Of course, within all of a week we were spending every spare minute in bed. Which was fine, because I'd convinced my mother I was doing "extra homework classes" to ensure I "followed her into Oxbridge". His parents never spoke a word to us in the house, and couldn't have given a fuck who I was. So one sunny afternoon we're at it like rabbits on Viagra in his bedroom, and being too hot for covers (oh those balmy Yorkshire summers.. erm..) we're naked on top of his sheets.

Then comes the knock at the door.

Christ, we think, we'd better grab some kind of covering material before someone sees us as god intended (and, potentially, phones the police given the age gap). We spend a futile couple of seconds pulling the same bit of blanket, that's wedged under his back, in different directions. Making odd eek-like noises. Perhaps we can rescue this with the aid of a few more seconds and a Argos Man United duvet cover.

But no. Not being a sensitive or particularly engaged mother, and so never realising why we're holed up in his room for hours a day making squeaky noises, his mother simply walks in. With their Jack Russell, whose yap would put Katie Price in a cat fight to shame. Curtains for us? As I'm trying to dissolve my chest into him in the clear hope his mother won't see my tits and realising it's way too late for my arse (yes, we'd for the first time decided to "give that weird girl on top thing a go".. bless), his mother reaches over the bed. To make it worse, said dog is barking like a car alarm and doing something that felt suspiciously like humping my boyfriend's naked, half-off-the-bed leg.

I'm literally scarlet, wondering what the fuck she's doing and when she's going to scream when she pipes up.

"Ooh Daz (for that was his name), where've you put them choccy biccies?"

Yes, after walking in on her only son heartily boffing his underage girlfriend, her only concern is her mission - find the biscuits.

Scrabbling round and finally finding the half empty packet of dark chocolate HobNobs on the windowsill whilst *reaching over our writhing naked sweaty flesh*, she turns on her heel and walks out. Saying loudly to the dog "Come on Smudge, let's leave these two lovers at it".

My first boyfriend's mum saw me naked. And shagging her son. Then, I wanted to die. Now, I love her, and aspire to be her (well, at least in her attitude to teenage sex). Click "I like this" if you want to hear what happened when my (then) Christian Conservative ma found out about all this...

No apologies for length, you should see what I have in my top drawer.
(, Thu 10 Sep 2009, 20:38, 15 replies)
Talking Ted
In their very young primary school years, my kids' class had a toy bear that would be sent home with a lucky bairn. "Talking Ted" had a diary where said kid could detail what they did with their weekend.

It all started innocently enough: a stick drawing and "we goed to teh swings". But then the pushy parents got in on the act.

First of all, Talking Ted stopped watching *any* telly. Instead he went for lots of bike rides. His writing dramatically improved, he started typing and he covered several pages with his accounts. He stopped drawing with crayon and then indulged in long photo essays. Ted started doing lots of arts and crafts, going to Italian lessons and planting lollo rosso in the family's organic vegetable patch. He took up the cello, ballet, rugby and improvisational theatre.

Someone had to draw a line in the sand. When he came to our house, he went to see Hibs play. He had a pie.
(, Mon 14 Sep 2009, 14:40, 8 replies)
Helicopter or not?
Let me turn the clock back a year or two to the induction day to the primary school for my son. I turn up with a group of other parents to listen to the class teacher explain a few things about what they will be doing, sign certain forms, learn what we need to send them to school with and look at the shiny toys they will get to play with etc etc. The whole meeting is going well until the teacher starts to wind up the whole event by asking the group “Any other questions?”. I was going to ask if I could play in the sandpit/ waterwheel combo in the corner but I totally forgot after hearing the next exchange from a certain group of mothers.

“What do we do about medicine?” Asked mum1
(Before teacher could answer she was cut off by mum 2) “Yes my girl T has to take 5 different vitamins a day and will only take them from me I will have to come in myself to give them to him”
Me: (Whispering to the wife): Is it me or has this become some kind of bidding war for craziest parent
Mum 3: What if they injure themselves will you call me I like to tend to P’s injuries myself
Teacher: Erm… only if its something major, one of the forms you filled in earlier was to allow us to administer any basic first aid such as plasters on cuts etc etc)
(Before Mum 3 can reply she is cut off by mum 1)
Mum 1: My son can only eat if you sing to him
Mum 2: Mine is allergic to milk or anything that looks like it
(Me Thinking What other drink looks like Milk? He’s not going to be fed a pot of glue is he?)
Mum 4: Ah I didn’t like to mention it here but I have to cut my sons dinner up for him (Turns out anyone else would cut it too big for him) and he still breastfeeds so I will need to arrange to come in twice a day.
(Class falls silent somewhere in my head an electronic buzzer goes off with some bloke yelling we have a winner of this years crazyparent)
Teacher: 0_0
Me: Jesus Christ (Not a good thing to say in a Church School and kind of set my reputation up for the rest of my sons primary school life)

Turns out that the breastfeeding had to stop when the kid of Mum 4 started biting her when feeding. She still goes to school at set intervals each day to cut up his dinner and to bottlefeed him with breastmilk though. He’s 8 in October.
(, Tue 15 Sep 2009, 11:19, 21 replies)
More vulture than helicopter..
I've had my GF for 2 years now (practically lives with me) - small, petite thing, cooks for me, always been good to me.

I go away on holiday for a week, come back and something just doesn't seem right. I asked my Father if he had seen anything happen with my GF and he acts clueless.

So fast forward to 3 weeks later... I'm coming home from work when BAM clear as day, right in my Kitchen I catch my Father red handed with his meat in my GF. I was pissed off, told him to "get his meat out of GF and GTFO", needless to say my GF got turned off. I just couldn't get over it and that night kicked my GF to the curb.

Now it's been 2 weeks since the incident and that I've been without my GF and about 10 minutes ago my Father had the audacity to ask my how my GF has been, when he's the damn reason we ain't together no more.

Should I get off the computer and start swinging at him?


Pack my stuff and be on my way.

Here's a pic of my GF for you guys as I know you'll ask.
(, Wed 16 Sep 2009, 17:17, 19 replies)
Don't speak - ever. Just don't fucking speak !!!
The first girl who didn’t kick me out of bed the next morning muttering something like: “Urrggghh, you hideous freak! Fuck off!” or “Sorry I was really drunk, I though you were your mate,” was someone named Mel (Melanie, not Melvin – I performed a rigourous check of her undercarriage for excess cock n balls the first night we slept together and received a resounding negative response in the tranny-fucking department, thank fuck). Things were getting pretty serious between Mel and I, so I found myself invited round to her parents for tea and biscuits. And I was suddenly absolutely fucking terrified.

Mel had talked about her parents. They were liberals. Throwbacks to the 60’s when love was free, pills were cheap, and the music wasn’t quite as shit as it is now. I imagine Mel was conceived at an all night love-in somewhere. She was a scouser: for all I knew I could’ve been shagging the bastard love-child of John Lennon; she did look a bit like John Lennon, come to think of it. Only with tits. And I knew from speaking to Mel they were very open about everything, inculding sextalk with their dear daughter. That really freaked me out. Mel’s mum probably had a written report on her kitchen table about my shagging technique. It gave me the fucking willies.

So, we go round to her parents house. I’m sat perched on the edge of an armchair silently shitting myself as Mel’s mum and dad sit on the sofa opposite. We have tea. We have biscuits. Mel pops out for a minute and her mum asks me a question. I blink. I try and process the question. Doesn’t work. I gulp, blink, blink again. Then I start to reply:

“Oh, we started doing that a few weeks ago. Mel didn’t want to at first but I have to admit its something I always wanted to try, so we got really drunk one night and gave it a go. Don’t worry, I was very gentle. And we used lube. We took it nice and easy and eventually we managed to get the whole of me in,” I sipped my tea. I looked up and noticed Mel had come back into the room. She looked pretty fucking scared. I switched my gaze to her parents. Mel’s dad was sitting perfectly still, but his fists had clenched. Mel’s mum had put down her dainty little china teacup and her mouth had fallen open ever-so-slightly.

“What’s going on?” asked Mel, her voice quavering.

Mel’s mum responded: “I asked Spanky if he’d like to take you round the back,” she adjusted her skirt. “I thought he might like to see what your father’s done with the greenhouse and the rockery.”
(, Fri 11 Sep 2009, 15:44, 7 replies)
Until this weekend, I had nothing to add...
So, I was in town, picking up a few bits and bobs shopping. The town is Cambridge, so there are a fair number of delightful little Ruperts and Tarquins fopping about elegantly with their doting middle-class parents yapping at their heels to rush them to ballet etc...

Anyway, walking through the shopping centre, I happened to be following a Mother and her rather bored looking son. The mother seemed to be going through a long list of the things they had to do that day, ".. and we've got to get you some new school-shoes, and then you need some new pens, and then we're going to tea at...". She also seemed to be doing the 'lick-a-tissue-and-thrust-it-in-the-face-of-your-offspring' thing. Because clearly saliva and mouth bacteria is much better than an ink-smudge or two.

In the midst of this whirlwind of fussiness, the little trooper of a kid turns to her, raises his hand to her face resignedly, and sighs "Expelliarmus, Mummy."

Solid gold.
(, Mon 14 Sep 2009, 19:37, 5 replies)
Kamlesh the SUPERSTUD
During my first year at Uni one of my housemates, Kamlesh, came out with a line that would dog him for the next three years. It's how he acquired his nickname, Superstud and - quite possibly - earned him the highest level of piss-taking that's ever occured in the entire history of the human race since we splurged out the sea somewhere on gloopy little leg-fins and collectively said: "Fuck this sea bollocks for a game of soliders, lets go and see what a fucking tree looks like!"

Sat round in the SU we were talking the usual utter girl-related shit. I'm explaining how its possible for a girl to have an inny and an outy nipple, one of each, and that the girl I copped off with the previous night was sporting this weird chestacular manifestation. I explained how it scared the living crap out of me.

Kamlesh pipes up: "Bollocks! No woman's got an inny and an outy!"

"Pray, do tell more, Kammy you cunt," I suggest.

"I'm a fucking superstud and I know that's not fucking possible!" said Kamlesh.

We gazed at him. It was a drink-stopping moment. Time almost stood still. Kamlesh was about eight stone, built like a stringy streak of piss, and had the worst mullet and prebubescent 'tash combination you'd ever see in your life. He looked like an emaciated Asian hillbilly.

"You're a superstud?" asked one of my other housemates incredulously.

"Yeah!" said Kamlesh. And then he did it. Then it came. The line. The sweet line. And Kamlesh's university life would never be the same again. It was like throwing raw meat to a pack of rabid lions. "I am a fuckin' superstud... my mum says so!!!"

It took a fraction of a second for this to sink in, then we burst out laughing. And Kamlesh spent the next three years trying to convince us that he had not, in point of fact and at some time in the past, fucked his own mother.
(, Thu 10 Sep 2009, 17:04, 9 replies)
Get your priorities right...
Walking down the street one day, on a main road in a quiet little town, a toddler toddles by out of the lane in front of me going at an impressive lick for such a young lad... straight out onto the main road.

So I skip out and take him by the hand.

'Hello Mate! Where did you come from, eh?'

I lead him back up the road he came from, and spot a house with a slide and toys in the front garden, with the gate wide open. So we toddle up to the door and I give a knock.

Some foul harridan in a tracksuit opens the door and looks quizzically at us for a second.

'He'd got out of the garden and was on the main road - so I've brought him back. It looks like he managed to open the gate, clever lad.'
'OK, I'm going - but you want to get that gate sorted out.'

I was fairly calm though the whole thing, because I just thought - people are protective about their kids, you know? Of course they get a bit emotional...

And then I thought about it as I wandered into town - hang on a minute... you leave your kid in the front garden, you don't care that he goes walkabout on the main road... and you're scared of the Paedos? Get your priorities right - he's in much more danger from having a shit mum like you who's going to leave him to his own devices on the street than he is from the scary paedos... daft bint.
(, Thu 10 Sep 2009, 17:26, 22 replies)
Oh The Horror......
My Mums not particularly protective, racist, homophobic or offensive yet she once managed to hit all four spot on with a comment so out of character it was the equilivent of Hitler having a Jewish girlfriend.

On hearing that me and the girlfriend had booked up a trip to Tunisia, she uttered the immortal line 'Be careful son, those Muslim men are always raping fat white boys'

I didn't know whether to laugh, cry or go on a diet.
(, Tue 15 Sep 2009, 14:09, 3 replies)
My Parents are lovely.
Everyone. My Parents
Let me type and
Post what I like on internet forums.

My parents do not read and edit
Everything I post to check that they are not portrayed in a bad light at all.
(, Fri 11 Sep 2009, 16:12, 4 replies)
How I discovered I'm not a helicopter parent
When my twin sons were about eighteen months old I began taking them to the parent and toddler group at the local Steiner school. For those of you who haven't heard of them, Steiner schools are what could best be described as Proper Hippy Schools - no uniform, small classes, holistic teaching, no plastic, all wood and natural items - in many respects they're lovely but they do attract a particular type of parent.

I'd already tried the local mother and toddler group in a draughty village hall where the organiser - a large lady called Shirley, wore a pink sweatshirt with a strange design printed across the front - when I got closer to her I realised the 'strange design' was in fact a variety of food stains left behind by one of her offspring, all of whom sported dark green candles dripping from their grubby noses. I got chatting to one of the other mothers and felt the very real need to kill her after approximately three minutes of her recounting in great detail the contents of last night's nappy from little Wayne who was now licking the peeling paintwork around the hall. This wasn't the place for us - I'm a snob and wanted 'nice' friends for my young sons.

So we went to the Steiner group where the room was a beautiful airy space with bean bags to sit on and lots of wooden toys to play with. One parent would make bread from scratch in the kitchen area while the rest of us crafted something seasonally appropriate with our children. We were the odd ones out from the beginning - I allowed the boys to wear clothes from chain stores which had been mass produced rather than the gorgeous hand-printed hemp smocks that many of the others wore. I had cut the boys hair, had always had a routine with them (believe me, with twins and for the sake of my sanity this was necessary) and they had their own cots rather than us all sleeping together in our authentic Yurt. Despite this I liked going because the conversation with the other adults there was usually quite demanding - many of them worked in the creative industries, academia and were in short your usual woolly live-yoghurt and eat your own placenta liberal - pretty much like me then (apart from the placenta bit).

I didn't count on my kids being more the chav type though.

Son #1 soon tried to start his own protection racket based in the blanket tent and featuring pay in organic raisins in return for not being smacked about the head with an environmentally friendly unpainted non-gender specific wheeled vehicle.

Son #2 decided to go on a rampage with a wooden sword (a large stick) which also doubled as a machine gun - both appropriate weapons in his battle against the evil flower fairies and wood spirits that lived in the wild area of the garden.

The kindly non-offensive, non-threatening, non-judgemental, love to all beings group leader - leader in a non-patriarchal, non-hierarchical, commune way - commented gently to me that my sons perhaps had some unresolved anger based upon their surgical arrival into the world - they were big buggers and the only way they were getting out was through the sun-roof.

All was fairly okay in a walking on free-range egg shells way until the final half hour after we'd eaten the freshly baked bread and drank locally sourced apple juice. The morning always ended with a singing session - adults singing 'The Wheels on the Bus' while the little darlings sat on their parents knees and sucked thumbs and filled their environmentally friendly reusable nappies. Apart from mine, which is when I realised that I'm not a proper helicopter parent because I while I was happily ringing the bell on the bus, Ding! Ding! my sons were going for authentic sound effects.... I tried to fit in with the other non-judgemental, child-centred parents by smiling indulgently at the boys and whispering very gently across the room,
"Now please don't do that darlings, come and sing with me"
Bang, bang, bang, *manic toddler laugh*
"I really think you ought to stop doing that sweetheart, wouldn't you like to sing a nice song now?"

*I've blanked the next bit out of my memory - it required a great deal of medicinal wine*

The 'leader' suggested that the boys were not best suited to the gentle ways of the group and it seems that fire extinguishers go off quite easily when hit repeatedly by twin toddlers.
(, Tue 15 Sep 2009, 21:53, 20 replies)
RIP - My old man
I'm not sure why I'm telling the internet this, but here goes.

My old man was a copper, a bent one. Not bent as in gay, bent as in he would turn a blind eye to this and that for the right price. Not only that, but he was a double hard bastard with a short temper.

Anyway, back to the story...

When I was a kid, I was in with a bad crowd of nasty punks, I'm ashamed to admit that I was no stranger to massive doses of illegal drugs and huge illicit sex parties. Looking back I was a disgusting little shit, I'm not sure how I wasn't able to understand the reactions of other people, maybe I've got Aspergers.


Once some mates and I were daring each other to steal cars from the local Honda dealership, being the coolest and most daring of the group I was the designated driver. Nobody tells you this at school but it's dead easy to twock a car, just stick a screwdriver in the ignition, works just like a key.
I take a nice dab of speed to get me going, this was my first mistake and start my getaway in the stolen car.

Guess who should be driving by at the same moment? Yup, my old man, the dogy copper giving a lift to some fit as fuck prostitutes (none were my mum just so you know)

A dramatic car chase followed around Hyde, or so I hoped, it wasn't to be - They don't exactly fill the tanks up on those showcars and soon I had come to a halt.

I was so high and fucked on massive drugs that I thought I'd leg it. This was my second mistake. My old man drove his car THROUGH my car and pinned me to the wall with a police car and a Honda Accord, breaking both my legs.

With the bones literally poking out of my jeans we fought a bitter battle. All the years of this bastard ruining my life by not letting me get tattoos and piercings poured out as I beat my old man's face agianst the pavement.

Lucky for me he was a proper bent copper, becuase once the emergency services had arrived they let me off becuase I'd killed such a total cunt.

Guess who had to drive the tarts back to the station ;) legs were proper sore afterwards.

(, Tue 15 Sep 2009, 14:43, 26 replies)
Hell hath no fury...
My Mum was a most unusual parent. Evidence of this can be seen by all who have met me. She was liberal-minded to a fault, in fact so liberal the only option I had for teenage rebellion was organised religion. Weird how that one works out. But still, by and large she did alright in raising such a sensitive soul as myself. In short, she was an incredibly laid-back parent. But by fuck did she have a temper. Somewhat worse than a pissed-off female rancor when they've got the painters in. I've seen it a few times, and it's an awesome sight. Here's the story of one of those times.

It was the end of school day, and I would have been about 12 years old. And back then I was a bit wet behind the ears. In fact, that doesn't quite cover it. Try "so moist it's boggy". Which of course attracted the pirahna-like attentions of one of the more physically communicative young ne'er do-wells in my year. Although when I say physically communicative, he'd be as likely to nut you in the face as say "Hi".

So, I'm walking to the school gate, and I spot my Mum, ice-cream in hand, and she'd come to pick me up from school, meaning I didn't have to deal with the cerebrally-deficient plebs I was usually forced to spend my time with on my way home. Result. Of course, these things never quite work out like that. The antagonist of our story, unbeknownst to me, was running up behind me, and had leapt in the air, and was descending with fists drawn aiming at the back of my neck. In short, the bastard dropped me with a flying donkey punch. It's not surprising I fell to the ground like a freshly-shot antelope. Not the most pleasant of endings to a school day.

However, Mr Idiot hadn't counted on Mum seeing the whole thing. And she had. And saw red. And the temper manifested itself like the wrath of an angry God. Odin, Zeus and Amun-Ra would have been quaking in their boots. She had set off at a run across the school field, and caught up with Mr Donkey-Puncher, and had chased him round the field, swearing like a trooper, and had eventually picked him up by his jacket, and was shaking him. Quite roughly, in fact.

And then, she came to. And noticed herself surrounded by a bunch of grinning, slightly scared teenagers. And holding up a now very scared former bully. Who had developed a mysterious damp patch on his trousers.

Go Mum!
(, Thu 10 Sep 2009, 16:53, 20 replies)
I’m a helicopter parent
Or that’s what other parents think of me when I go chasing after my young uns when we go to kids parties in buildings with a play area.

The truth is that I would rather charge over the squishy shapes and go play in the ball pool than spend an hour listening to the other parents sit round and bullshit about whos kid is the best, what clubs they are in, how the kid can speak latin etc etc

My wife says I’m antisocial, I say I have the mental age of a 7 year old.
(, Fri 11 Sep 2009, 15:14, 14 replies)
Apart from banning the A-team
as mentioned earlier, my parents were very, VERY open with us from quite a young age and, trust me, it can be just as bad...

One of my chores for earning my 75p a week pocket money was to empty the bins around the house. Due to my parents beliefs about being open about sex, it was apparently not seen as important for them to discreetly dispose of their used condoms, instead choosing to discard them openly into the bedroom waste basket.

Unfortunately, all the liberal, hippy bullshit in the world doesn't stop a small 10 year old brainmeat from freaking the fuck out at the sight of a sopping man-sheath. The bin was dropped to the floor and, upon impact, scattered it's contents across the carpet... including said semen-filled, silicon serpent.

I stared at it for a long, long time trying to decide whether to pick it up and put it back in the bin or just leave it for my parents to find. I had just about decided that it would be marginally less mortifying to wrap it up and move it than it would be to have my parents explain how 'natural' the whole thing was, when I heard someone coming up the stairs, panicked and threw it into the bin.

With. My. Bare. Hands.

You know the game you play with your friends when you're teens where because you've touched a girls hand and she's touched her boob, you've technically touched her boob?
Well, shockingly, I never mentioned to my friends that, by that rationale, I've technically fingered my mum.

(, Thu 10 Sep 2009, 16:00, 11 replies)
This is a topic near and dear to my heart.
Please allow me to rant for a few minutes here.

Being a parent is a difficult thing, if you're doing it right. It means that you have to watch out for their best interests and sometimes do things that make nobody happy, but pay off in the long run. It also means that sometimes you have to stand back and let your kids fall on their faces.

I have three kids, two boys and a girl. All three are bright, physically attractive and have very strong personalities. This also means that they were one hell of a handful as they grew up, as they were smart enough to get themselves into a lot of unfortunate circumstances- or rather, the boys did. (My daughter saw her older brothers get in the shit, and thereafter knew what to avoid. Smart girl.)

My stance on things is that as a parent it's my job to teach them how to function in the world. I protect them from some things, but other things I show them while they're with me so they learn how to deal with them in the future- for instance, I've taken them with me to hear live music in bars (low key family friendly venues, but still bars), I've taken them into some of the seedier parts of the city in the late evening and shown them what to beware of and how to stay safe, and I've let them see me handle situations where someone has been hostile toward me (which involved me using the Dad Voice and facing them down on some occasions, and on others calmly talking the person down). I've protected them- but never sheltered them. I now have three teenagers who are quite capable of taking care of themselves.

My sister, on the other hand, has micro-managed her kids all through life. She wouldn't let them watch Looney Toons when they were little because they were too violent, she would insist on checking them for sunscreen before they went out, she kept them enrolled in activities in school so she knew where they were and what they were doing... she was the epitome of the over-protective parent keeping her kids as sheltered as she could from the Big Scary World. And now? Her son went off to a very expensive college and partied himself down to failing grades once he got out from under her thumb, took out student loans that he'll be paying back forever, and is generally having a great whooping time away from home. Her daughter... well, let's just say that I will not be surprised at all if she gets pregnant very soon, okay? She's off at her first year of college right now. I fear for her.

I tried over the years to express this to my sister, but as I'm her baby brother (7-1/2 years between us) she automatically knows better and is far wiser than I am. And now her kids are starting to pay the price.

I fully understand the desire to protect your kids, I really do. But for fuck's sake, what happens when you're not there? Who will protect them then? Who will guide them if they don't know how to guide themselves?

(, Sat 12 Sep 2009, 23:42, 17 replies)
Gummy Mummy
Remember that time when you could have sex with school girls and not be thought a pedo, you know, before you crossed the line from teen to twenties, mmmmmmmmmmmmmm……………….


Anyway, back at that time when I had a delightful, soft skinned, perky breasted year 12 student, and being the mighty stud I was with over 15000 fucks to my name, and 3 of them weren’t even in the solo class, I found that her ability for knob gobbling was just not up to that standard I had come imagine. Being the sensitive 19 year old male, drunk on his own testosterone, I fucking told her so, and left her in no doubt that she either shape up or it was out on your arse. Of course not really knowing what I was talking about I couldn’t provide any instruction on what I liked or give her tips on what needed to improve (in fact despite endless informal research of blow jobs via porn films in the proceeding years, I hadn’t even figured that the girls spit on the love wand as more moisture the better, but, my naivety is story for another day).

A few days later we met up for a night of sophisticated activity (she came to my place to watch telly and drink cheap wine) which culminated in heading to the bed room for a bit horizontal folk dancing, started with the most mind bending session of dirtying her knees. Of course I wanted to know how in the space of 3 days she had developed such skills that would get a golf ball through 9 yards of hosepipe, and she told me she had asked someone who pointed her in the right direction. I was too pleased with the process to ask more questions.

The following night we had dinner her at her place. Her Dad was working but, her old girl was home. I didn’t quite know how to respond when her mum asked me directly if I had any further issue with her daughter’s “dick sucking methods”.

As soon as I had my girl her on her own, I asked what the fuck she had said to her mum.

Apparently after my ultimatum she had a sit down with her mum and dad.
She had asked if they knew about sucking cocks, which apparently they did.

She had asked “what Dad liked” ,

and her mum had showed her.

With a carrot.

If the old girl hadn’t been a 120kg, ugly as fuck, Scottish harpy I might have had a crack at the master considering the action of the student.

Still explains why her old man smiled vacantly a lot.

Length, 8 inch girth and 13 inches long, fucking huge carrot.
(, Sun 13 Sep 2009, 15:22, 14 replies)
You all know the kind. The tracksuit wearing, face plastered with shite, too fat and waaaaaaaaaaaay too pregnant for anyones liking, dole scum sucking freaks.

In my old job, I worked in a bar. Some ditzy blonde bimbo, round as anything, sent her 12 year old boy up to the bar to ask for a pint.

Boy: "Pint please."
Me: "I can't serve you I'm afraid, you're too young."
Chav: (shouts over)"What the f*cking hold up?!"

She wanders over to the bar to see me refusing to serve this child.

Chav: "Problem?"
Me: "Yes actually. He's too young to be served any alcoholic beverage. If you want a drink you'll have to show me some ID."
Chav: "Its not for me though. It's for him."
Me: "Excuse me?" *quietly chuckling to myself, thinking "you cant be serious?"*
Chav: "You heard. He drinks at home and he wants to drink here, so give him the f*cking drink or I'll smash you teeth in!"
Me: "Look if you don't have ID I can't give you the drink." *not that I would anyway, being a chav and all*
*passing ID* Chav: "THERE! FOR F*CK SAKE! WHAT DO I HAVE TO DO TO GET A DRINK?" She yelled out to the whole bar.

I surveyed the ID, before announcing:
"Excuse me, I still can't serve you."

"Why the f*ck not? You wanted ID so pour the damn drink!"

"The ID says you're 17."

"Shit, I grabbed the wrong fake ID again..."

She then left, taking her 4 kids with her.

I laughed. And had a cookie.

EDIT: No word of a lie.

Also, first post ever. Yay.

EDIT EDIT (or number 2, whichever): I am aware a 17 yr old chav with a 12 year old son might sound far fetched, but he might've been her brother. not a clue. or instead the parents of the other childrens? nevermind. chavs are stupid.
(, Tue 15 Sep 2009, 20:29, 13 replies)
Student digs
One half of my parents actually fits this week's question particularly well, as my father is currently on the West Yorkshire Police Air Operations Unit, and if you're unfortunate enough to live in some of the shittier parts of the county, you've probably been disturbed at some point by his MD902 Explorer flying overhead on a chav hunt. On an unrelated note, he's built up a decent portfolio of student flats to help fund a comfortable retirement - not the greatest properties in the world, but in no way approaching health hazard status either. Unfortunately for him, when the Wakefield Express was doing a "special" feature on scumbag landlords and rip-off student housing, they somehow found out about his job and thought he'd make juicier reading than the real arseholes out there. Even though he wasn't charging particularly high rents, to avoid a media circus he met with the lead journalist, put his case across and mentioned that he was even going to slightly reduce them next year. Next Friday's paper had a page 4 story with the headline "Heli cop to pare rents".
(, Fri 11 Sep 2009, 14:04, 16 replies)
Helicopter some times + abusive at other times = confusion
(Length warning)

My parents married young & I arrived 11 months later. Dad is pretty chilled – worked hard, became successful and is a happy chap if he regularly gets to have a beer, play golf etc. He was away a lot when I was a kid (which explains some of below). My mother was (and possibly still is) a completely hypocritical headcase with the mental stability of a bunch of frogs with Gulf War Syndrome.

As a kid there were the usual aspects that a lot of other people would have had to deal with; certain children I was told not to mix with, certain TV programmes were banned, some types of clothing weren’t allowed etc. Fine. Not a big deal.

However there were much more embarrassing times - mother goes storming in to berate teachers in full classrooms for giving me detentions I that I thoroughly deserved, not allowing me to attend school trips in case I hurt myself (how can you hurt yourself watching Macbeth at your local theatre?) not being allowed to be alone more than 100 yards from the house, not being allowed to have the BCG jab as “my son will never catch TB we are far too middle class” and many others that I won’t bore you with. It was 100% helicopter parenting.

The worst thing though was the confusion because when she wasn’t acting like that she was beating the fuck out of me and messing with my head. There were times when I had to be kept off school until bruising had faded, made to sleep in the garden shed overnight in the middle of February, locked in my bedroom with the window chained, told I was educationally subnormal, stupid (turns out my IQ is about 140), was a failure, she wished I’d never been born, making me scrub ink off my arm with a pumice stone until my arm resemble a raw steak, plus many further (some worse) examples. This type of thing occurred pretty much daily from the age of 3 until I left home at 17.

Once she even got a GP out to the house to try & have me sectioned for crying once she had kicked the shit out of me(I recall the GP saying something along the lines of if anyone in the house needed sectioning it was probably her).

So on one hand I was not allowed to do perfectly reasonable things, some times my mother would go completely OTT to “protect” me, some times she would defend me when I deserved punishment by others and some times she would batter the fuck out of me physically and psychologically (hence my username).

I am now 36 and through therapy (mainly TA but some CBT as well) I have lost the anger about it, although I have chosen not to have anything to do with my mother for the last 19 years. I recognise that some of it was due to her having mental health issues but you don’t really realise that when you’re 14 and having a glass bottle smashed in to the back of your head or when you’re being told “you should have been an abortion”.

I have no idea how much my father knew - I never told him at the time & wouldn't now (we get on & I don't want to upset him).

I’m posting this not for sympathy or any bollocks like that but because I know there are some people who think they should not have children themselves because of their own childhood (who think as their parents were crap that this would make them be a crap parent). It is logical but incorrect to think like this – your experiences might not make you a brilliant parent but it will definitely make you a different sort of parent to yours - so have kids if you want them. (I want them – I just need to find somebody willing to with me first).

This is badly written due to my hangover. Apologies for that and the lack of f/
(, Fri 11 Sep 2009, 13:02, 17 replies)
About turn ! Keep up at the back, there.
No funnies here, and quite long so feel free to pass on by if you want.

My Dad was an overprotective nightmare. My mum was an unsociable clean freak who wouldn't let my friends into the house. So as a child -

I had one bedroom for sleeping in - done out to my mum's whims which looked like a princess's bedroom with all the things she couldn't have as a child herself, which was locked during the day so I couldn't mess it up.
Had one room for playing in, which was done out like a workshop with horrible scratchy industrial tiles on the floor, because apparently I was too messy to be allowed proper carpet. This was locked during the night.
Never had a sleep over. Never went to one either. Wasn't allowed fast food or fizzy drinks or peanut butter (don't know why I remember that especially) til I was sixteen.
My Dad would go to the end of our road and whistle - if I was out of range and didn't come running at this I would be grounded.
Grounded at fourteen for six months for going out one morning at nine and not returning until lunchtime. Mum panicked because she knew I was with a boyfriend (who she had met and knew) and thought he'd raped me and left me in a bush or some such nonsense.
Not allowed to go on dates, for example to the cinema, unless my dad took me there and picked me up after until I was seventeen.
Not allowed to get into my boyfriend's car at sixteen in case he crashed and killed us both - which became awkward when I started to work as a dj with him I can tell you.
Passed my driving test at eighteen but not allowed to drive in the snow - ever - in case I crashed.
And so on and so forth.

Left home at twenty and moved three hundred miles away. Dad told me if I left I was never to darken their door again. Cheers. Although he relents within two days and has me call him every day, or he calls me.
When I am twenty one, I don't answer the phone for three days because I am in bed with flu. Dad calls the local police and sends them around in case I'd been murdered or something. Didn't think to call my boyfriend, who I lived with, at his place of work and ask him if I was alright.

Fast forward to some years later. Dad leaves mum for someone else. Mum becomes dependent on me. Dad's daily phonecalls suddenly stop.

These days, twelve years later:
Mum wants me to pay all her bills because she won't get a debit card. She pays me back but often it takes a while !
Mum wants me to go and look at houses and flats with her, and sort paperwork out for her move.
Mum wants me to get grants to get work done on her house and fill in the relevant forms for her.
Mum wants me to do her food shopping online - she can't and won't use a computer.
Mum wants me to somehow magically make everything all right for her and gets pretty narky if I can't.
And never says thankyou for anything I do, and some of the things I do involve really going out of my way for her.

I've been registered blind for nine years due to a sudden severe sight loss which happened when I was living a hundred miles from home, and neither Mum nor Dad have ever asked me if I might need any help with anything to this day. They just assume its situation normal - they're not around enough to see any different. It has taken my fiance, who is totally blind, to actually set it out to my Mum that she can't hope for me to read her post and sort out cheques and bills, for example, as I actually have to have someone sighted read my own !

Dad hardly speaks to me - too busy with his new family - a daughter who he is in the process of smothering as he did me.

Over protective parents do an about turn in the end. I have no kids. I wouldn't want to turn into my parents !

Sorry for lack of funnies and whining and length. I love 'em and appreciate all the things they did do for me when I was growing up, but sometimes I could slap them.
(, Thu 10 Sep 2009, 20:56, 7 replies)
When I was at Uni, there was one girl in my year who was totally mollycoddled by her Dad, and to be fair, she had him wrapped round her little finger. He used to drive up from London to Oxford to see her most weeks anyway, but she would occasionally pull one on him and get him to come up other times too.

Reasons to call her dad and tell him to get in the car included: Having no food in the house and not wanting to carry her stuff back form the supermarket on foot (lazy as fuck - but surely you can still order a pizza?), having to go to a party out of town and not wanting to walk there and back (apparently he and her mum came down for the night and went for a meal to pass the time while she went to the party, then picked her up, dropped her home, and went back to London), and -famously- having an argument with one of her housemates and wanting her mum to come down and talk to the other girls in the house to sort things out!

The problem with this, of course, was that she was incapable of operating independently - she was just so used to Mummy and Daddy sorting everything out that she was useless left to her own devices.

This all lead to one of the most ridiculous stories...

On one occasion, she'd come to a party at someone's house, and decided she wasn't walking the 45 minutes back home, so she'd get a taxi. Being used to Dad picking her up and dropping her off everywhere, she hadn't thought about the fact that you need to have money to pay the taxi driver when he drops you off, hence an awkward moment when they got back and she had to confess she hadn't thought to bring any money.

She told her housemates this story the next day and they all, naturally, took the piss.

'So what happened then, Jenny? Did he have to take you to a cashpoint?'
'No... I just sucked him off.'

Mummy and Daddy would not have been impressed....
(, Thu 10 Sep 2009, 17:54, 4 replies)
The sad truth of parenting
...everyone else thinks you're doing it wrong.

One of the most striking things I noticed on becoming a parent is that everyone -- everyone -- has an opinion on how best to raise your kids.

Friends, family, complete strangers...they're all quietly (or not) filing away little nuggets to gasp and gossip over. It doesn't seem to matter whether or not the person has had children of their own, you can guarantee that they'll at the very least be tutting to themselves at whatever it is you're doing. But often enough they'll just come right out with it.

You might think that by spending a lot of time with them you're being reassuring and attentive. You're wrong: in fact you're being over-protective, you're spoiling them, you're not giving them space to develop their personality.

Perhaps you think that by backing off and letting them do their own thing that you'll avoid such criticisms? Oh no, a laissez-faire approach is neglect, you're letting them get away with everything, they're out of control!

Try to maintain some of their childish innocence, sense of wonder? You're sheltering them from the reality of the world, let them grow up!

Try to teach them reading, writing, basic maths? You're hothousing them! Let them be children!

Try to keep them clean...you're stunting their immune system. Watch as they coat themselves in mud, eat snails...what kind of parent are you?

In the end, the only conclusion that I've come to about parenting is that there simply is no right answer. Read all the books and studies you want, watch Supernanny all fucking day if you like, there is no magical one-size-fits-all approach to bringing up your kids. They are people, not robots to be programmed or pets to be trained, and as long as you bear that in mind then chances are you won't go far wrong.

Wait, what's this...oh sorry, I appear to have mistakenly worn my rant hat today.

*makes nob joke*
(, Thu 10 Sep 2009, 17:15, 12 replies)
Dr.Manhattan, My Mother, and the Love of my Teenage Years
I grew up in a household with Dr. Manhattan. Only he was a pasty grey colour, overweight, would swear like the Queen Mum afer a bottle of Blue Nun whenever Jeremy Beadle appeared on TV, and spent hours upon hours scratching his hairy arse with the kitchen spatchelor because the terrible sweat rash on his buttocks just wouldn’t clear up – dispite the prescription strength cream and fungicidal powder he’d apply so liberally to his glistening mancrack that it would congeal into a fine white goo to give the impression that he’d just been gang raped by a marauding mob off gay kangaroos.

Dr. Manhattan was my dad. And he would walk round the house stark bollock naked, absently jiggling his plums and scaring any passerby who happened to catch a glimpse of him as he pertched himself in the large bay windows of our house while sunning his fat flabby man tits while spouting his usual mantra about how he’d like to strangle Margaret Thatcher with his bare hands if he was ever given the opportunity. Thinking back, I imagine there were many sightings of the shaved yeti of Coventry circa 1985 - my parents really should’ve forked out and purchased a nice set of net curtains. Must’ve resembled an Amsterdam prostitute booth reserved for hideous old transgender harpies.

So nakedness and bodily functions were never much of an issue with my parents. And anyway, they pretty much left me to my own devices – they didn’t bother with me much, I didn’t bother with them. I sat in my fortress of solitude and masturbated, my dad sunned himself naked in the livingroom, and my mum made dinner. It suited all parties fine. My childhood was not too far away from those kids who are reared by packs of wild dogs, only substitute the dogs for the local chavs – then you’ve got my formative years pretty much sorted out.

So the whole helicopter parents thing never happened to me - except for one breif period when I was fifteen - my teenage cancer
scare. As I’ve mentioned on here before I acquired an extra bollock, and became known at school for the remainder of the year as ‘that Russian footballer’, in homage to Whodyounickabollockov (old joke, but kids will be kids). If that wasn’t bad enough my mum suddenly started showering me with all her motherly goodness. Think of a fly, think of a lump of steamy dog turd. Well, I was that dog turd, fill in the gaps yourself. It was bloody annoying. Factor this in with the fact that she would talk openly about bodily functions and you’ve got a terrible carcrash waiting to happen. This came to ahead after I’d had my extra bollock removed and was seeing the surgeon fella for a six month follow-up. You have to remember I’d endured six months of my mum asking me how my bollocks were every fucking morning over breakfast by this time.

The doc was finishing up the appointment: “So everything’s fine, the cysts been removed and there’s no complications. Do you have any questions?”

I was sitting there steaming – this bloke had just had his hands on my plums. I felt violated and not really in the mood to talk. My mum was holding my hand, clenching it tight.

“MASTURBATION!!!” she declared. The doc and I wondered if she’d developed sudden-onset tourettes. But no. She continued. “Has masturbation had anything to do with this condition, doctor? Go on, Spanky – tell the doctor about masturbation.”

“It’s perfectly normal for a teenage boy to masturbate, Mrs Hanky,” said the doctor, feeling my sudden anquish. My mum was still holding my fucking hand, for fucks sake...

“But EIGHT, sometimes TEN times a DAY!!!” Thanks, mum – cheers. “Is that really NORMAL???”

I piped up: “I don’t do it ten times a day, mum,” I mumbled.

Her grip tightened: “Yes you do!!! Remember, Spanky,” and then she said something that made me shudder to my core. “I clean your room!!! That mountain of dried up tissues doesn’t just magic itself into the bin, you know!!!”

The doctor started shuffling papers. You could tell he was getting a bit tired of this mental woman and her poor unfortunate son with the dodgy knackers. “It’s perfectly normal, Mrs Hanky-“

“But the NOISES he makes when he’s doing it, doctor!!! The NOISES!!!”

That was it. That was fucking it. Six months of this bullshit. Six fucking months... I released my hand and shot back: “What about you and dad, ehh? What about YOUR FUCKING NOISES??? It’s like having a room next to two fighting cats when you get started!!! Christ, I thought YOU WERE HAVING A FUCKING HEART ATTACK last night!!! And why the FUCK does dad have to call you HIS SEXY LITTLE LOVEBITCH AND GET YOU TO CALL HIM DADDY??? That’s FUCKING FUCKED UP!!! And why the FUCK can’t dad put some FUCKING CLOTHS ON EVERY NOW AND AGAIN??? Would it FUCKING KILL HIM??? I really don’t want to see his FAT FUCKING COCK ANYMORE!!!”

The doctor just pointed at the door. He didn’t put his arm down until we were both, my mum and I, out the door. “Please close the door,” he said. And I did. And that was the last I saw of my consultant surgeon, my beloved dick-doctor.

Things settled down to normal after that with my parents. My mum gave up on the parenting and bought me an Amiga for my room instead. My dad continued to do the Dr. Manhattan thing round the house (except my dad probably thought PHYSICS was a small town in Southern Spain).

But it wasn't really a loss - I fucking loved that Amiga...
(, Fri 11 Sep 2009, 11:43, 11 replies)
Ode to a teaching assistant
Many, many moons ago, I was given a job by my school teaching kids life skills as part of the school's partnership scheme with other local schools of lower performance rating. In other words, good school sent pupils to work at bad school to make bad pupils good pupils like me.

Now, I was the poorest lad in my class and had all the self confidence of a computer programmer headling the main stage of Glastonbury. The way I saw it, going to teach kids skills like cooking and revision technique would be a walk in the park since I had the same upbringing and intentions as them.

While that was true, what I hadn't expected was the batshit insane mother of one neverending wave of Zerglings, named Kayleigh.

Kayleigh had popped out 5 kids in 3 years. That's 2 sets of twins and another future frontrunner at the dole office in the time it takes for my Mum to send an email. Their names? Barry and Harry, Shelly and Kelly, and Chardonnay-Divine. I wish I was shitting you with that last one.

Now, in an attempt to be 'urban' and 'hip', alongside the arts, crafts and life skills classes was a course from a professional club dj (he was black and everything) to teach children how to 'scratch'. While I can't say I approve of the class (I keep all my CDs in their cases, thank you), the kids soon went to it like a fly to hot shit and I was drafted in to assist.

Knowing fuck all on the subject myself, the 5 kids soon took an opportunity to mutiny against the class. Records were taken out of the box and the ones deemed unworthy were smashed against desks, and then burnt in a pile. The microphone was used for some sort of 8-Mile slagging off match between two of the brothers, while Chardonnay-Divine proceeded to try and knick two mixing desks. While strangling the runts was off-limits, I used my cunning to subdue them while reinforcements were called.

Yes readers, I gave them all a Twix each and called their Mum. 10 minutes later, Kayleigh is seen storming towards the door, fists clenched, ready to pounce. Grabbing the handle with her mighty claw, she lets out an echoing:

'YER LIL SHITE!' - Christ, was I glad not to be the one on the receiving end of this bollocking.


Attempting to defuse the situation, I try and explain in the most calming words I can how one kid has just tried to walk off with £300 of recording equipment, 2 of her boys have just beatboxed solely using the word 'cunt' to most of the school, and a large, invaluable record collection spanning 15 years is now in a pile of viynl under some wooden desks, leaving a 6ft tall black man curdled in a ball of tears.

'Now you listen, kid. My little angels aint done nothing wrong all their lives and love their mother. You can't prove shit, and I aint paying shit all for your shitty class, so I'm fucking off now and I hope you do the same, cos if I see you again, my boyfriend will do you in a driveby.'

'I'm sorry you feel that way, madam, but that's not feasible now.' I replied.


'No madam, it's just your children are setting fire to the car you arrived in.'
(, Thu 10 Sep 2009, 18:52, 3 replies)
Shocked the shit out of all the other heli parents
My friend told me of the massive amount of phone calls from the other parents in his church group re: his son's behavior. Little Saffron, Julian and Miller couldn't possibly associate with Mike's kid anymore....

The kids, all 4 to 5 year old had been playing "bus". The teachers lined them in on chairs in a bus formation and each child took regimented turns being the bus driver. At one point the teacher decided to teach good manners-she exclaimed, "oh, look! There's a car stopped in the road! What do we do, children?" and every kid except Mike's pretended to hit the brake with appropriate screechy noises.

Not this kid. He jumped up in the "aisle" and screamed, "Move out the got-damn way, ya REE-TARD!" and sat back down quite satisfied he'd told that moron a thing or two. Four years old.
(, Wed 16 Sep 2009, 22:09, 6 replies)
Lesbians are EVERYWHERE
When I was a little kid my mum tried her best to protect me from the evils of the real world. So when I came home from school, a little confused, and asked: “Mummy, what’s a lesbian?” My mum pointed absently at the rug in the hallway and said: “That’s a lesbian. But that’s common. Call it a rug from now on. Now, do you want fishcakes for dinner or spaghetti shapes?”

And so this was forgotten until we went to a posh dinner at the home of my dad’s boss. I returned from the toilet, obviously desperate to be good (there was the possibility of a McDonald’s happymeal in it for me if I behaved), and also a little flustered because I’d had a toilet-related accident. I got a little confused. I announced to the room: “Mummy! There’s a big hairy lesbian in the bathroom! I weed on it!” Then I burst out crying.

As I say, I was confused. I thought lesbian was the posh way of saying rug and this was a big posh house, I'd forgotten that was the common name for the damn things... Parenthood – should be a law against it sometimes...
(, Mon 14 Sep 2009, 17:02, 4 replies)
Bit of a re-post of an oldie here...
But fuck it, I'm waiting for a stew to cook and it's taking forever. This story concerns not I, but Lady Doom's parents, and continues thus:

Parents used to be strict Catholics - as in Mother was a Nun and Father was a trainee priest (obviously something went wrong somewhere for there to be a daughter but anyway). As she was growing up there were numerous acts of parental lunacy but this one wins.

They were ridiculously over-paranoid about drugs - even the slightest mention and they'd flip out, so one day when the mother of the story is in my missus bedroom and finds a wrapped up foil thing she goes fucking apeshit - but not in front of my missus. No, she has to be sure first, so off she goes to best mates house to consult with other parents... no-one can identify the former contents of the mysterious foil, but it smells kind of sweet...

wobbly lines

one week later, having had no luck with parents, the mother of our story heads over to see the doctor, foil wrap in hand. The doctor has a look, takes scraping from the edge of this stuff to try and figure out what it is, has a sniff - same slightly sweet smell, a little bit like strawberries. He's getting on a bit though and doesn't really know what the kids are into these days. Best to open the whole thing up and see if there's a better sample anywhere. As the doctor opens up this tinfoil flower, a rather familiar looking word appears:

Petit Filous.

It was a strawberry yoghurt pot lid.
(, Tue 15 Sep 2009, 19:28, Reply)
Mother dearest
was oppressive to say the least. I had no confidence at all to do anything on my own and this affects me to this day.

Amongst the stunts she pulled during my time at home:
- walked me to middle school on my first day- aged 9
- sent bus fare into class one rainy day with my dad - aged 14 (!!)
- sent me to bed every night at 800-830 up until the age of about 13-14, I was the only kid in school who had never watched a whole episode of The Bill!
- told my 6' 4 scary headmaster that he would not under any circumstance keep me after school - aged 13
- told the same head that if he ever even thought of caning me she would do the same to him then have him locked up for assault
- would only let me out of the house after I had asked permission and told her where I was going, who with and what time I would return, up until the age of about 19- I started work at 16 FFS.
- when my pregnant then-girlfriend wanted to stay over whilst they were away, she asked in all seriousness where I would be sleeping as she would obviously be using my bed. Note the word pregnant once more if you will.
- sent me a text message after she and my father split up and we were not on good terms, telling me she was my mother and I *would* do as she says - aged 29. I still recall the exact words nearly 8 years on: "I am your mother and you WILL".

My brother turned out a complete social leper. I've at least managed to move out, get a job, a family, a life- he's 32 and still at home, unemployed, literally no friends whatsoever apart from internet chatrooms, claiming disability allowance on grounds of mental problems.

I have tried to be the opposite with my daughter, she is confident and outgoing, fears nothing and is an absolute delight, I am so proud of her and she is going to have the chances and success I was never given the opportunity or encouragement to have. I'm not trying to lead my life through her, just give her everything I was never given.

The ironic thing is that she divorced my father on grounds of mental cruelty and accused him of stifling her and being a control freak.

No lols so far, so I will finish by saying she has better stubble than me, genuinely has to shave a few times a week and could be a first class circus bearded 'lady' if she didn't.

/bitter and resentful
(, Sat 12 Sep 2009, 0:45, 12 replies)

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