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This is a question I'm going to Hell...

...because I said the Lord's Prayer backwards at a funeral to summon up the Goat of Mendes, Freddie Woo tells us. Tell us why you're doomed.

Thanks to Kaol for the suggestion

(, Thu 11 Dec 2008, 13:09)
Pages: Latest, 22, 21, 20, 19, 18, ... 1

This question is now closed.

Bloody Morphine
I greeted my girlfriend's parents in the sterile lobby area at University Collage Hospital London. They looked tired. I looked tired. We'd had a hard day.

I received a call from them at lunchtime to advise they were getting the next coach from Cardiff to London and that they would be at the hospital a.s.a.p.

My girlfriend had had major surgery earlier that day to sort out the constant, agonizing pain she has suffered from for the last eighteen months; a gynacological condition that meant she could hardly walk and was hurting so much that once she actually cracked one of her teeth cuz she was clenching her teeth so hard through the pain. Painkillers just didnt work.

What was supposed to be an hour long operation turned into two hours, then three - eventually stretching out to six hours in surgery. And all this time I was mulling about the hospital, trying to find out information with no luck, stepping outside to chain smoke, then returning to be sent to another department to speak to somebody else in a white coat or nurses uniform who didnt seem to have a clue what was going on with my girlfriend.

"Liz is on the thirteenth floor," I said in my best Tom Waits chain smoking all day gravel voice. "She's ok."

We filed into the lift, not even talking. We were all so tired.

Then we shuffled into the ward - the nurses there had got used to my face by now and we were allowed straight in.

My girlfriend, Liz, opened her angelic blue eyes and sort of focused on me as we approached her bed - she was on so much morphine she didn't appear to notice her parents were with me.

Liz then told me that the surgeon had just been to visit and had told her her fertility was fine and that if we wanted to try for a baby we should start as soon as she'd recovered from the surgery.

I was just happy she was ok, but this news made me feel so incredible inside. I never wanted kids before, but when you meet the one you just want to give them everything, to hopefully bring a new life into this world who's part you and part the person you love.

And so, in this moment of serenity, of absolute love, with her parents standing on the other side of the bed looking relieved that their baby daughter was still alive and ok, Liz fixes me with a sly look and says:

"So no more bum sex for you, Spanky."

Bloody morphine.

Her parents are dyed in the wool Catholics. Yep, I'm probably gonna burn for converting their daughter to the ways of the dark side.
(, Thu 18 Dec 2008, 9:59, 13 replies)
Pray for Pooflake…

This has just happened…

Backstory: I had a massive Chinese Takeaway last night…mmmm. With extra curry sauce. It was nom-tastic.

What I hadn’t had however…is a good, old-fashioned 'didgeridoo'...a 'grand Macca'...a ‘Thora Hird’ (or for normal folk, a poo)…for nearly three days now.

Therefore, my cunning scheme was to quaff said copious amounts of Oriental delights, in the hope that the heavy (and highly potent) level of such spicy devoured goodness might dislodge what was proving to be a rather stubborn squatter up ‘cack canyon’.

And lorks, In the name of Peter Stringfellow’s near-perfect teabagging technique, it certainly did the happy trick.

So I'm at work, and after some more-than-adequate warning blasts, the time rapidly arrived for me to awkwardly waddle along like John Wayne to the Dump Depository Department, letting off little trumps as I go; and ‘tutting’ in order to either mask the ‘quacks’ or trying to nonchalantly blame the noises on squeaking chairs, shoeleather and suchlike.

I finally reach the Lavs…kicking the entrance door open with fevered desperation…and…every cubicle is taken! FUCKBILGE! I curse the gods of toilet mercy, shaking my fist in the air, before dragging myself back to my desk.

And I wait...considering that five long, agonising minutes is well enough time for everybody to finish, I squirm uncomfortably on my chair…counting the seconds until my next opportunity for feacal evacuation.

Then I go back and try again.

Now, the toilet block where I work is always pretty busy…but three fucking hairy-total-bastard visits later and I am still unable to find a free trap where I can dig out this urgently nudging bum banana from my terminally strained sphincter.

I feared that if someone didn’t relent quickly, you would all soon be watching the news footage of a giagantic brown mushroom cloud over the centre of England, with me sat on top of it, watching the grotesque devastation and loss of life that would make the Asian Tsunami seem like a ripple in a paddling pool filled with pot-pourri.

Minutes pass…I’m sweating like a peado in a playground with a packet of Royhpnol-laced Polo mints, and I'm afraid to relax my stomach muscles in case there is any 'uninvited oozing'…God help me I even prayed…I then ventured one last time…

Visit number 4…STILL no cunting joy…and I feel like I am about to turn inside out, leaving behind nothing but a dishevelled stomach bag filled with semi-masticated noodle slurry and fleshy, flapping bundles of internal organs.

Yet suddenly, in my angst-ridden desperation, like a gift from God himself, I notice the little ‘glint’ of a sign…

…on the disabled toilet door.

It’s like it is calling me...letting me know that it understands I have no other option. Besides, I reckon the 'roomy' cubicle is pretty much fair game anyway, considering the only disabled person in the place is ‘Helen’, the boring admin clerk with the bandy, buckled dwarf-legs.

I weigh up my options and make my decision to use the disabled chod bin. I rationalise to myself that It would be a far worse crime to burst my twitching bowels all over the surrounding corridor…

So I thought of my colleagues…equality…the children…(Well, the kids that needed dropping off at the pool anyway)…

And, after a quick check around, I tentatively step in….

The place is like a goddam Poo-planting paradise!.

But I didn’t have much time to admire the artwork on the walls…My clouts have barely reached my knees when…:



A monumental turd bearing a more-than-passable resemblance to a slimy brown Oil tanker emerges from my prolapsing rectum.

Although my hopes weren’t high, I just knew that this was going to be a wiping challenge of biblical proportions…the very polar opposite of a friendly ‘ghost’ crap.

The resulting aftercare service is indeed painful, multi-textured and laborious on my puckered papper passage. There is even blood involved. Ew.

Soon after, drained, exhausted, and with the stench of my rancid own-goal beginning to make my eyes water, I know the time has come to make good my escape.

I heave up my trollies and survey the damage with a heavy heart, yet vastly lightened bowel.

It looks like a post apocalyptic warzone. The bogroll has intermingled with the effluence, blood and water to create a sort of ‘chocolate-raspberry-ripple’ effect…Oh, the horror…

For the good of mankind I must banish this beastly behemoth to the watery depths from it's porcelain prison...so I tug on the bog handle…but it merely rattles in my hand…It’s like it’s not attached to anything. No flushing. Nothing. Just a gargantuan, putrid lump of purest ‘Forrest Gump’, with it’s tapered end poking out from the top of the water level, and a spirited reluctance to leave the party.

Oooh fucking hell.

I think to myself: ‘Is there some sort of secret, ‘Mason’s-handshake-like’ way to flush a disabled toilet?’

If there is…whatever it is, I couldn’t figure it out…and as the mound of fetid feculence and spent bumwad was starting to growl at me, I begin to frantically push and pull everything that looks even remotely like a handle in a vain and increasingly futile state of intense panic...

But nothing…nothing is getting rid of the abomination and insult to humanity that was the backside-busting brown trout staring at me from inside the pan.

Hitting it on the head with the spikey brush only made things worse.

Eventually, and with a crushing inevitability I realised I had no choice – I had to ‘abandon shit’…

I stealthily listened at the door…waiting until there was absolute silence. Then, biting my lip, I delicately turned the door handle, and slowly peered around. Nobody. Thank sweet merciful bollocks! I step out…still nobody. I close the door and take one stride away… the relief now sweeps over me in an almost orgasmic fashion as the realisation finally sinks in…’I’ve gotten away with it!’

The perfect Crime!

Now, with my tongue firmly lodged in my cheek and a cocky little ‘spring’ in my step, I metaphorically pat myself on the back, congratulate myself for a ‘Jobbie well done’…and swagger around the corner…

Straight into the path of Helen…poor, poor Helen…and her innocent helper…who is escorting her to the bogs.


I couldn’t even bring myself to look her in the eye as she cheerily said ‘Alright, Pooflake?’

I mumbled something about being ‘extremely busy’ and shuffled off, glowing with shame.

Just the knowledge that she was about to helplessly hobble face-first into a deluge of my unholy arse-produce has condemned me for all eternity.

This kind of thing always seems to happen to me around Christmas time.

So…going to Hell?...Bring it on I reckon. It couldn’t be any worse than how I feel right now…

(, Fri 12 Dec 2008, 13:33, 26 replies)
I flummoxed a group of Fundies.
It was late one Friday night in the late spring. My friend Richard and I had been out shooting pool and drinking overpriced low-quality pisswater, and we decided to head home. He had drunk less than I had, so he got in his car and departed. Me, I felt the need to walk around a bit before I got behind the wheel- not that I was drunk per se, but just to clear out the cobwebs.

This is how I found myself sitting in the Farmer's Market at one in the morning, letting the warm breeze waft over me as I dozed a little and ignored the group of happy clappers off to my left who were dancing and singing with guitars and tambourines. It was a relaxing sound, really- a load of untrained young voices singing from about fifty feet away. The air was full of the odd scents of downtown Richmond- not all of them pleasant, I might add- but it was nice to sit back and watch the parade of drunken humanity streaming past as I sat on a wooden produce stand.

"Excuse me, do you have a moment?"

She was probably about nineteen, I would guess, with straight blond hair and blue eyes and an open innocent face. Slender, wearing snug jeans and a clingy knit shirt, a shy smile on her face... yeah, she got my attention. "Sure, what's up?"

"I just wanted to know if you've heard the news."

"News?" What the hell was she talking about? Was there another attack from al Quaeda or something?

"Yes, the news of our Lord."


"Ummm, yes, I have. I'm afraid that I'm following a different path, though."

"Yes, but have you really heard what He had to say?" She looked so earnest that I actually hesitated for a moment- but no, the glove had been thrown down. Dismissing someone else's faith because you know yours to be the One True Way is something that I can't let go unchallenged.

"Yes, I have. And frankly, I don't think that most of what's attributed to him in the bible is accurate- I tend to doubt that he was anywhere near as arrogant as he's been made out to be."

She looked utterly stunned by this. "Arrogant?"

"Yes, arrogant. Consider: he supposedly said that the only way to Heaven was through him, right? In other words, that the people of the world who hadn't happened to have heard of him would be cast into damnation, even though they had led blameless lives. I would say that that was pretty damned arrogant, wouldn't you?"

She was blinking by this point. "Ummm... I'll be back in a moment." And she whirled and retreated.

I sat back and took a few more deep breaths of the fragrant Richmond night, letting my mind race for a few moments before she returned with a boy in his twenties. "Hi, you had some questions about Jesus?"

"Not exactly. I was telling your friend here that I don't really buy into what's in the bible, because I don't think it's an accurate depiction of what Jesus said. Not too surprising, really- how many times has it been translated? From Aramaic to Greek to Latin to English that I know of off the top of my head. There have to be translation errors that pop up. Not to mention that there have been a lot of rather disreputable popes in the early days- did you know that there are entire books of the Bible that have been chopped out because someone found them objectionable?"

They both looked like they were drowning at this point. I noticed that a few more of their group had appeared nearby, drawn to the discussion.

"And then there's the fact that the New Testament was passed orally for over a hundred years before it was ever recorded onto paper. Have you ever played Telephone? You get a line of people together, you whisper a phrase to the first one, who whispers it to the next one, who tells it to the next one, and so on. Then the person at the end of the line tells what the message was that they were passed, and the person at the start announces what the original phrase was. They're never the same. Now imagine that being done across generations. How accurate do you think those words attributed to Jesus are? Do you think he'd even recognize his own words?"

I was at the center of a school of fish, it appeared. Mouths opened and closed but few words came forth, and no complete sentences. Then I noticed a rather stern looking man about my own age pressing toward the front. "But the bible is God's Living Word."

"Okay then. Let's set aside any question of inaccuracies for now and just look at what it says. Eternal damnation if you don't follow His rules, right? Sounds pretty harsh to me. According to Genesis we were created in God's image, right? Only we're flawed humans, a pallid imitation of perfection.

"According to the New Testament, God is infinitely patient and forgiving, right? Consider this: if my son does something that he knows that he shouldn't- say, throwing a baseball in the house- and I catch him breaking my rules, maybe because he broke a window or something, what do I do? I ground him, I yell at him a bit, I take a way his privileges, but after a few days he's learned his lesson and on he goes. Do I chain him in a basement and starve him and beat him daily and pour boiling water over him? Of course not. So if I'm a flawed imitation of God, why is it that I'm more forgiving and patient than He is? The whole concept of Hell makes absolutely no sense."


"Look, I'm glad you have a faith that works for you. Really I am. Keep with it. Just recognize that for some of us, it just doesn't work. And that's why I've chosen to follow a different path. You can follow yours, but I need to follow mine." I looked at my cell phone. "It's getting very late and I really need to get to bed. But thanks for the conversation, and good luck to you."

And I left them standing there, mouths agape, whispering to one another with their silent guitars and tambourines clutched in their hands as I walked away.

I think I may have destroyed that guy's flock that night and turned a few minds to doubt. Tired, drunk, up far past my bedtime, and they couldn't touch my logic or refute me.

Maybe I really am Satan...

EDIT: I must be, as this is now my most popular answer to date.
(, Thu 11 Dec 2008, 15:25, 28 replies)
Time for another cathartic post from me I'm afraid.
My eldest brother Derek was born with severe cerebral palsy. He was confined to a wheelchair and lived in a care home for the majority of his life.

According to his regularly updated medical reports, Derek was partially sighted, partially deaf and his mental development was severely curtailed.

I only ever saw him a few times a year. It might sound awful, but it's difficult to interact with someone who can't respond to you in a way you can easily understand. However, despite his severe disability Derek was reputed amongst his carers to have a somewhat less than PC sense of humour. It wasn't really elaborated upon, but there were knowing looks and the occasional wink when the subject of Derek's hysterical belly laughs came up.

In May 2001 I returned from my honeymoon to discover that Derek had passed away suddenly. He'd reached the age of forty one and to be honest I assumed that the old bugger would keep going on forever. However, I was quite surprised at the scale of his funeral, two of his old carers had come out of retirement to see him off with a final goodbye. A lot of his carers seemed genuinely saddened by his passing, he'd made an impression on people.

I discovered quite how many later on that evening at the wake. One of his carers came over to me, a young woman of about nineteen or twenty, generously padded up front.

"Hi, I'm Rachel. You must be Derek's youngest brother. You have the same face as him" she said.

"Yes I am. Did you know him well?" I replied.

"I've been caring for him for six months"

A young man interjected.

"Actually Derek was rather fond of Rachel" he said, smiling.

Knowing looks were exchanged.

"Oh yes?"

"Well, Derek used to kick up a fuss if I was around and tending to someone else" replied his carer.

"Go on, tell him more" said the young man, who I correctly guessed was another care worker.

Guiltily she told me the rest.

"Well, I went through a bit of a phase with him. Every time I used to feed him in the morning he'd fit. I had to reach over and hit the panic alarm" she started to smile now.

"I couldn't figure it out, what did I do to cause these fits? He never fitted when anyone else was attending to him. Sometimes he'd stop fitting and start raucously laughing" she continued.

It transpired that the fits were faked. The cunning bugger had the hots for Rachel and was treated to a full in the face closeup of her large round norks each time she reached over and slapped the panic alarm button.

Here's to you brother.
(, Fri 12 Dec 2008, 15:46, 15 replies)
3 years of age
...and my gran has taken me to church, as she did.

The minister is leading the Lord's Prayer:

"For thine is the Kingdom, and the power and the..."

Me (top of my tiny lungs): "By the power of Greyskull! I HAVE THE POWER!!!"
(, Sun 14 Dec 2008, 11:14, 6 replies)
The epic tale of a Czech boy.
Growing up I lived in a tough neighbour hood. Like really fucking tough. I didn’t know anyone who didn’t carry a knife. Or anyone that wasn’t in a gang. People think gangs are a lifestyle choice - they are not. You just get swept up and carried along. Sometimes fantasy and real life blurred at the edges. But this was the cold reality of my existence and there was no escape from it. I looked up at the same sky as everyone else but we were shit poor. I didn't ask anything of anyone. I learned quickly to accept the ebb and flow of things. Some of the times we had were great others were the lowest points of my young life. I learned to just go with it, whatever happened – to be honest I didn’t give a fuck about anyone or anything.

Until that is, the day I had to break it to my mother I had committed murder. She couldn’t accept it, simply refused to believe it. The worst part was when she demanded to know how I had killed the poor bloke. Having to tell my own mother I had shot another young man at point blank range is still to this day indescribable. He died instantly of massive head wounds. Pulling the trigger was simple, but I hadn’t any idea of the consequences. She was distraught. She told me I had thrown my entire life away. I have never seen anyone cry with such gut-wrenching pain. I didn’t want this for her. I didn't mean to make this happen. I did to do the only thing I could. I ran. The following day i was gone but my mother had to try and pretend she knew nothing of this terrible thing and continue life as normal.

But all too soon the game was up. By the time i was caught i was in a terrible state, I was petrified and every part of my body ached. I waved goodbye to my life, my mother, I didn't want it all to be over but frankly by this time I wished I’d never even been fucking born.

In court I looked at the judge, a little thin wisp of a man. He was a joke, a fucking buffoon. We danced around the whole stupid legal process. Being in remand was terrifying. The first night in prison there was a huge storm, thunder scares me but the banging of doors and the clatter of hundreds of other men terrified me. All at once my place in the gang – the security of it meant nothing. I was just another dirt poor fucker trapped in a hole. My family was skint, there would be no fancy lawyers to come save me from the inevitability of the situation. But my attitude was still – who gives a fuck?

Clearly there was no way out of this one, but then, on a technicality I got off. Reluctantly they let me go, well got off for now that is - if there is a Hell then there is surely a place set aside for me.

You can think what you like of me. Some people call me scum others just turned their backs on me. But when it comes down to it I have realised in this life that if you look closely enough, nothing really matters, anyone can see. Nothing really matters to me.
(, Thu 11 Dec 2008, 17:09, 26 replies)
Serpent's Tongue
I may have posted this in some form or another before but this fits nicely in with the topic as one of the most singularly evel things I've ever done.

As I've mentioned in various posts I had a rush of blood to the head cock at 18 and ended up engaged and then married to my first girlfriend. A silly, naive move on hindsight for many reasons.

Now, I'm a merry little atheist, but had suddenly found myself spliced into a heavily Jehovah's Witness family. My wife had been given an opt-out at sixteen which she had taken, but her thinking was still sullied by residual lunacy from her upbringing.

To make matters worse, her parents had taken an obvious dislike to me straight away. They had actually told her, when we had just started going out, to dump me as; "He's the spawn of the Devil!" (How I wash I was only paraphrasing there!) Obviously, I found this hilarious, my father and very catholic mother, predictably less so.

From then on, the relationships between both sets of families were strained like a constipated sphincter. My mother and her's especially. They could barely stand to be civil to each other in the street, and there were a few instances where I thought I was going to witness the Great Menopause Massacre of 2000 in the middle of Hawick High Street.

I knew what her family thought, and didn't much care, but when an opportunity for some prime mischief arose, I wasn't about to pass it up.

My wife and I had moved into a little flat, and when she wasn't working on the deli department in the local Safeway, her mum would come down to the flat, have a tea and they would go out shopping.

On the day in question, this was to be the arrangement. Now, our relationship was tempestuous to say the least and was played out to the tune of screaming matches, broken dishes, accusations of sexual inadequacy ("You've never made me come!" "That's because your a fucking sack of spuds!"), and vague threats of domestic violence.

We were going through one of those 'rocky' periods, although rocky in the same way an active volcano is still ostensibly rocky. This is why she was surprised and a little pleased by my administering a nice morning donation of my best oral.

This wasn't a magnanimous gesture on my part however, far from it. I knew her mum was coming round. After it was over, she went for a bath, during which I heard the familiar ring of the doorbell.

"I'll get it!" I yelled cheerfully, opened the door with a gleeful flourish and planted a great big snog with a stray tongue straight on her mother.

She looked bemused and frightened. I then pretended nothing had happened, sauntered back into the kitchen and popped the kettle on.

I still today this day wonder if she ever realised she had just tasted her own daughter.
(, Thu 11 Dec 2008, 13:17, 18 replies)
Gilbrecht and Solomon present:
dum dum dum dum dum dum dum dum...

I am the very model of a left-wing intellectual
I'm Jewish and a communist and also homosexual
I fight for every evil and un-German ideology
Like Bolshevism, anarchy and Freudian psychology!

He fights for every evil and un-German ideology
and maybe he's a British spy who's stealing our technology!

I'm decadent, undisciplined, and not authoritarian
I don't believe the Japanese are altogether Aryan
I'm rather fond of gypsies and believe in relativity
I don't turn up to Hitler Youth, I'd rather have a cup of tea!

A decadent, undisciplined, Judeo-Communistic swine
We wish he'd find the energy to bugger off to Palestine!

(note: this is the fault of this post)
(, Mon 15 Dec 2008, 11:37, 20 replies)
United 93, AKA the September 11th film.
The passengers have overpowered the hijackers, but it's too late. The plane is heading into a nose dive from five thousand feet.

"This is it!" they scream.

Expectant mothers, crying husbands and wives desperately punching numbers for one last phone call, grown men wimpering and hugging, the torrent of children's screams as the plane hurtles towards the ground.


And just like that, it ends with a mighty crunch, a fireball, and the stench of burning flesh.


Now who let's out a Counterstrike-esque "Terrorists win!" at this point, in a packed theater of teary-eyed New Yorkers?

Go on, guess.
(, Wed 17 Dec 2008, 22:54, 9 replies)
Poetry Corner...

It’s great to see some excellent quality poems turning up on QotW. Here’s one to lower the average standard…

EDIT: UK folk - It helps if you sing the following to the tune of the anti-piracy 'Knock-off Nigel' Ads...

Eternal Damnation: How bad can it be?

“You’re going to Hell!” They cried out, my heart sank,
When they rumbled me having my favourite wank
Over pictures of Jesus, and Maddie, so cute
And a nice one of Hitler in full-on salute

‘Oh, but that’s not so bad’ I hear some people say
‘You’re no racist, no paedo, you’re not even gay!
& we’ve all done some ‘naughty’ things, why don’t you tell…
What you really think has you condemned down to Hell?’


I will speak to the vicar about anal lube
I will wear a back-pack and shout ‘BANG!’ on the tube
I will make any pervert look more like a monk
In a restaurant I shout: ‘This soup tastes like my spunk!’

I call everyone ‘cuntstick’ whatever they do,
I write stories of sex, degradation and poo.
I will fart out in public and blame it on dogs
I will loosen the handrails on disabled bogs

I will howl at the ‘downs’ kids and act like a mong
I will flop out my cock when I know that it’s wrong
Then I’ll fwap in shop windows and make children cry
I wear horns and a trident when ‘god squads’ drop by

I break 7 commandments each time that I shite
There is no way that I can start putting this right
So I’m banished to hell & my soul is now wrecked.
After all, I’m a B3tard…what did you expect?

(, Tue 16 Dec 2008, 10:19, 13 replies)
So bad, so wrong
You have to laugh to make it go away.

A few years ago, Scope was running it's campaign to see the person before the disability. Quite right too.

So I'm on the train, roll in to Leeds, look across at the hoarding, which reads "Jimmy loves football, and is a Manchester Utd fan. He also has cerebral palsy" under which someone had written:

'Serves him fucking right.'

I laughed harder than I ever thought possible, made all the worse because I was on a trip with the kids from the special school I work at. Although, two of them found it funny too.

Length? They never complained.
(, Wed 17 Dec 2008, 17:26, 2 replies)
Grandad's Funeral
Ignoring 95% of backstory, my grandad was an utter legend and if I was old enough to do so at the time when he kicked the oxygen habit, he would have been my number 1 drinking buddy.

Come the day of the funeral, his war veteran senile mates all arrive at the crematorium to bid him farewell. Ceremony starts, dreary organ music chimes in and sets the somber tone as the man of the cloth takes to the stand(this is why I'm going into the flames to the Magic Roundabout theme; far more fun.) Being 9 years old at the time, I'm crying worse then than I did at the end of Terminator 2, as are the rest of my family, although I think that was because of the funeral though and not the whole Arnie thumbs up in molten steel thing. Senile gits are whispering among one another, which only angered me and made us all cry harder.

Quoteth the father:

'The late Mr FoxyBadger McAwesomeness Sr., who bravely fought for his country in two world -'

'HOLD ON!' pipes senile old timer #1 'The cheeky bastard is late? What selfish turd turns up late to their own funeral'

'It's just like that Mr FoxyBadger!' screams senile old timer #2, in agreement with the rest of the coffin dodgers 'I don't know why we bothered turning up to this fucking place if he won't grace us with his presence! Sod this, we're leaving this guy to burn'

All at once, senile gits stand up and form an orderly line to the door. My jaw was still enduring the strong gravitational pull of the carpet when every over 65 in the room does a U-turn and travels over to the casket to give their farewells before returning to their seats like nothing had happened. Not a word was said.

It was a pact among their war survivor group that the first one to shuffle off the mortal coil gets their sending off ruined for dramatic effect. My grandad was a hero, but is probably still burning now.
(, Thu 11 Dec 2008, 17:22, 4 replies)
this happened today
Ok here goes. Theres this teacher in my college, shes really fine .
For a joke my mate changed my bluetooth name to her name , saying miss arnott (name changed) is really fit.

I was playing some rnb tune on my phone , and she wanted me to send it to her, I told her what I thought my bluetooth name was. Then when she said she couldnt find it, we both clocked what it had been changed to.

There was this shocked look on her face, she stopped drinking her mineral water, and carried on like nothing happened. But she held me back after class.

After class, she made me wait for her to finish her salmon sandwich before she would talk to me. Then she said it was very innapropiate, and if it happened again, she would inform the deputy head.

Then I realised.

She was drinking mineral water.
She had been eating a salmon sandwich.

Miss arnott, was in fact, a bear.

She roared and lunged for me with her right paw, snarling at me as she jumped over the table.

The front of my jacket was torn to shreds as i scrambled backwards for the door. I only survived because, as she was standing over me, spittle covering her face, my mate ran in , distracted her with honey, then plunged his biro into her heart.

So yeah, we killed an endangered animal.
(, Wed 17 Dec 2008, 23:19, 13 replies)
Hull for this very reason
Back when I was 10 and he was 7, Me and my brother Richard were sat on the back seats of my Mum's Granada at a set of traffic lights in Milton Keynes.

We hatched a cracking wheeze where we'd both pretend to be mongs and spack it up towards the car next to us. Cue much cocked hand pawing at the window, drooling and slack jawed mongishness, The woman driving the neighbouring car nudged her husband noticing the two drooling cabbages in the back of the Granada with a look of pity upon her face.

That's not the reason I'm off to Hell though. When my Mum caught sight of us she started to give us both a good hiding through the front seats much to the distress of the watching woman.

We made my Mum look like an utter monster who randomly leathered the shit out of poor defenceless retard kids.
(, Wed 17 Dec 2008, 12:49, 6 replies)
My mate had cause to visit the STD clinic down in Victoria last week and told me he would get the results via text.

I have just sent the following text to him from one of the works mobile phones:

Results: All Positive. Please contact us at your convenience so we can provide details about your local hospice and to provide advice on putting your affairs in order.

Well, it passes the time...
(, Thu 11 Dec 2008, 14:04, 5 replies)
So we know what to expect when we get there. . .

The following is an actual question given on a University of Washington chemistry mid term. The answer by one student was so 'profound' that the professor shared it with colleagues, via the Internet, which is, of
course, why we now have the pleasure of enjoying it as well :

Bonus Question: Is Hell exothermic (gives off heat) or endothermic (absorbs heat)?

Most of the students wrote proofs of their beliefs using Boyle's Law (gas cools when it expands and heats when it is compressed) or some variant.

One student, however, wrote the following:

First, we need to know how the mass of Hell is changing in time. So we need to know the rate at which souls are moving into Hell and the rate at which they are leaving. I think that we can safely assume that once a soul gets to Hell, it will not leave. Therefore, no souls are leaving. As for how many souls are entering Hell, let's look at the different religions that exist in the world today.

Most of these religions state that if you are not a member of their religion, you will go to Hell. Since there is more than one of these religions and since people do not belong to more than one religion, we can project that all souls go to Hell. With birth and death rates as they are, we can expect the number of souls in Hell to increase exponentially. Now, we look at the rate of change of the volume in Hell because Boyle's Law
States that in order for the temperature and pressure in Hell to stay the same, the volume of Hell has to expand proportionately as souls are added.

This gives two possibilities:

1. If Hell is expanding at a slower rate than the rate at which souls enter Hell, then the temperature and pressure in Hell will increase until all Hell breaks loose.

2. If Hell is expanding at a rate faster than the increase of souls in Hell, then the temperature and pressure will drop until Hell freezes over.

So which is it?

If we accept the postulate given to me by Teresa during my Freshman year that, 'It will be a cold day in Hell before I sleep with you,' and take into account the fact that I slept with her last night, then number two must be true, and thus I am sure that Hell is exothermic and has already frozen over. The corollary of this theory is that since Hell has frozen over, it follows that it is not accepting any more souls and is therefore, extinct......leaving only Heaven, thereby proving the existence of a divine being which explains why, last night, Teresa kept shouting 'Oh my God.'

(, Fri 12 Dec 2008, 8:43, 7 replies)
Why Richard and I are going to Hell
Well, one of the reasons.

For a couple of years at the end of the last millennium, I lived with a guy called Richard. Like me, he was a PhD student; his field was classics. In particular, his research was on a Jewish neo-Platonist philosopher called Philo.

Now, Philo was apparently an important character in the formation of the early Church. And Richard was a brilliant linguist. He was fluent in Greek, good at Latin, and had a smattering of Biblical Hebrew. As such, he had on his shelves copies of the Hebrew, Greek, Vulgate and King James Bibles. None of this meant that Richard was a believer - far from it. He was just interested in Philo.

On occasion, we would get visited by the God squad. Instead of telling them to sod off, Richard would invite them in for a discussion. During the course of this discussion, he would produce his four versions of the Bible. And then he would get all philological.

That is to say, he'd talk about the mistranslations, subtle shifts in meaning, and other accrued errors that have appeared in the Bible over the years. He'd also talk about Gnosticism, the Aryan heresy, the Dead Sea Scrolls and so on.

In great detail.

For a long time.

He wouldn't let them leave.

The abject terror on their faces as he got into his stride was wonderful to see.

A couple of years later, I had also got around to reading the King James version, the Apocrypha, and some of the Pseudepigrapha - the books of the Bible that weren't included in the version we have. Inspired by Richard, I made careful annotations and cross-references as I went along, and made sure that I had my Greek and Latin dictionaries nearby.

I'd also read - and taught on - Hume's Dialogues Concerning Natural Religion in the interim. Plus, I had my brain switched on as a matter of course.

When the JWs next knocked on my door, I was prepared.

The difference between Richard and me is that I didn't invite them in. I kept them on my doorstep for well over an hour.

It was cold.

And that is why Richard and I are going to Hell.
(, Thu 11 Dec 2008, 15:35, 19 replies)
Trolling forums
So when boredom strikes between the hard work of PhD life and crying myself to sleep because I don't have a big willy, I sometimes partake upon the wonderful adventure known as trolling. For those who are unaware, trolling a forum involves making an anonymous account on a particular forum and posting controversial, confrontational and irrelevant matter in order to provoke people into getting pissed off or upset. Trolls on a site such as b3ta or similar are just annoying as we're all on here to have fun, but the real fun with trolling comes when you can do it on a forum full of stupid, opinionated people. My favourites of these are religious, anti-abortion, teen-angst-oriented music and vegan/animal liberation forums. Over the years I've had quite a few good times, some of which I shall share over the following paragraphs.

I once created an account on an anti-abortion forum. One user on this forum had posted a picture of an aborted foetus and she commented on how awful and terrible it was etc. etc. The picture was fucking scary, the thing looked like some sort of possessed zombie child. My response was thus
"Fucking hell. Seriously, if that thing was alive and chasing me round my house, I'd have no qualms about smacking it to death with a shovel. Thank GOD someone had the courtesy to abort that ugly fucker." Typical responses raged from "You monster!" to "I'm going to find out where you live and smack YOU to death with a shovel!" Brilliant.

Religious forums are excellent, particularly because they are normally full of extremely right-wing Americans who have never left their own town/state, let alone their country. The few that are not like this are hardline liberals, and I sit in the middle with a little grin whilst stirring the pot and fanning the flames. Oh, and they SERIOUSLY get intolerant and annoyed when you eventually 'admit' that you are a Muslim after days of arguments.

Teen music ones are easy, there were two girls discussing 'cutting' when they are depressed. A quick "well that's stupid, why don't you just NOT cut? That's funny" led to five pages of threats etc. One girl responded with "they can't help it, I'm an epileptic and I can't control it. Do you think that's funny?"...I picked that one out to reply to with a flashing GIF saying "You deserve a seizure for your posts"*
...that got me banned quite quickly.

But vegans/animal rights people are probably the worst for getting worked up. I think it's got something to do with the vegan diet making them cranky. They have very little comeback to the "with rights come responsibilities, when cows stop shitting everywhere and learn to use a toilet I'll agree that they are safe to walk along the street" argument, but they'll keep on and on and on until you let them think they're right. I (after a few pages of argument) eventually made a second account who came in and said "Did you know that on average 1000kg of corn contains 1kg of ground-up field mice because they are slower than the combine harvester?" and the fun starts again.

All in all, making other people upset on the internet gives me great pleasure.

*pretty sure it wouldn't have actually have caused a seizure, was too slow flashing. I'm not THAT much of a cnut. Hey, maybe I'm not going to hell after all?
(, Fri 12 Dec 2008, 17:42, 6 replies)
A long, long time ago,
when I was but eight years old, my family were searching for a new house. That particular summer, my brother and I were dragged round property after property as my parents searched for the perfect family home.

One afternoon we visited an old, detached house in Surrey with a huge rambling garden. We were greeted at the front door by a lovely pair of spinsters, at least in their mid-seventies. Turns out they were sisters who had moved in together after losing husbands in WWII and they were selling up to fund their final stay in a countryside nursing home.

After we'd accepted tea and cakes from the ladies, my brother and I raced out into the garden, leaving my parents to talk about square footage and rising damp.

'Say hello to Tommy when you're out there', said one of the ladies as we scampered off, 'he's in the vegetable patch.'

The garden was truly amazing - well it was to an eight and six year old. At the back was a large, overgrown area fenced off with chicken wire. This was the 'vegetable patch'. My bro and I stepped over the wire and wandered about, kicking things and throwing dirt at each other.

We ventured further and it was then we discovered 'Tommy'.

Tommy was a huge, lumbering and obviously amazingly old tortoise. He didn't do much. Just stood there, very comfortable in our presence, munching on a rhubarb leaf or something. The two of us stroked him, fed him some more leaves and sat watching him, fascinated by his funny eyes and coarse, leathery neck.

In the vegetable patch was a very large, rusting old drum that was used to collect rainwater. It was full up. I could just peer over the top of the it. And then, suddenly, for absolutely no reason. For absolutely no reason I will ever understand, I walked over to Tommy, picked him up, held him over my head and dropped him in the drum.

He sunk instantly.

I could have saved him. Could have ran back into the house. Could have got my father to tip over the drum and rescue Tommy. But I didn't. I just stayed in the garden with my brother. My brother never opened his mouth. He just looked at me oddly, like this was some lesson in life he was too young to comprehend.

Eventually my folks called us back in. We left with smiles and thanks to the old dears for the tea and cake. No one mentioned Tommy.

Fast forward a month or two. And as fate would have it, my parents bought that very house and we moved in one rainy Sunday. When we arrived at our new house it was empty, the two old girls having moved out a few days before.

During the chaos of the move, with the boxes and the furniture and the lorry and the stress, one of the removal men slipped out back for a fag. He quickly called my folks to outside and we all ran out to see what the fuss was about. There, at the back of the garden, in the vegetable patch were the previous owners. They were walking arm in arm in the driving rain, staring at the ground and were obviously extremely distressed. We went out to see them.

'Minnie won't leave until we find Tommy', one of them said, 'he has to be around here somewhere, we've had him FIFTY years, he HAS to come with us.'

Cue frantic searching of the garden by parents, children and removal men, all to no avail. After much tea and sympathy, my dad drove the wretched pair to the station, sans Tommy.

Various theories were bandied around about foxes and tunneling...but soon Tommy was forgotten. But not for me. I have never forgotten. Over 25yrs later and the thought can still wake me up in the night.

I'll never know what drove me to murder that day. But I know where I'm going because of it.
(, Fri 12 Dec 2008, 13:24, 10 replies)
Just remembered this...
I was waiting in Cambs to get on the train down to London, with my mother. I was about 21 at the time. Just as the train arrived, this little old-ish lady (probably mid-60s) tried to barge in front of us, and then gave us evils when we held our ground and refused to let her force her way onto the train before us.

Anyway, she sat down near us in the (otherwise completely empty) carriage, and stared at us, all the while muttering under her breath (I've no idea what about, but am guessing it concerned the lack of moral fibre and politeness of young people these days, they've got no respect, oooh my hip's playing up again, look at her, sitting there all young and carefree, what's the world coming to).

This pissed my mother and I off, so I randomly started swearing ("fuck! cunt! shitty spunkbung!"), and twitching. The woman stopped looking narked, and started looking slightly worried.
My mother, bless her, played along, leaning forward with a look of concern and saying "oh dear, is it playing up again? Did you take your medication? Shall I call the police?
At this, the woman abruptly stood up and left, casting fearsome glances over her shoulder at me.

I'm not going to hell for impersonating a mentalist, but for the warm self-righteous glow it gave me to see her looking so scared of me.

(Please excuse spelling mistakes. Been for long and boozy lunch, yay!)
(, Wed 17 Dec 2008, 15:19, 12 replies)
Ruined a marriage
... and not in the proper way.

My cousin was engaged to a nice lad called Mal. One day, I told him that his wife to be, had exactly the same birthmark as me. Its true, its identical, in shape, size, colour and location. Unfortunately its on mine (and her) arse. Its quite obvious.

My exact words to him, albeit slightly slurred, were: "Next time youre, you know, doggy style. Think of me and pretend its my arse".

I got the call 2 weeks later from a very upset cousin telling me that he'd ended the relationship, and one of the reasons is that he couldnt forget what I said.
(, Fri 12 Dec 2008, 14:13, 3 replies)
Dad would have been proud.
Finally, a QOTW so perfect for me that it has snapped me out of my habitual procrastination and forced me to register to share my story.

2008 has been a shit of a year. I lost my Grandmother at the end of March and then my dear (not so) old Dad in June, meaning my poor Mother became an orphan and a widow in the space of three months. A messy business all round.

The task of organising Dad’s funeral rolled around, made easier by the fact we had got a bit of match practice in a few months earlier, and I decided I wanted to write a eulogy for him.

As an aside, Co-op Funeral Services (other funeral directors are available) do not feel it is appropriate to offer a loyalty card system for funerals.

The funeral, at Dad’s request, was to be a happy occasion, with bright clothes, rock and roll music and a big party afterwards.

The day came; we arrive at the crematorium in the cars, piped in by a lone bagpiper. There are literally hundreds of people stood waiting. I’m cacking it. I’m not the best public speaker, and the thought of standing up in front of a capacity crowd, combined with the emotion of the day was not one I relished.

So, yer man in the dress does the God bothering bit and then it’s my turn to speak.

I take a deep breath and begin to address the masses:

"This is the part of the service called the Eulogy; it comes from an ancient Greek word, (Dad always insisted we look up a word if we didn’t know what it meant) it means to give a speech praising someone. Eulogies can also be used to praise those that are still alive, and I would like to think that today is more about keeping alive the happy memories we all have of Dad, rather than focusing on the sadness of his passing."

It’s going well. Lots of people in the audience cooing and muttering things like, ‘Isn’t he brave’ etc.

… and then I got to this bit.

“I have Dad to thank for my dry, slightly dark, sense of humour. You could always rely on him to tell a most inappropriate story or joke.

Right now I am sure he would be telling the one about the boy who went into school one day and apologised to the teacher for not being there the previous day.

‘Sorry I wasn’t at School yesterday Miss, my Dad got burnt.’

The teacher says; ‘Oh, I’m sorry to hear that, I hope it wasn’t serious’

He says; ’They don’t fuck about at the Crem’ Miss!’”

I should have just got onto the conveyor belt and ridden it down with him.
(, Thu 18 Dec 2008, 11:56, 6 replies)
I used to amuse myself winding up my flatmate's little boy.

"Legless? Why's it raining?" he asked me in a little voice?

"'Cos you've been bad and made God cry......"

The look on his face always made me giggle inside.

Then it got serious. I told him that Santa wasn't coming this year as he'd been gored to death by his reindeer.

Good joke. Puzzled little boy who wasn't sure whether or not to believe me. And then I forgot about it until his mother cornered me one night.

"LEGLESS!!" shrieked the 5 foot tall, 6 stone mother.

"Who me?" I winced, trying not to cower.. (NOTE: If you want to know why I was a little scared of this wee lass, try to imagine a 5 foot tall, 6 stone SPIDER!. Puts it into perspective, doesn't it...)


"Err - nothing?"


(, Tue 16 Dec 2008, 15:24, 4 replies)
I don't know if this qualifies me for hell
But it'll make heaven a bit awkward if I ever get there...

I once got paid to dress up as a nun and sing for three hours in Liverpool Street Station. Nowt wrong with that, impersonating a bride of Christ. At least it doesn't say so in the ten commandments.

All was going well. We sang the same eight songs on repeat for three hours and when we finished, all hoarse and giggly from all the singing, caffeine and leers from commuters, we trooped off to the ladies together because that's what ladies do, despite some of us not knowing each other, but hey.

As you know if you are a lady you can have nice girly bathroom moments with your lady companions. As I reapplied my (admittedly not very nun-like) lipgloss, I brightly trilled "This is fucking ace! I can't believe they're paying us £200 each to dress up like penguins and warble for three hours! Easiest weekend on the piss I've ever earned!" to the nun next to me... who wasn't a young studenty type... who didn't have the giveaway flared jeans and trainers peeping out of the bottom of her habit... who had a rosary at her waist... and a disapproving expression... and who then told me she would "pray for me" that weekend...

I mumbled "Sorry sister" and promptly fled as all the other fake nuns stifled giggles and the other real nuns looked on disapprovingly.
(, Mon 15 Dec 2008, 11:46, 8 replies)
Jesus and I love you....
During my corporate period I used to travel to Salt Lake City in Utah quite a bit, the home of the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter Day Saints - or "The Mormons". They never ceased to amaze me. Always at the airport there were groups of ten or twenty immaculately dressed young people about to set out on their wonderful missionary journeys. Apparently it is a requirement of the church. All with those little "elder" badges on, which is a joke as they are all less than 25.

Anyway, being Brits abroad and up for some mischief, a nameless friend and myself decided to go and visit the "temple", which is the god cental of the LDS.

I have never been forcefully manhandled from a house of god before by hired goons but I guess two brits in formal suits, bowler hats and armed with umbrellas on a "mission" from the Church of England and there to tell them about the benefits of divorce and only the one wife didn't go down well. The "elder x" and "even elder y" (me, being the oldest) C of E badges didn't help either. We looked like the Thompson twins from the Tintin stories.

Those little fuckers, think they can come over here and ruin my Sunday afternoon with their cheerful smile, irritating politeness and good news about Jesus. Don't like it when it is done to them though do they eh????
(, Thu 11 Dec 2008, 15:00, 2 replies)
I've been saving this one
which could have fit quite well in either of last week's QoTWs. But for this, I'm going to hell.

I got married (for the first time) when I was 20, and not 20 in a mature way, no, 20 in a stupid, yet-to-grow up way.

Naturally, I got married because my wife was pregnant. As stupid people do when they are 20.

Anyhoo, at this age in my life my father lived in a large house in the north of France, surrounded by WW1 cemeteries. As my marriage was beginning, his was coming to an end.

My wife, young baby and I went over to see him in the summer. Initially, we met up with him and his then wife at a coastal resort, then the four of us (i.e. without his wife) stayed at his place.

On the last night of our stay, my father wanted to cook us a special meal. He also asked if we minded if his girlfriend came over, as he wanted us to meet her.

Isobel was French (of course), in her mid-twenties and very good lucking. Way to go, Dad, despite the fact that I still liked his soon-to-be-ex wife, my stepmother.

Before the meal, much champagne was drunk, and some beer. My wife didn't drink so she watched the three of us get sloshed and then more sloshed with the meal, as we drank several bottles of wine. So much so, that Isobel had to leave the table to be discretely unwell.

After the meal, my father got out some awful Spanish liqueur which finished him off. As he staggered to his bed, my wife decided to finish packing in our bedroom, which was on the ground floor.

That left myself and Isobel, and in a pattern that was repeated with his other girlfriends in years to come, she then told me how unhappy my father made her. Not something I could easily deal with, and there wasn't much of a response I could make.

She cried. I gave her a small hug of consolation.

She cried more. I hugged her briefly again.

She cried more; I gave her a small hug and suddenly, her tongue is down my throat. At the time, I had only "slept with" two women in my life, and so (in a very weak defence) my loins took over where prudence would have told me to back off instantly.

Then, we're going upstairs; past my wife who asked me where I was going. I said I was showing Isobel to her bedroom. Yes, I really was that drunk.

In one of my half-brother's bedrooms, we made the beast with two backs.

However coitus was interrupted after several moments with my wife banging on the door to ask what we were up to; the bedroom after all being above our bedroom, and the athletic humping on the floor echoing around the house.

The fact that I had carnal knowledge of my father's mistress would have been bad enough, the fact that my wife caught us at it somewhat worse, but what guarantees my ticket to the netherworld is that the evening wasn't just our last night in France...but the evening of my first wedding anniversary.


- yes, my dad found out about it - Isobel told him that apparently I fucked like he did. Such knowledge no-one should have;
- yes, the marriage didn't last much longer;
- yes, he got his revenge on me by shagging one of my girlfriends some time later;
- my wife got her revenge on me in some complex and devious ways;
- yes, I have now grown up and wish this incident had never taken place. I'm not the person now I was then, thank God.
(, Thu 11 Dec 2008, 15:00, 3 replies)
GOSH. Sorry,
On my very last day of my last job, I got taken out for a liquid lunch.

After stopping for cigarettes I was wandering back to the office on my own when someone stopped me and asked me for directions to Great Ormond Street Children’s hospital.

The face looked vaguely familiar and I suddenly realised it was the actor Mark Addy (fat bloke from The Full Monty, Viva Rock Vega and stuff).

Now, I don’t know why really, but he has always annoyed me. (possibly because of Viva Rock Vegas actually) so in my slightly white wine influenced state instead of directing him to the hospital, I sent him off in the other way by describing the route to The British Museum and off he went, getting further and further away from where he was aiming.

Then I went back to the office, packed up my stuff and we all went to the pub to get on with my leaving do proper.

At some point in the evening I thought to tell a friend about what I had done to Mark Addy.

And they pointed out that he could have a sick child or relative in Great Ormond Street. Or he could have been a patron turning up for a charity thing. Or he could have been going to allow the sick kids to meet Fred Flinstone.

And, basically, that I was a cunt.

I could do nothing other than agree.
(, Thu 11 Dec 2008, 13:41, 3 replies)
I stole a fossilized skull from a church when I was young and nihilistic.

It was very small, probably a child's, and there were two of them next to each other just behind the altar. I only lifted one. Nothing dramatically Indiana Jones-esque happened.

For a while I burned candles on it, and it looked suitably Gothic when covered in dribbly wax.

Then I used it as a bookend for years.

Occasionally I wondered if my miserable and tortured existence was the result of some curse I had brought upon myself.

Then I forgot about it.

Until I had a fit of conscience a few years ago and returned it to the church with a note explaining my regret, and my phone number should the vicar wish to pardon me in person.

Thankfully he did, and I found I had made an old man very happy before he retired.

Presumably my ticket to Hull has been cancelled.
(, Thu 11 Dec 2008, 13:36, 13 replies)
Halloween 2004
I dressed up as Jesus. I thought it was a very clever costume, as I'd heard of no one doing so before. I was bored of the usual sexy witches and fairy tale charecters and wanted to do something out of the ordinary. I spent months constructing a giant cardboard cross and a crown of thorns and applied some fake blood (subtly, not too liberally). I was in high school then, so I spent my day not learning but pulling this huge cross up and down the halls behind me, wearing a flowing white robe, with a pained yet stoic expression slapped across my face. I thought it was harmless and ingenious and didn't expect the storm of righteousness that would fall upon me from the school's Christian Club.

I found myself, before lunch even started, being chased by an alarming group of kids who days before had been spouting concepts of Christian Love, but were now carrying large rocks and a megaphone. The leader of the group bellowed into the megaphone shouting, "Help us catch this sinner!" I ran, but was soon cornered by the group in the school's courtyard. The teachers on duty turned a blind eye as the Christian Club surrounded me, pelting me with rocks. And what did I do? Did I cry? Did I apologize? Or did I pick up on the incredible Biblical irony and proclaim with raised arms, even as rocks hit me square in the face, “Let he who is without sin cast the first stone”?

Dear reader, I don’t think I have to tell you the answer.
(, Fri 12 Dec 2008, 22:23, 5 replies)
Jehova Jehova Jehova!
Another personal pearoast citing Mr FoxyBadger McAwesomeness Sr. (alas, dearest Grandad) has been stirred from the bottom of my soul after reading some stories here about the treatment of fundamentalist extrovert religious types keen to promote the knowledge and eternal sanctuary of their infallable gospel.

I refer to them as simple-minded peons.

Mr FoxyBadger McAwesomeness Sr. spent his Autumn years in a rather poor area situated near a large influx of Jehova's Witnesses. As a result, every other week or so when your young author and his family were down, two clean-shaven gents would turn up to intimidate the dear heathen into joining their ridiculous sect group. At first, the typical response of door slamming was adopted, but after a while Grandad's mind realised there was some sort of sport to be made.

Lo and behold, the wager was on with the drinking buddies to see who could stall/scare them the longest. For the sake of bragging, Mr FoxyBadger McAwesomeness Sr. took the gold with a hell-worthy example:

Grandad invites them door-to-door God salesmen in for a cup of tea. Engage in much religious debate and shows of a keen pseudo-interest in conversion as his current faith doesn't give enough satisfaction. After a good 45 minutes or so of pretending to give a toss what they think, at which point the peons are comfortable with their environment, your 8 month old author starts crying in the next room for whatever reason.

'Excuse me for a moment lads,' cites Grandad as he removes himself from the conversation.

10 minutes go by. Grandad hasn't returned.

20 minutes go by. Grandad hasn't returned.

By this point, peons are beginning to wonder what the hell is going on exactly and whether they should investigate, at which point Grandad bursts into the room wearing only a chef's apron brandishing a cleaver, both covered in blood.

'Sorry about that lads. As I was saying, Satanism doesn't give me the satisfaction I need as sacrifices are so hard to come by. Now, where do I sign?'

I think there may have been some loss of bowel control from persons other than myself in that house that day.

Out of pure respect for the man, I now adopt this policy myself. My record is about 30 minutes before I start talking in tongues claiming to be the desolate one. Bless, I was 12 at the time.
(, Fri 12 Dec 2008, 9:50, 1 reply)

This question is now closed.

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