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…:

”UUrrggghhh….NNNngggg….Grrrrr…….”

*Spla-DOOOOOOOOSH!*

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.

Ah.

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…

( Pooflake braces for an onslaught..., Fri 12 Dec 2008, 13:33, 26 replies)

I didn't say it....but I did laugh
I don't know if it still happens elsewhere across the country, but in my area we still have a Santa-man going around all the housing estates on the back of a shoddy truck with an appalling Christmas CD (probably a tape really) on far too loud.

It's followed round by a 'Sunshine Coach'. This is generally occupied by people with physical and mental disabilities. Not only did my good friends decide to set off their motorbike alarms with their key fob wotsits just as it was passing causing the occupants to make some odd noises and generally freak out, they also chose to shout 'Tiiiiimaaaaaaaaaaaaay' in the classic South Park style.

Length? The screams seemed to go on forever... :(
(baby_kitten was loving your work on, Fri 12 Dec 2008, 13:24, 1 reply)

My Mum
Before I start I want to have committed to cyberspace just how much I love my Mum.

There I've said it.

Now onto the story on hand.

As I said I love my mum very much, it's just I don't particularly like the woman. I think that makes sense in a roundabout way.

Sadly my Mum is now confined to a wheelchair due to MS. This has left her quite crabby and with a hatred of the world roughly the size of the Titanic.

She is a bloody minded stick in the mud who will expect everything done for her even if she is perfectly capable of doing it herself. While shopping in Tesco one misery sodden Tuesday afternoon, Ironside is chucking one of her monumental I'm disabled dontchanow strops I lose my temper.


So I let the tyres down on her wheelchair while she was sat in it and promptly stormed out of the shop to go and sit in the car. This is only partially why I'm going to Hell.

I went back into the store after calming down to be greeted by the sight of an overweight security guard using a foot pump to re inflate the rear tyres on Ironside's wheelchair.

Did I help him? I would have done but the sight of a security guard sweating while giving my mum a good pumping up was to much to bear and I burst out laughing.

This caused several people in the shop to ask why I thought it was acceptable to mock the disabled.


Hell here I come.


We laugh about it now. She got her own back but that's a story for a later QOTW.


Happy Christmas

Hohoho
(kickstandrich last had sex with your mum/sister/wife/daughter on, Fri 12 Dec 2008, 13:24, Reply)

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.
( Albert Marshmallow is a completely irredeemable cunt, Fri 12 Dec 2008, 13:24, 10 replies)

I’m a Bad Man
Way back in the alcohol dimmed days of my early 20’s I had a very good friend who got married, it was a beautiful affair, and the piss up was top notch, but I had my then wife with me so I had to be a good boy!

A couple of months before this however the same could not be said. I had yet to get hitched and was round my mates house having a few (read lots) of beers.

I remember it well, it was late November, it was cold, and his flat had no heating so we were all sitting on the sofa, under a duvet, watching films. My mate gets up to have a smoke and get some more beer and the next thing I know I’ve got his girlfriends tongue playing with my tonsils! This quickly stopped much to my chagrin as we heard him coming back.

So there we all are under still all under the duvet and I’m thinking that I must have imagined the kiss, when I feel a tentative hand on my crotch! It gets more insistent and ends up inside my jeans rubbing things that it really should not have been, and all with her boyfriend sitting on her other side.

After a few minutes of this she withdrew from my jeans, took hold of my hand and placed it on he thigh, so I just started to gently caress it. A bit later my mate vanished to the toilet again, she kissed me again, and whispered in my ear that I should explore a bit further up!

Now I had always thought that she was a stunner, so I thought why not! I’m still stroking her legs when my mate comes back in with more beer and sits back down. I nip off to have a smoke and use the toilet, come back and slip under the duvet again.

I stroked her leg, and slowly moved upwards only to discover that she had no knickers on! So I went to work on her, and she on me inside my jeans.

My poor mate never had a clue what was going on!

In the February of the next year he was my best man, on the wedding day the three of us bundled into the car to get to the wedding, he’d forgotten something and popped back into the house, she kissed me, and whispered, “You don’t have to get married to her you know, you can have me!” I almost told the cab driver to go to her place but my mate came back!

They got married a bit later, and as she had no family I was walking her down the aisle. We were stood outside the church, just waiting to go in, so I kissed her, and told her that we should run away together, she told me she couldn’t because I was married, and I just told her that I could get a divorce! It didn’t stop her letting me finger her in the doorway of the church though!

I just wish I’d taken the offer the first time, it may have stopped a lot of heartache, for both of us!
(Herr Doktor Lemminge Is bored, so cheer me up!, Fri 12 Dec 2008, 13:22, 8 replies)

My Flat/Block
We tend to have a habit of shoving the girls in our block into the shower, fully clothed, in the name of 'baptising' them, hence they're a member of our religion.
This is an affront to God, and therefore a lot of innocent girls are going to hell because of us.
PRAISE MUNKY
(not me, I know)
(Affero-Dolor made noodles using a cuppa soup on, Fri 12 Dec 2008, 13:22, Reply)

Well If I Was Jewish
then I'd be proper fucked. Straight to hell for me. I mean look at the commandments. We've got 10, they've got 613.

www.religionfacts.com/judaism/practices/613.htm

I mean, you're not even allowed to eat grapes!.


So, which one of those commandments would you find most difficult to keep?

Edit: Me? I reckon I wouldn't be able to:

Break the neck of a calf by the river valley following an unsolved murder Deut. 21:4

Cheers
( Legless Mister Stabby - shanks for the memory, Fri 12 Dec 2008, 13:19, 13 replies)

Sinful Drink Combo
A Christian boy on my uni course called Chubby Martin once told me I would go to Hell because I was drinking a vodka and orange.

This was the only thing he EVER said to me, yet ten years later he has tried to friend me on facebook three times. No chance, Chubby.
(Brandy Bolland, Fri 12 Dec 2008, 13:12, Reply)

A recent pearoast, sorry, but it's apt here as I'm dragging my innocent sister down with me.
My family, probably like many others, like to flash the V.
Points are scored for flashing Vs in photographs and on formal occasions.
When a family member is asleep, it is good form to shake them urgently until they open their eyes, to see the V displayed at face level.

I am currently ahead in the the V-flashing competition after a display at a family funeral.

Arriving at the church in the main car (for this was a close and dearly beloved family member of mine) I spotted my eldest sister standing nearby, in helpless tears of grief.

I attracted her attention and flashed the V.
She stared, wide-eyed, and then turned away, scandalised and giggling.

It's what he would have wanted.
(Juan Quar is clinging to her front teeth on, Fri 12 Dec 2008, 13:10, 5 replies)

Extra, Extra - read all about it!
I’m going to hell…

When I was 13 I was desperate to earn money so I got myself a job paying £4.90 per week. I was a paper boy. Every night (bar Sunday), I’d deliver copies of the Bristol Evening Post to households in my area. (Which conveniently, is Bristol.)

Now I struck gold with my paper round, I could do the whole thing in under 15 minutes , the route was flat and the houses were nice enough that you’d get a couple of quid out of them at Christmas. But £4.90 wasn’t enough for me. Oh no, I had a habit to support. That was, copies of Thrasher, RAD, and Skateboarder magazine. These magazines took up the vast majority of my income (I did get about three-quid a week pocket money, but I was encouraged to ‘save’ this). So I needed a second revenue stream.

I got another paper round. Not a morning round – or indeed a Sunday paper round (that always seemed quite lucrative, until I saw the size of the Sunday Telegraph), no, I got myself a job delivering the now defunct, ‘Bristol Journal’ at the time, it was a competitor to the ‘Bristol Observer’, a free paper full of estate agent adverts, dodgy car repair centres and adverts for sheds and things.

The rate? 2p per paper. The number of papers to deliver? 500. Although you would get paid an extra penny per paper if it had a leaflet in it (some advertisers wanted their own inserts). I remember once, one edition had 3 leaflets in it, making it a massive 5p a paper!

Two problems though. Firstly, you had to stuff the leaflets in the paper yourself (this was part of the extra cash you were being paid. Secondly, being 13, I didn’t have a car and wasn’t (and I’m still not) strong enough to carry 500 papers in one go.

Having struggled with these papers for a couple of weeks, diligently putting leaflets in all of the copies, making numerous journeys back home to get more papers and eventually finishing my delivery a day late but ensuring that everyone on my route has a paper. I’d had enough.

Whilst I was earning between £10 and £20 a week extra, to go with my £4.90 and my £3.00 pocket money the level of effort involved just wasn’t worth it.

So I started dumping the papers. I got away with it for about a month before I was ‘caught’ and sacked, and grounded.

Apparently, what I did was wrong.

Can you forgive me? Can the people of Bristol forgive me?

Or, as I fear, am I going straight to hell. I won’t pass go, I won’t collect £200
( JeffTheDogFucker Can you dig it?, Fri 12 Dec 2008, 13:07, 2 replies)

Lev 19:28
It's tattooed on my leg :0)

Surely I am going to burn!!!


( SpikeyPickle wishes he was mabazaritchie, Fri 12 Dec 2008, 12:57, 9 replies)

Church and Eddie Murphy...
My elder brothers and I were fans of the film "Coming to America" from an early age, however, this meant most of the humour went over my young innocent head...

So when my brothers encouraged me to quote from the film in public I saw no problem with this...

We were all forced by our mum to go to church until we were 12 and old enough to make up our own minds about religion..

During one Sunday service- (I was 5/6 year old blonde haired, blue eyed girly) I was nudged by my brothers and therefore given my cue...
So I looked up at the nice old lady next to me, gave her my most innocent look and told her I had a secret to tell her. When she'd leant down to be face level, I whispered clearly and calmly into her ear "I worship the Devil", then looked in her eyes and smiled sweetly.

Her eyes went wide as a wide thing and her mouth dropped open. She then took my mum aside to have words with her about me... Sorry Mum!

I think the good people of our church couldn't wait for my 12th birthday to roll around..
( awayfromthenumbers, Fri 12 Dec 2008, 12:52, Reply)

I have lots this week!
My boyfriend is going to hell because of this..

makemegod.com/bibles/Tor.pdf
(darras jeg har en grevling i hodet. Grevling, grevlang, Fri 12 Dec 2008, 12:43, Reply)

I tell people about holy books and scripture
because the stuff that's actually in the Bible, Koran or Torah is so asinine and ridiculous, a colloquial translation is often all that's needed. I love talking to Christians and JWs who have no idea what the OT really contains, or the NT for that matter. Once I've reeled off a few choice passages, they usually look at me with fear in their eyes.

If they're particularly persistent, I'll switch the topic of conversation to Transformers and talk them under the table.
( emvee cruor deo cruoris, Fri 12 Dec 2008, 12:40, 3 replies)

"It wasn't me!"
That was a common answer to mums question of "Why did you......?" or "Did you......?", or an variation of, back when I was a youth. Living in a little village surrounded by hills, greenery, abandoned mills etc provided the opportunity for much high jinx and kiddy adventures.

So did living next door to a graveyard.
So did living next door to a church.

It wasn't much fun having the vicar explain to mum that he had caught me:

1) Throwing a stink bomb through the church doors and ringing the bell on the way out

I didn't ring the bell, or throw the bomb - it was friend of mine. I was far to scared!!!

2) Having a little poo on the church step so when the service finished people would have to step over my little parcel.

I couldn't deny that one really. my timing wasn't too good and the vicar, being 1st out so he could greet his flock, got a view of me squatting on the steps while my chums ran away giggling.

3) I'll come back later but there are definately more stories to tell!

EDIT: How quaint? www.happy-valley.org.uk/images/bollington_08824b.jpg This is where I grew up and had adventures galore!!!
( SpikeyPickle wishes he was mabazaritchie, Fri 12 Dec 2008, 12:33, 1 reply)

I'm going to Hell
Next year, in fact.
( flake has nothing against your right leg, Fri 12 Dec 2008, 12:28, 5 replies)

I lost my virginity
in a graveyard.

Does that count?
(Half of Stephen Fry's right buttock pissed on your dog on, Fri 12 Dec 2008, 12:24, 3 replies)

I'm going to Hell next sunday
Or rather through Hell.

Because it's this little town on the way to my city's airport Værnes. I kid you not.


(darras jeg har en grevling i hodet. Grevling, grevlang, Fri 12 Dec 2008, 12:14, Reply)

I really am going to Hell...
I'm what Christians know as a Sodomite. In my defence, I must point out the obvious design flaw that God made by putting a Man's G-spot up his bum.
(fandingo, Fri 12 Dec 2008, 12:13, 6 replies)

There's always one person...
in a group of friends that you dislike and therefore they are the people who automatically volunteer to be midly bullied and have the best of pranks played on them.
In this situation my mates name is Ash (his real name is Ashley but i've changed it for obvious reasons) The main reason we all dislike him is due to the fact he's a complete idiot, which is also why he's had 9 jobs in 2 years.

One fateful night Myself Ash and Matty (who isn't of much significance but i thought i'd throw him in) travelled to the local shopping centre so Ash could hand in some of his brilliatly pathetic CV's. He had to do this because he had recently lost his job of one month because he was too slack.

Ash was driving, Matty was distracting and i was sat in the back. Alone. With 15 CV's. Each four pages long. Stapled together. and I was Armed with a pen.
The following 5 minutes were spent altering his CV, naturally the pages hidden from view.
The next 45 minutes flew buy as Matty and I tried to contain our laughter as Ash trooped round each shop asking for vacancies and occasionally handing CV's in.

By the end of the night every CV was handed in at someplace or another. River Island, Next, TopMan and HMV were a few of many places to recieve a CV.

4 Weeks later and he hasnt had a single reply.
He is still jobless and confused about why no one has even bothered to send a rejection letter.

I suspect it may have something to do with the fact, that on the last page of each CV, underneath his references, in large black block capitals was the sentance;

'P.S IM A PAEDOPHILE'
( Mr Nerdy-Speccy-FuckNuts Ouchy ouchy wa wa!, Fri 12 Dec 2008, 12:09, 6 replies)

I'm on a hiiiiiighway to hell...
I was driving along one day and I saw a man walk slap bang into a lamp post, I was laughing before my brain registered the fact that he was wearing shades in winter and his dog was wearing a luminous jacket. I drove the rest of the way in silence and reeking of shame.
( Colonel Dracula Two manky hookers and a racist dwarf, Fri 12 Dec 2008, 12:07, 3 replies)

i wander round facebook groups
with a foetus in the womb as my profile picture, begging christians to abort me...
( tickle I was away, Fri 12 Dec 2008, 12:06, Reply)

Damp Confirmation
I'm going to hell because...

...I pissed myself in the parish church when I was being confirmed. Full on steaming full bladder all over the victorian tiled floor and lovely hand knitted kneelers made by 'ladies of the parish'.

I've not been back since.
(twiceydrinker hmmm is it pint time?, Fri 12 Dec 2008, 12:05, Reply)

I laughed, how I laughed
while playing "Scene It", one of the questions showed Christopher Reeve stood at a woman's door and asking her to "walk with me".

I just couldn't help myself and creased up, tears streaming from my eyes. No-one else saw the joke, unfortunately.

Also, I got partway through writing "Στην καραμέλα αγαπών μου. Όλοι οι χαρακτήρες που απεικονίζονται μέσα σε αυτό το βιβλίο είναι fictitous και οποιαδήποτε ομοιότητα στα πρόσωπα που ζουν ή είναι απολύτως καθαρώς συμπτωματικοί." in the front of a hotel's bible before I got bored and went to the bar.
( uberdeity Wondered why Owen Lars knew of the term "hell" on, Fri 12 Dec 2008, 11:58, 5 replies)

Me and a friend called a young black kid all sorts of racist things in a park
we were 14 and thought we were terribly funny running round the park shouting "chocolate drop" and "jiggaboo" at this poor kid who really had no idea what we were on about and probably had no idea we were being racist.

It is the single most horrible thing I have ever done and not a day goes by where I don't feel ashamed of it. The stupid thing was neither of us were even in the slightest bit racist we just thought it was funny.

I deserve hell.
( Peej, Fri 12 Dec 2008, 11:56, Reply)

Christmas Repost!!! Perfect Timing!!
mwaahahahahah!!! straight to fucking hell for me! i think i've posted this before - maybe a shameful QOTW? i can't remember. Here's it again.

15 years ago, i was about 17, Christmas Eve was ALWAYS the best night out for going on the piss with your mates, in the locals. fuck New years. Anyways, 8 or 9 pints of wife beater and i was hammered - no questions. Walking home, with a mate around midnight, notice lots of people going into the local methodist church "ahhhhh - midnight mass" my brain tells me. "lets go in and have fun" says the booze.

Stood at the back, giggling, nudging each other, thinking we were being quiet, singing the wrong words, pretending to 'polish' an old mans bald head in front of us by making a squeaking noise and polishing motion. All the time we were getting evil looks. God, looking back now, i wish i could remove the memory of that night - it fils me with shame.

It's very warm, we sit down, calming singing, all very pleasant, i'll shut my eyes for 2 mins, you know, jus...............................................


Next thing i know, the vicar is prodding me awake "your friend ran away with 2 kneeling cusions" he says, then i remember where i am. it's 1:30am and i've been a little sick down my shirt and into my pocket. i manage to stand and run off into the night crying...
(TheManofScience, Fri 12 Dec 2008, 11:44, 2 replies)

i just walked into
my colleague's room and saw some new, huge photographs of his 2 year old crotchfruit.

fuck me, it is the most hideous beastchild i've ever seen. if it weren't for the fact that it is marauding around in one of them, displaying pink underwear, i would have no idea whether it was a boy or a girl. he caught me looking, so i had to smile and say sweetly:

"o my, cecil, what beautiful photographs!"

liars don't go to heaven...
( rachelswipe with a fork, Fri 12 Dec 2008, 11:38, 6 replies)

I may regret admitting this.
You know those childhood bonds where you all swear to keep a secret?

Well, I am breaking mine now.

This is the single most unforgivable thing I have ever done to another human being.

I will take any flaming and criticism that comes my way, because it can’t be any worse than how I have felt when I remember it.


We were 15/16. A group of us were going on a school trip. Three days staying in a Welsh ex-coalmining village. (woo! Party!).

Among our group was Adam.

Adam was a shit.

He was twice the size of most of us, and was an arrogant, bullying, superior, violent wankbag of a teenage boy.

I couldn’t abide him. Nor could the rest of us.

We were staying in big open dorm type things, with bunk beds and communal showers.

Adam was in the shower.

Adam was deaf.

Adam had to keep his hearing aid dry.

Adam had his back turned.

Adams hearing aid went out the window.

We pretended to help him look for it.

But we knew he was never seeing it again.

Adam had the most miserable three days of his life. He couldn't do anything. He followed the group around in silence. We saw him in tears occassionally.

It wasn’t until I remembered how vulnerable I feel without my glasses or contacts that I started to get a feeling for just how horrific it must have been for him. Which is when we vowed we would never own up.

And I hadn’t told a soul until now.

(although upon writing this, it does occur to me that our teachers must have been pretty oblivious not to notice something was wrong)
( scarpe We Stole Bikes, Fri 12 Dec 2008, 11:36, 9 replies)

vis a vis this hell thing
I'm hoping to commit enough sins in this life so that,when I die,there will be so much paperwork that the governors of each circle of hell (read : departments) will squabble over which one gets my soul,and i'll spend all eternity in a cushy waiting room while irate,red-faced demons work out the red tape.
Click 'I Like This' if you also want to spend eternity in the equivalent of 'On Hold'.
(Fuckpig "That's not even a pound a midget.", Fri 12 Dec 2008, 11:26, 1 reply)

Both going to hell
We shagged in a grave yard on top of a grave stone while skipping school.
(nee22 NL ExPat, Fri 12 Dec 2008, 11:21, 2 replies)