Ignoring Instructions
When I was small, a friend of mine waved a big plastic bottle at me and asked me if I "wanted some drinking yoghurt?" I pointed out the "do not drink" label, but no, he was convinced this was a big jug of a particularly strange, liquid yoghurt that was briefly popular in the 70s.
He was sick for hours, after consuming a suprisingly large quantity of washing liquid.
What instructions have you ignored?
( , Thu 4 May 2006, 11:24)
When I was small, a friend of mine waved a big plastic bottle at me and asked me if I "wanted some drinking yoghurt?" I pointed out the "do not drink" label, but no, he was convinced this was a big jug of a particularly strange, liquid yoghurt that was briefly popular in the 70s.
He was sick for hours, after consuming a suprisingly large quantity of washing liquid.
What instructions have you ignored?
( , Thu 4 May 2006, 11:24)
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playing with knives
In 1988, being a shy and sensitive six-year-old, my grandfather decided it was about time I receive my first pocket-knife. Handing me a blade that, in my little hands, seemed to be the size of a machete, he instructed me to "go and play outside". My mother was horrified and promptly confiscated my new toy and placed in her handbag, stating that I was far to young to own a flick-knife.
Later that day I stole back my knife and went outside to wave it at my friends. I managed to cut my neighbour's arm, along with my own face, the scar of which I still have today. I qickly put the knife back from where I had nicked it and tearfully told my mother that I had been attacked by a cat.
Mother always knows best.
Some sixteen years later I dipped the glans of my penis into a jar of mustard in a local gastropub. The label contained no warning regarding the pain, swelling and immediate ejection from the establishment that promptly followed this action. A severe case of corporate neglect.
( , Thu 4 May 2006, 15:52, Reply)
In 1988, being a shy and sensitive six-year-old, my grandfather decided it was about time I receive my first pocket-knife. Handing me a blade that, in my little hands, seemed to be the size of a machete, he instructed me to "go and play outside". My mother was horrified and promptly confiscated my new toy and placed in her handbag, stating that I was far to young to own a flick-knife.
Later that day I stole back my knife and went outside to wave it at my friends. I managed to cut my neighbour's arm, along with my own face, the scar of which I still have today. I qickly put the knife back from where I had nicked it and tearfully told my mother that I had been attacked by a cat.
Mother always knows best.
Some sixteen years later I dipped the glans of my penis into a jar of mustard in a local gastropub. The label contained no warning regarding the pain, swelling and immediate ejection from the establishment that promptly followed this action. A severe case of corporate neglect.
( , Thu 4 May 2006, 15:52, Reply)
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