SWMBO's parents are Francophiles.
They like all antique furniture - grandfather clocks, antique mahogany dressing tables and other such monstrosities. But especially French furniture. The following story is 100 percent true.

Anyhoo, a couple of years back, at the beginning of December, SWMBO's dad decided that he simply must have a Louis XVI style chaise longue.

"It will add a decadent feel to the living room", he argued, "It'll be very nice at Christmas time with a glass of claret."

Now, SWMBO's mother is of French descent, hence the Francophile wrong-ness. She agreed with the 'decandent' and 'christmas' mentality and enthusiastically allowed him a budget of £500 to make the hideous purchase.

Off to the antique dealers he went, he searched high and low, far and wide but alas, nothing suitable could be found.

I suggested he try FleaBay. "Good idea, Sir".

Within minutes, he had found the perfect chaise longue. Carved giltwood with gold leaf, burgundy upholstery, decadent looking - it was to be the perfect wine drinking chair. And the bidding had only reached £30 odd quid, although there were many bidders. With less than an hour to go!

"I'll have that" thought SWMBO's old man, "make sure that no-one else can outbid me" he hurredly proclaimed.

Gambling on there being a rush as the auction ended, he placed a maximum bid of £250, half of their budget, but easily enough to secure the nice new chaise longue.

Sure enough there was a rush. The bids flooded in, and SWMBO's elders just pipped it, paying a grand total of £253 (including the delivery charge of £5).

"Bloody cheap shipping as well, if I do say so myself" exclaimed an overjoyed SWMBO's dad. All was well, the house was to be a veritable palace with the nice new chaise longue installed in time for Christmas.

Roll forward, 2 days later, there was a knock at the door. A parcel was delivered. The parcel was unknown, but addressed to SWMBO's dad.

"Anyone order anything?" he enquired, showing the parcel to everyone. "This one's addressed to me."

"Nope" came the reply.

With a shrug of the shoulders he opened the small, carefully wrapped parcel.

Silence.

"WHAT THE FUCK IS THIS???!!!" he bellowed, red faced, as he presented a carefully wrapped antique chaise longue, with a certficate of authenticity. All very lovely, apart from the fact it was about 3 inches long, meant for a doll's house.

£253 for a small doll's house chaise longue. Should have read the item description properly, shouldn't you?
(Sir General ***WoW***, Thu 21 May 2009, 12:33, 9 replies)

Waterbed
The hardest thing is getting your balance...

Kim had stripped off her jeans and peeled down her panties and was on all fours, wiggling her fine peachy arse, parting her legs slightly so I could see her glorious, wonderful, amazing, glistening pudenda - her beef curtains were so large and pronounced they almost scraped the bedsheets as she beckoned me to jab her valley of a thousand pleasures.

I kicked off my shoes, whipped off my trousers and boxers, and clambered onto the fucker - not Kim, but the fucking waterbed. And fuck me, that was fucking hard work. I instantly felt as if I'd downed twenty Jack Daniels introveniously and lost all motornuron control.

Kim whimpered like a strangled kitten, she was getting impatient. She reached round and stroked her velvety labia and slid an errant finger up her brown bullet hole.

"OOOoooooHHHHhhhhH!!!" she breathed.

And I was harder than a bunch of Millwall supporters at an anger management class in an instant.

I edged closer to Kim, my cock swaying and bobbing with the weird rippling undulation of the water-filled matress. I positioned myself behind her and she grabbed my spam dagger and guided it into her flowing slimey spunk funnel.

I grabbed hold of her hips and pumpped away. It was fucking great... Once I got going the weird inertia of the waterbed actually helped my technique no end.

Kim moaned, I moaned. Then, after exactly two-and-a-half-minutes of superstud action I pulled out and sprayed a thick stream of ropey bollock broth over Kim's arse and up her back.

Spent, we dressed, Kim wiping herself down on the slinky satin sheets.

That's when I turned to the Ikea shop assistant and said:

"That was pretty damn good, mate - can we try that bed over there now?"
( SpankyHanky, Fri 22 May 2009, 13:15, 15 replies)

A pearoast for me
But a while ago I bought 400 self adhesive goggly eyes from ebay one lunchtime, on an impulse, and gave everything on my desk pairs of beady eyes.

They've nearly all gone now. I began to get a bit paranoid after a while, with a feeling that something, somewhere, was watching me.

cfb
( LemonEntryMyDearWatson This time, Moriarty, the hand is on the other foot, Thu 21 May 2009, 12:55, 7 replies)

Whoops. Seemed to have summoned a demon from the netherworlds.
As you do.

I was perusing a bookshop t'other day (one that might sell wet pebbles) and found an interesting book on demonology. Not something that I ever found any previous interest in, but the book captivated me. Twas weird, it was. But I bought it, and went home.

So looking through it, I found a chapter on Summonings. This was a really bad fucking idea. My good Catholic mother didn't raise me to summon evil forces from the nethermost pits of hell - that's what my brother was for. But again. I felt an odd compulsion to carry out a summoning.

Now, a Summoning is easier than you think. You need chalk (ELC), candles (IKEA tealights) and obviously a bell (front doorbell) and a book - well I do have my confirmation bible, so we're all set.

So anyway, I am set up. Have gone into the kitchen, marked out the squiggly lines as per the instruction manual, and put my tongue through the kind of workout that the Swedish Lesbian Olympic Cunnilingus team usually perform as a warmup.

The air went cold. A deathly breeze came through the kitchen.














And fuck all happened. I closed the patio door and went to bed, disgusted.

That night, I lay dreaming, wondering why I hadn't summoned a demon.

OH BUT YOU DID

My testicles retracted into my body. Fuck knows how I managed not to void myself all over the bed. The voice came straight into my skull, not through my ears. As if it was in my mind already.

"Who...who are you?" I timidly asked.

MY NAME, HUMAN, IS IMPRONOUNCABLE IN YOUR TONGUE. I AM CALLED OLXZZZGNUGAGAGVNYRRR, BUT YOU CAN CALL ME...OLIVER. I SHALL BE HERE SOME TIME

So I had really fucked up this time. I now have my own private demon. I would walk down the road and cars would crash into each other. My holiday to New York in September 2001 was slightly spoilt. Grannies would drop dead of heart attacks as I passed.

I

Was

Fucked.



By now, I looked like Gollum with scurvy. My hair was lank and my skin was the colour of dead fish. I never left my house. I gave up work. Everywhere I went, everything I did, Oliver was there.

One day I could take it no longer. I'd already tried the exorcism page in the book. I felt my own actions were becoming less and less under my control, so I banged on the door of my local church. The priest came out and gave me one look and nearly recoiled in horror. He grabbed his rosary for protection.

"Dear God, child. What's happened."

"Demon...inside...please exorcise me."

The priest dragged me in. Luckily, Fr Michael O'Meara (any name that Irish should come with its own sack of potatoes) was an expert in demonology. He set up a bell, book and candle and performed an emergency exorcism (is there another kind). The lights flashed and eventually exploded, shards of glass flying across the room. Our faces were cut and blooded, but we didn't notice.

Suddenly a feeling like a firework went off in my skull and again I heard the eldritch voice.

YOU MAY DEFEAT ME HUMAN, BUT MY WATCHERS WILL BE KEEPING AN EYE ON YOU EVER MORE. JUST ONE SLIP, AND YOU'RE MINE. (Oh by the way, your mum sucks cocks in Hell. Sorry, it's a contractual thing.)

Both me and the priest collapsed to the floor.

"Thank God for that" said the priest. "It was only a minor demon. Much more and we'd have been goners."

I thanked him profusely from the bottom of my heart (and later from the heart of my bottom).

I know I'm free, but I also know that Oliver is out there still, waiting for me. And I can feel his watchers constantly looking at me, watching for any slipup.

You see, I have to be careful of Imp Ol's spies.
( Undercovercarrot got done for gross misconduct on..., Thu 21 May 2009, 21:58, 12 replies)

30 something bloke turns into excited child...
Not so much impulse buy as carefully calculated and just waiting for the right moment buy…

The ex missus buggering off with someone else was probably the best thing that could ever happen to me. Didn’t feel like it at the time, but I’m older and wiser and have the love of a good woman to keep me sane. Plus, I probably wouldn't have found this place either. However, at the time, I spent a few months bouncing off the walls and stuff, renting a flat which was a nice flat but which I also hated for some completely illogical reason because really, there was nothing wrong with it.

When she bought me out of my share of our house the first thing I did was put a hefty deposit down on a 2 bedroom house in the town, using some of the spare cash to help furnish it properly. I got fuck all out of the contents of our home together, even the bed, which was mine before we even moved in together. Well, except maybe some odd bits of duplicate crockery and stuff and a nice painting which I ‘liberated’ from the place when she wasn’t in, but apart from that it was a case of starting all over again from scratch. This used up all of the cash pretty quickly.

A few months later, though, her mum died and left me a tidy little sum, which I used partly to pay a chunk off the mortgage (you can tell I was married to an accountant can’t you?), and partly to get some double glazing put in and some new flooring. Sensible bugger, me. Oh yes. This left me with about 3 grand in change...

Hmm. I could put it in an ISA, as a nice little bit of rainy day money. But no. I’m done being sensible, I think I’ve been sensible enough up to that point. OK, put some of it an ISA. Good idea. About a grand; that’ll do. So what to do with the rest?

Hmm again. What had I spent years threatening the ex with in an “Ooh, if I ever had a spare bit of cash, I’d get this” type of way?

Conversations on the subject usually ran thus:

“Over my bloody dead body”.

“I would you know”.

*Jokingly* “I’d leave you if you ever put one of those things inside this house”.

And so, rattling around in a new two bedroom house on my own and with space to fill, I got on the internet, placed an order, and waited. Eight weeks later, this little baby turned up on the doorstep…



So the leaving bit occured before the purchase; I'm not about to quibble over such a minor detail :)

Now I just have to work on Tourette's regarding that Cyberman the company does...
( Davros' Granddad a voice of calm reason in a world of spastics., Thu 21 May 2009, 14:00, 14 replies)

Acting on Impulse
Tenuous, as no money exchanged hands, but this definitely involves Impulse.

20+ years ago, during my nurse training I did a stint on the Emergency Admissions ward (watered down A&E). A highly embarassed young lass came in with a "delicate problem". Y'see, she'd been indulging in a drop of ladies' cocoa with a can of Impulse body spray. The lid had *come* adrift in her young, nubile clopper.

She was in floods of tears, her imagination running riot as to what hideously invasive procedure might be entailed.
How did we remove the lid? Common sense, which had the lassie squirming even more with humiliation. At the suggestion of the doctor on duty, I went upstairs to the regular wards to procure a can of Impulse from the deceased's belongings.

Then the doctor explained the "procedure" to this poor girl. He removed the lid from the "new" can, slathered it liberally with KY jelly before plunging it into her clunge and "docking" with the missing lid. You could say he'd found a purchase.

"Why didn't I think of that?" she wailed.

"Next time, leave the lid off and use it the other way round", I suggested helpfully as she scuttled out.
( Tourette's ( . )( . ) has a monkey hair in her fried egg, Tue 26 May 2009, 15:28, 14 replies)

Trigger
You’d like Trigger. Although he’s not spectacularly bright (hence his somewhat predictable moniker), he represents the eternal optimist in each of us, unbowed by occasional ineptitude or haplessness.

You have to admire his tenacity of spirit which keeps him motivated when everyone else around him is screaming “for fuck’s sake Trigger, why don’t you just throw in the towel and admit defeat?”. Trigger’s DIY ineptitude is born of a willing heart, usually with the intention of treating his long suffering wife to another home improvement. Somehow her plea of “let’s just get the professionals in love?” always goes unheeded.

One bright and sunny Friday, he waltzed into his workplace and announces that he’s going to spend his sizeable quarterly bonus on a self assembly pagoda so that his wife could entertain her friends in the garden - that very weekend in fact, for the pagoda kit was being delivered early on Saturday morning and the weather forecast was looking promising. The numerous sniggers and guffaws from his mocking colleagues didn’t dampen his enthusiasm one iota, for he spent his lunch break canvassing his colleagues’ advice on each part of the project as they all poured over the plans.

“You wanna make sure the foundations are up to the job” said one

“Tell you what, I’ll sketch out the dimensions of the holes you’ll need to dig for you” suggested another, helpfully.

Fifteen minutes later, the depth and dimensions of the required foundations were detailed on a sheet of A4 which was then stapled to the instructions. Surely nothing could possibly go wrong…

Nine O’clock the following morning found Trigger outside, shovel in hand digging away like a happy navvy, meticulously re-reading his colleagues’ instructions and measuring the plots to the exact centimetre. By lunchtime, he’d dug four large holes to sink the legs of the pagoda into and had worked out exactly how much cement he was going to need. Contrary to popular prediction, Trigger’s arithmetic was flawless. Trigger was somewhat surprised as to how much cement would be required, but driven by ambition of making his wife happy, he was keen to do a proper job. Off to B&Q he went.

An hour later and Trigger returned home, making an awful din because the creaking suspension of his Ford Ranger pickup was scraping against the driveway. The reason why the pickup had a distinctly nose-up stance was because there was a whopping half a ton of cement in the back of it.

By six O’clock, the four legs of the pagoda had been sunk into the holes and the cement had been poured in around them. By the following afternoon, he was ready to fit the roof, so he phoned one of his workmates who duly arrived to help. By Sunday evening the pagoda was finally complete. His wife could look forward to many summers of civilised garden parties. You really didn’t expect it to be that easy did you?

“Your wife’s mates had better be fucking dwarves, Trig” said his friend as they turned a critical eye to their handiwork.

Indeed, the roof of the pagoda stood barely five feet above the ground. Only the severely vertically disadvantaged and experienced limbo dancers would be able to make full use of it.

“I don’t understand where we went wrong…” said Trigger, scratching his head as he reread the plans and the dimensions for the foundations, anxiously searching for some missing piece of the jigsaw that would explain the structure’s lack of altitude.

“You fucking stupid prick Trigger...”

The answer dawned as Trigger reread the plans one final time.

The dimensions for the foundations had been sketched in feet and inches.

The instructions for the pagoda were in metres.

Each leg was (and still is) encased in a square metre of now rock hard cement and obviously going absolutely nowhere. Even a JCB would have a hard time digging this out.

Two and a half grand is an awful lot of money to spunk on a concrete reinforced wendy house.
(Bicycle Repairman "you're also a bit of a wanker", Fri 22 May 2009, 12:29, 9 replies)

Drunken Ebay…

The purchase of ‘Beerlooms’ has been a regular ‘tennis bat up my cack pipe’ for years now. I have spaffed many a penny on pointless trinkets just because it ‘seemed like a good idea at the time’ – and that time being when I am copiously piss-tarded

One occasion that leaps to mind was ‘the headphone incident’.

The main PC in my house is now situated in the corner of my dining room adjacent to the lounge. I used to have it in my office, but the present Mrs Twisty Cheeky insisted I move it because, as she put it, I was ‘turning into a wankish, Gollum-like hermit-esque twat wallop’ and she was fed up with never seeing me.

So like the bitch slapped obedient little fuck-knuckle that I am, I duly set up a work station downstairs, and had to put up with the wife and bloody kids legging it about like Panzer tanks on poppers, disrupting my work and putting the unwelcome kybosh on my previously illustrious and fruitful pr0n watching career.

In the enforced absence of such erotic visual delights, I tried to seek solace, stimulus and solitude in an alternative format. Music.

Until one sprightly evening, when I was struggling to listen to a few bangin’ choons over the conflicting blaring sounds of Lazytown* DVDs and Goddamm 'Diagnosis: Murder'. I then decided ‘enough was enough’...

I needed to buy some headphones.

To prepare for this life-changing decision I did the dutiful thing and got reekingly and royally cunted on fine ciderish goodness. I then locked my fingers together, gave them a satisfying yet slightly arthritic ‘crack’ and set about the arduous task of t’interwebz shopping.

As I browsed the pages of Ebay I was swamped by choice. There were headphones, headphones fucking everywhere. But what make? Sennheiser? Bose? Should I have closed back? Bass Boost? I didn’t want to spend too much and didn’t have a fucking Scooby what I was doing…so I cleverly decided to drink a bit more to aid my judgment…then I saw them before me, like manna from the gods…

Cordless.fucking.headphones. Surely the greatest single invention In the history of the world.evah.

'Get in there!' I thought to myself – I had been enlightened. Music and movement. This was what I craved. I didn’t want to be tied down with your peasant-type, nampy-pamby ‘wired’ headphones like some common cuntcake – I yearned for, nay demanded, infra-red glory!

There were about a hundred of these items being sold, one at a time, five minutes apart. I hurtled to the ‘bid’ button like a lumbering hippopotamus following a failed attempt at balancing on an upside down greased ice skate. Being pissed, but still slightly rational at this point, I considered twenty quid to be the maximum I would bid. There were no ‘buy it now’ offers, but nobody else seemed interested anyway – the naieve, maladjusted nincompoops! – They were all going to miss out, and in just a few short hours this technological marvel was going to be mine!

But then it started…achingly…the paranoia began to creep in. What if the rest of the world was just lying in wait…waiting for the moment to strike as soon as I climbed into bed? What if I got outbid when I was slumbering away, oblivious to my life’s dream slipping from my clammy grasp? My hopes could be shattered for the possible sake of a penny? The sanctimonious fuckers! I would not let this happen!

I hardly had time to finish my next three cans before I had completely caved to my fears, and convinced myself that I was definitely going to lose the precious bounty. Simply 'bidding more' never occured to me...I had to construct a cuntingly cunning contingency plan that would thwart the most hardy of Ebay sniper in his efforts to deprive me of what was rightfully mine…

Fiendish in its simplicity, my idea was to pop another bid in for the next set of headphones on the list, thusly when I was outbid on the first pair, I would be front-runner to buy the next. Flawless. Genius. Nothing could go wrong. Victory would be assured!

But then I considered again…what if there were two crafty people in the world with the same idea, that they had already considered this alternative action to snatch my wonderous goods from my grasp? I could not allow such a travesty to occur.

So I put another £20 on the next set on the list…and thought again…

By 2am I could barely stand, yet managed to stumble to bed…safe in the knowledge that I had covered all available angles. My work was done. All I had to do was wait…

The next morning I awoke with a munterrific hangover and the feeling that Satan himself must have crimped off a particularly chunky brown loaf into my mouth and stamped on my head during the night.

My memory of the prior evening, however, was a bit ‘hazy’ to say the least…and the events were quickly forgotten about and consigned to history...

Until about a week later, when I received a lovely yet unexpected parcel in my porch. On unwrapping I saw a gleaming set of new cordless headphones. Yay, and indeed woo! What a pleasant surprise!

But with that, like a kick in the bollocks from a raging bull wearing steel toecapped hobnail boots with an apocalyptic asteroid attached, the memories came gushing back.

I sprinted to the PC and checked my Ebay account to confirm my worst fears…

Over the next few days I received parcel after parcel relentlessly dropping in my porch…until I had the full compliment of FIFTEEN sets of identical crap cordless fucking headphones…each one having a wireless range of about 4 and a half centimetres, so you had to press your head firmly against the transmitter to enjoy the sound quality, which was akin to a decrepid urangutan shitting firey marbles into an empty can of value mushroom soup.

I was too stupid embarrassed to complain, and my conscience wouldn’t let me sell them on again – they were just too cataclysmically crap, and I knew Joe public would whinge like the bitch he is.

So thank fuck that Christmas was just around the corner…because that year, everybody in my family, from my 6 month old neice to my 92 year old Grandmother-in-law, took receipt of a badly wrapped, shiny lump of usless headphoney uber-tat from their loving uncle Cheeky.

I live to give.


*Lazytown – Is it wrong to fancy the girl with the pink hair from Lazytown? It IS? Oh, I thought so…I was just asking that’s all…forget I said anything…


\not a peado



EDIT: Congratulations go to the Pink haired 'Stephanie' girl from Lazytown who celebrates her 18th birthday today!

*breathes sigh of relief*
(Mr Twisty Cheeky The worst kept secret in B3ta..., Fri 22 May 2009, 10:38, 14 replies)

Kuwaiti Treasure
Apologies for length...

Well, when I was in Iraq a few years ago I was lucky enough to get something called OSD. Operational Stand Down, where 4 lucky guys a week get to go to Kuwait, stay on the American camp and have fun and explore the city (which is very much like Dubai/Qatar).

As it was the first time I'd been out of the desert in 5 months I went a bit overboard with 5 months worth of untouched wages (with overseas extras) in the American PX. We're talking new DSLR's, Lenses, clothes, knives, presents for people, huge cigars, food....new bags to put it all in. I was having a blast.
What I didn't know, is that this was flagged up back in England with my bank as 'strange behaviour' as my card had gone from not being used for so long to being rinsed. What I also didn't know, was that the American ATM's and chip & pin machines on base, were routed through America first, not Kuwait.

I got a phonecall off my dad a few days later (who was managing my mail etc. for me whilst I was away) saying the bank had detected fraudulent activity on my account and someone had been spending my money in Texas.
I didn't click on at first and neither did he. He had already told the bank I was in Iraq, not America and could prove it.

I got back every penny I spent there as the bank assumed it was fraud and got to keep everything.
( Terry_Tibbs Coarse and violent nudity. Occasional language, Mon 25 May 2009, 16:36, 4 replies)

What do you do when you drunkenly purchase a box of a thousand cocktail umbrellas?
Simple - Open them up, arrange them in neat and tidy little rows on the floor in your living room. Then pretend you're Godzilla attacking a poor defenseless Japanese beach resort.*

Worked a treat for me.

*Caution: Must wear protective boots: Getting a cocktail umbrella stuck in the sole of your foot hurts like zee proverbial muthafucka.
( SpankyHanky, Fri 22 May 2009, 17:27, 5 replies)

I've covered this before on here I think :)
£700 from Camden Market

( emvee cruor deo cruoris, Fri 22 May 2009, 10:50, 15 replies)

Impulse Buy Made Me A Bit Gay Shocker !!!
Question: What do you do in London if you’ve got a week off work, fuck all to do, and three-hundred crisp, semen-and-cocaine-encrusted English pounds burning a hole in your pocket?

Answer: You flick through the Yellow Pages and find one of those ‘Learn How To Drive In A Week’, shysters who’ll turn you from a skanky pedestrian with a tiny cock into a strapping motorist packing the sort of penis your average killer whale would be proud to call their own.

So, I ring up and book a week’s worth of lessons. An intensive course. I’d just watched the Grand Prix and thought: I fancy a bit of that, can’t be that hard, literally dozens of people round the world can drive a motor vehicle. Peddles, steering wheel, mirrors; and you get to sit down in comfort instead of having weird elderly strangers attempting to juggle with your plums while grinning at you gumily like you get on the Tube.

The bloke who taught me was a great lad named Troy – a typical Australian surfer dude type. Blonde, tight-bodied, some would say ‘strapping’. And he was a damn fine teacher too, taught me the basics without making me feel like a mongtwat cunt-cobbler – this peddle means ‘go’, this one means ‘stop’, don’t drive over pedestrians, keep both your arms inside the vehicle at all times – all the useful shit.

And the lessons were a dream. We’d do some driving and have a bit of a chat at the same time. I really liked Troy.

Then, on the Thursday as I sat round my flat waiting with eager anticipation for my next lesson, I realised something – I was feeling, how can I put this... very confused about Troy... I was suddenly very uncomfortable. I’m pretty certain I’m not gay, I’m sure I’d have found out about that by now, but Troy, well, I just wanted to be near him more than those brief, fleeting, hour-and-a-half sessions sat in his Nissan Micra we spent tooling round the wasteland that is North London.

Fast forward to the lesson...

Troy’s teaching me the hardest most difficult procedure in the entire history of humankind ever, something so hard that any fucker who can do it should be given a cheque for a million quid and a blowjob from the supermodel of their choice – parallel parking. Troy’s leaning over, looking in the rear-view mirror, guiding me into this spot. I crane my neck to look in the mirror and realise, suddenly, my face is very close to Troy’s face. I can smell his musky aftershave and the sweet scent of his afternoon sweat.

I don’t know why I did this. But I had a strange compulsion, an urge I just couldn’t fight... And even as I did it I thought: oohh, bugger! - This is a bad idea...

But it didn’t stop me.

I leaned closer towards Troy, pretending to take a greater interest in what he was pointing out to me in the rear-view mirror, and then, as if in slow-motion, I planted a soppy wet kiss on his cheek with a loud and resounding smack!!!

Silence....

Troy backed away, returning to the relative safety of the passenger seat. I backed away too, attempting to grasp the steering wheel in as manly and macho a way as possible.

Troy stared at me. I stared at him.

More silence...

“Ermm, Spanky – I’m flattered and everything, but I’m not, you know.... gay...”

And I waited a beat and replied: “Neither am I...”

And we both sat there for a little while looking confused...

So, my impulse buy of an intensive driving lesson course made me a bit gay. Wasn’t expecting that...

And I failed my fucking driving test again for the third fucking time.* Cunts.

*A mate at work told me a sure-fire way to pass that worked for them. Had the opposite effect for me. Apparently the fella testing me didn’t appreciate it when I turned up in a short skirt and a blouse that showed a shitload of cleavage. Scared ten shades of living shit out of the poor fella... hmmmm, maybe I should’ve shaved my chest first???**

**This last bit may contain traces of lie... but the main post doesn't, I assure you...
( SpankyHanky, Thu 21 May 2009, 14:00, 16 replies)

EAZY DOES IT
“Where’s Eazy?” I said.

“I don’t know, I thought he was with you!” said my co-volunteer, Jo.

“EEEEAAAAZZZZYYYYY!!!” I said, losing it ever-so-slightly as I went stalking off looking for the little shit.

Now, despite the obvious problem this kid had – that his parent’s were drugged up hippies who had named him Eazy; his real name, the poor little fucker (we also had another kid with the first name of Snow; a bit weird but not too bad, not until you find out her surname was White), well Eazy also had Asperger’s and needed constant supervision. Unfortunately, so did the other kids we were with - all eight of them - and there were only three adults. It was a logistical fucking nightmare.

We were on a day out to London Zoo – I’ve volunteered working with autistic kids for about ten years now - so, off I go looking for Eazy who’d done his usual Steve McQueen in the Great Escape routine and fucked off to go and do his own thing – I was only glad the little bastard didn’t have access to a motorcycle.

With my arsehole fluttering, hoping Eazy hadn’t wandered into the lion enclosure, I eventually tracked him down next to the penguin pool. He was just stood there, grinning, clapping his hands and saying:

“Zoooooooo! Zoooooooo! Zooooooo!” to himself in a very low chirp,- a very contented twelve year old kid.

With Eazy safely rounded up we go back to the group and spend the next hour or so walking round, checking out the furry critters, petting the farm animals in the kids zoo; me never wanting a plate of lamb chops or a bacon sandwich more than at that moment in my life.

But eventually it’s time to go.

We leave, go to the car park, get the kids into the minibus. One of the other volunteers, a lad named Sean who’s driving, slides behind the steering wheel and checks out the rear view mirror. Then he stops and his eyes go a bit wide.

“There’s something moving!” He says. Jo and I turn our heads and look. And, sure enough, there is something moving. Eazy’s Jar-Jar Binks satchel shaped like the cunt-destroyer-of-the-new-star-wars-movies head is jerking about on the sear next to Eazy, who’s staring down at it and grinning.

Being a macho kind of man, I turn to Jo and say: “Jo – go and see what’s in the bag, will you.”

She whispers back at me so the kids can’t hear: “Fuck off, Spanky – Eazy was your responsibility.”

So, I edge forward, ask Eazy what he’s got in the bag – he just grins at me a bit more. So, I unzip the satchel and –

- leap backwards, absolutely scared shitless.

“What is it?” Sean asks, as he and Jo come round to have a look.

And we all stare...

A penguin.

A fucking penguin.

Stares back at us, its head cocked to one side. Regarding us with its beady little eye.

I reach forward and fumble with the zip on Jar-Jar’s head. The penguin, looking a bit perturbed, tries to nip at my fingers. But it’s pretty docile and I manage to trap it back inside.

Sean and Jo look at me as if to say: “You’re gonna have to take it back.”

And I do. Eazy still grinning like a twat as I trudge off as if to say: “I’m the cleverest kid in the entire world, me!”

With a kiddies Jar Jar Binks satchel on my back I walk back to the main entrance, find someone in a green London Zoo sweat shirt and say: “Errr, I’ve got a penguin in here... sorry...”

“What?”

“I've got a penguin in here,” and I indicate the satchel.

“Are you sure?”

“YES!”

"Are you absolutely certain?"

"YES! Its definately not a sodding pidgeon." And then I explained what had happened.

And, after a bit of a kerfuffle, the bird’s returned.

Very embarrassing.

Not really an impulse buy, more an impulse steal...

And – thinking back – probably the most excruciatingly mortifying part of the whole episode was walking round North London for twenty minutes or-so with the big eared, googly-eyed cunt from Episode I in furry form hugging my back.

Made me feel like a complete twat, that did.
( SpankyHanky, Tue 26 May 2009, 10:37, 14 replies)

Kittens
My boyfriend's mum's cat had a bit of a run-in with a man cat's penis and in three weeks we take two of the resultant fluffballs (aka Bunsen and Beaker) home.

Not so much an impulse purchase as impulse decision by us, but I'm sure I will buy all manner of cat-related crap for them on a whim (like those cool-looking automated feeders).

Click "I like this" and I will post the most eye-bleedingly cute pic of them that I can lay my hands on.
(claireyfairy There's a smell in here that will outlast religion, Fri 22 May 2009, 17:29, 11 replies)

Sweetie's post below reminds me...
A few months back I received a sexy text from my good lady, Liz, while I was at work on a slow Friday:-

JUST PICKED UP SOME FLAVOURED LUBE FROM BOOTS - WANNA TRY IT OUT LATER? X X X

Later, I meet Liz in the pub for a few jars. A few jars turns into quite a few jars. And quite a few shots. And a kebab.

We go back to ours and start making the beast with two backs. I start edging my way down her body, fancying a spot of cunning-linguistics. Then I remember the flavoured lube; might be a bit of a giggle. I ask Liz where she's stashed it. She explains, rather drunkenly, that its on the table next to the bed.

I fumble round in the dark, find the tube, squirt a liberal amount of the slippery stuff on her gash and start lapping away like a thirsty St. Bernard on a hot day attacking a bowl of cool water.

Yuk - the fucking lube tastes awful. Its doing strange things to my insides too. Oh, well. I eat the rest of the stuff off my good lady's puffy vertical smile and get down to some serious oral.

Fast forward to the morning. We wake up in a hung over heap.

Liz looks over and sees the unopened flavoured lube tube next to the bed. She looks at me questioningly.

I shrug.

Then I notice the tube on the floor next to the bed, squeezed in the middle, a little of the contents running out the end like thick, yellow toothpaste.

"Oh, you didn't..." says Liz.

But I had...

Athletes foot cream tastes fucking awful.

And, to make matters worse, I spent most of that Saturday morning on the bog, shitting out my small intestine and quite possibly a large part of my colon.
( SpankyHanky, Tue 26 May 2009, 16:57, 9 replies)

Bargain kitchen
Way back in the mists of 2003, a younger rubberduck bought a house. It needed a bit of work doing to it, but was decently sized and in otherwise good nick. Now, also being a budget-conscious sort, I was on the lookout for any bargain purchases that would make the work on my house as cheap as possible.

One fateful evening, I arrived home having spent the previous hours imbibing the finest liquids that my local alehouse had to offer, and unusually I was still feeling somewhat awake. It was then that I had a lightbulb moment. Maybe I could find some bits for my new kitchen on everybody's favourite online tat bazaar, eBay. Surely, being the early hours of the morning it was a perfect time for snapping up a bargain.

After browsing several pages of the usual overpriced tat, my eyes kept being drawn to one listing in particular. A very well known high-quality kitchen manufacturer had decided to sell a job lot of some of its old stock on eBay - according to the listing there were in excess of 5,000 cupboard dorrs, as well as numerous units etc. In my hazy, alcohol-saturated state, I reasoned that I could buy these kitchen bits, use the pieces that I wanted and make an absolute fortune selling off the bits that I didn't need individually.

I couldn't understand why it was so cheap. I won the auction for the grand price of £1.34,

What I hadn't reckoned in my drunken state was

A) How to get them from the other side of the country to where I lived

and

B)Where to store it all once I'd got it back.

I ended up having to hire a 26-tonne lorry to go and get them all, and stored these doors around my house and shed for *3 years* while I gradually sold them all. I was forced to get used to them being a way of life - making impromptu mini tables, seats and mega-size fly swatters of them. I couldn't even get into one of my bedrooms for a while.

Even to this day I develop something of a nervous tic around wood veneer surfaces. I'm not sure I can cope with the idea of yet another birch-effect wooden ironing board...
( rubberduck should only be used after consulting with your GP, Fri 22 May 2009, 7:41, Reply)

I must admit that I do have a bit of a tendency to impulse buy, because of my busy and complicated life, and over the last few years, I've purchased various items for my home, just on a whim! These include chandeliers, several flat screen TVs, some lovely hanging baskets, a massage chair (just couldn't resist - highly recommended!) and even a little floating house for the ducks on my pond! I must admit though that I have a great employer and I can generally cover most of these purchases under a very lenient expenses system. What could possibly go wrong?
( vladimir, Thu 21 May 2009, 14:22, 5 replies)

I bought a plane ticket to Sweden for the next day to see a friend who was feeling down.
We've been together for two and a half years now.
(Potty Jag har smör i min rumpspringa, Thu 21 May 2009, 12:02, 3 replies)

Bright Pink Cowboy Shirt
One of the few really nice sunny days in 2007, I was doing some shopping in the afternoon (after a few pints of cider over lunch with a friend, which might partly explain things), and I just liked it.

I got it home, got it out the bag, looked at it and realised I'd made a mistake straight away. It just wasn't very me - mainly because I wasn't a lumberjack on a Gay Pride march.

It sat in my wardrobe for months until one day when I bounded out of bed in the morning with a spring in my step and a song in my heart, flung open my wardrobe, saw it among the other, drab shirts, and just thought "Fuck it! It's the 21st Century, it's summer, it's London, if a man can't pull off a pink cowboy shirt on a sunny day like today, then when can he do it?".

I got about five minutes down the road to work before some kid standing outside school with his mates shouted at me.

"Oi, Brokeback Mountain, where's your boyfriend?"

I gave it to the Charity shop.
(SnowyTheWereRabbit the Leporid from Hell, Sat 23 May 2009, 18:58, 4 replies)

Goan get your arse raped.
I was on holiday in Goa and they had this little hut where you could get a holistic massage. "Holistic! That sounds nice" I thought, so I made an appointment.

When I got there it was this single room in a hut, with a bed in the middle. There was the masseuse who was a man, and his wife was standing outside, smiling through the window every so often.

"First of all" he said "you need to change into this". He gave me this thing to put on, like a ladies g string made of cotton. But the string bit was at the front AND the back. So I was standing there in the buff apart from a little g string, with my cock kind of poking timidly out the side. "Is this right!?" I asked and he said "yes, yes" whilst looking at my fiery thatch and laughing to himself.

"Now" he said, "lie on your front". Well that was a relief. He then proceeded to beat the crap out of me. But I was too polite to tell him I wasn't enjoying it in case it hurt his professional pride.

"Is this good?"
"aah FUCK. Yes its good, thank you. fuck IT".

I asked him how long we'd been going for, and he said "relax! Just 5 minutes so far". I'd booked for an hour and I nearly cried.

I had to turn over and I got a nipple gripple, this time with the added humiliation of having my knob waving at him, followed by a chinese burn on each wrist. Then he cracked all my knuckles, and actually started karate chopping between my toes.

When it was nearly over, I was back on my front, and he was massaging my arse, which was OK. But as a final touch he stuck his thumb up my crack. Like "there you go! all done! thumbs been up the chute, you're good to go". This last point is disputed by everyone I've told this story too, but the fact remains - that man digitally penetrated my anus horribilus.

When it was finally over I had to say thank you and pay him 40 quid and hobble back to my hotel room. And that was my worst ever impulse purchase.
( browser still relating boring anecdotes into a void on, Tue 26 May 2009, 23:22, 3 replies)

drunk footie manager
I once bought Teddy Sherringham for £10,000,000 on Championship manager when I was drunk. He was 38.

ok its not real money but i was not best pleased in the morning.
(snarf81, Fri 22 May 2009, 16:06, 6 replies)

Wheels of Glory
Well I’ve been lurking b3ta for many years, but I decided to post for once as this seemed like a topic that is relevant.

~~~~~~~ *Wavy Lines* ~~~~~~~~

I got to that age that all guys do where seeing Wendy Sue and her high-beam bongo’s bursting out of her uniform made me feel like I had to either get my little fella wet or I was going to explode with hormones all over the school playground.

I figured if I could get myself some wheels I’m literally guaranteed to be swimming in so much poon that I wouldn’t know where to stick it. I knew I couldn’t drive till I was 17, so I started saving I jumped the train to school and skipped lunch every day to save up all the money I could to buy myself something.

~~~~~ *Skip ahead a few years and many failed attempts to play the hairy harmonica* ~~~~~

I’d just turned 17 and was weeks away from getting a driving licence with a nice wad of cash saved up for the minge magnet that I’d dreamed of driving for so long.

I had been planning to buy something with a bit of street cred like a golf, basically anything that would make the aforementioned Wendy Sue drop her nacks quicker than you can say hullabaloo.

Then I saw it! I was on the way home from college (now taking the bus, but still managing to not pay full fare) when out the window I saw her! She was beautiful! It was a navy blue with white leather seats, chrome bumpers, a V6 Triumph Spitfire with a for sale sign on the windscreen.

Now let me stop there to explain something, this wasn’t the 60’s or 70’s, this was actually the late 90’s. You see my father was always into classic cars, and when I was younger I had worked on restoring a number of old bangers with him to full health, and he had instilled in me the idea that no matter how big a rustbucket it is, if it was a sporty convertible, then the bitches would come running.

I had to have it!! I jumped off the bus early and ran to the bank (well it was half skipping half running I had a tendency to be a bit camp sometimes), then I got out more cash then I had ever held in my hands in my life, clutching onto it like it was integral to my survival I skip-ran to the house where it was and gave him every penny without even giving the car a once over.

He said something that was probably important, but my brain drowned it out because it was way too busy thinking about how much space there would be to get Wendy Sue aligned in the back seat so that my head wouldn’t hit the window. I knew that if there was anything minor wrong with it I could fix it with my superior fix-it skills.

I didn’t care if it was illegal, I was gonna drive it home, maybe even swing by Wendy Sue’s house and beep the horn just to see if it really would knock the pants off her!

I hopped in, revved it up, drove 20 seconds down the road and smashed into a brand new beamer at about 45 mph.

.....Fuck!
(Panda_z is sweating like a chav in dixons, Fri 22 May 2009, 16:54, 8 replies)

Buying freedom and champagne.
Lost my Mum last year, as often happens with people in their late 70s. I'd rather have her than what she left behind, but it came in handy.

On Friday the 13th, my bank sent me my balance by text. Normally this would read some improbable negative figure. This time, it read something else.

There were 5 figures. The first one was 6. I went into town, to the proprietors of my debts: mortgage, car loan and credit card. (I did try doing over it t'interweb, but this produced big red screens and phone calls from my bank). After much buggering about I possessed 3 pieces of paper, all with zero balances.

On the way to the bus station I bought a paper and 2 magnums of champagne. That evening me and MrsScars made ourselves proper poorly in Mum's memory.

Length? £50K before lunch
(all my scars face forward possesses 2.5% of a hyperalloy combat chassis, Fri 22 May 2009, 12:06, 2 replies)

Dumbell (and barbell)
Many years ago I deciding I was going to get fit and, not wanting to join a gym, I charged off to Argos, paid my money and waited for my purchase to arrive from the mysterious tardis-like back room. Eventually, two blokes staggered through carrying a large box. The assistant called out "Weights set?"
"That's me" I said.
"Hmm, have you got your car parked outside?"
"No" I said. What an odd question.
She looked me up and down and asked "Do you DO weights then?"
"No" I said and began to grasp where she was coming from.
"How on earth are you going to get these home?"
People in the queue began to laugh out loud. I had made a huge error. With help, I got one end of the box into the rucksack that I'd brought along for the task and trying hard to save a shred of dignity, lifted the entire thing a couple of inches off the ground, across the shop and into the street. I then left it in the middle of the pavement in the busy high street as I trudged off to find a phone box. My rationale being that if anyone was big enough to steal it, puny me would be unable to stop them anyway. After calling a cab I walked back to find it, unsurprisingly just where I'd left it.
Within a few months I'd joined a gym.
(Mr McKenzie Mr McKenzie, Wed 27 May 2009, 14:22, 4 replies)

The Lovers Guide on DVD
Picked it up in HMV on special offer on account of them going tits up. Got home, sat down with the girlfriend and put the dvd on the idiot box.

After a few minutes I got bored of watching all the foreplay mallarky and fast forwarded to some sweet hot cock-in-fanny action.

My girlfriend turns to me and says: "That's EXACTLY what happens with us in the bedroom..."

Tcchhhh... everyone's a critic nowadays...
( SpankyHanky, Fri 22 May 2009, 15:14, 2 replies)

Ijoy Ride
Google it if you don't know . . its basically an exercise solution (I.e. useless piece of shit) that you sit on and it moves back and forward at a variety of speeds... its for people who have more weight than they should (i.e. fat people) . . I brought one for my girlfriend, which instead of taking it as the insult it so clearly was, she took it as half genuinely thoughtful present as she was trying to loose weight and tone . . the other half was as a suggestive sex toy.
I could see why she thought this as I had made a point of showing her the fit models on youtube using it . . which is HOT. But when my Girlfriend decided to ride it naked, as a 'surprise' it looked liked someone had given a Porpoise rohypnol then fucked its blow hole.

We're getting married next year
(Untitled1, Mon 25 May 2009, 21:50, 8 replies)

Beckyjsxb
has gone into the early lead this week promising to show us her filly grundies.

However, I promise NOT to post photos of my good self wearing some of the wife's sexy cum-splutterers if AND ONLY IF this post comes higher than hers on the Best Of page.

For the record I am very hairy and my package is the type of thing that'll give you nightmares (in as much as it looks like a deformed dwarf wearing a pot holing helmet).
(Big Grant, Fri 22 May 2009, 10:39, 4 replies)

I bought a new life..
A couple of years ago, I bought tickets to a music festival in California. A little pricey at $250US, but it was Rage Against the Machine's first live show in around seven years.
Only problem is I live in Australia...
So $250 quickly turned into another couple of grand for a plane ticket, $150 for a passport application and another $50 for a copy of my birth certificate so that I could even get the passport. Oh, and travel insurance, taking time off work etc etc.
In the end, I did what any intelligent person would do. I quit my job, applied for a Canadian work permit (amazingly, the cheapest part of the whole ordeal!) and moved to Vancouver after the festival.
Since then I've seen most of North America and have just got back to Australia after spending six months in Europe. I plan to see more of Europe next year with my girlfriend, an American who I met at Disneyland in LA and now live with in Melbourne.

Best $250 I ever spent. I meant the ticket. Not my girlfriend.
(r0ach, Mon 25 May 2009, 7:58, 6 replies)

I Bought My Local Pub
.
On a whim. It had bee up for sale for a while and the only people interested were property developers who wanted to de-license it and turn it into two houses.

I wasn't fucking having that! So I bought it.

To be fair - I did have an ulterior motive. I'd once been barred from it in the most bizzare circumstances. Some trouble had kicked off between my ex and the landladies daughter. The daughter had verbally lashed my ex for her treatment of me - cheating on me when I was working away - and a massive scene had taken place. It ended with the landlady barring my ex, her new boyfriend and, for some unexplicable reason, me! I was 300 miles away at the time!

At least if I owned the pub I couldn't get barred again.

Cheers
( Legless Mister Stabby - shanks for the memory, Sat 23 May 2009, 11:31, 2 replies)

Never buy things on impulse.
Use your warp drive, instead!

Sorry.

So very, very sorry.
(ThomsonsPier consumes, Thu 21 May 2009, 12:10, 3 replies)