Gomi No Sensei
I'm with you on this one, mate. I'm sure some people just type complete and utter nonsense on here. It's really not entertaining and a waste of everybody's time. I don't have time for people's lies.

I, myself, don't have a brother or sister, which is a dreadful shame because I feel I'm missing out on a certain kind of love that can only exist between siblings. My dad was fortunate enough to have many siblings. So he received a great deal of that special kind of love, mainly from his older brothers. In turn he passed on this love to his younger siblings, especially his sisters, although the youngest brother, Julian, a bonnie-faced young lad, enjoyed love from all of them at one time or another. The people of the town used to compare him to a kindly, white-faced sheep, as opposed to a sinister-looking, marauding black-faced one. He was happy enough, and nobody ever meant to hurt him. But anyway, here's the story in my dad's words:

"We were a large family. Twelve of us living in a modest terraced house. There were five lads and seven lasses. We had some fun, I can tell you. I think our mum and dad were somewhere about the house but we could never see them on account of all the large, clunking mounds of empty, unwashed Robinson's Silver Shred jars that had amassed over the years. Not that we needed our mum and dad. We used to look after ourselves and make our own entertainment. I remember finding an old space hopper in the cellar. We fought over it for days, but I won. I played on it for weeks, non-stop, bouncing up and down the street. It was only when Mrs. Hayes, the withered old gangrinous crone from next door, pointed out the onset of pubic hair just below what I thought was the smily face that I realised I'd been gleefully hopping around on my younger sister. We did laugh.

"We were all quite happy. We didn't have jobs to earn money for food and drink, so most mornings we'd take it in turns to rob the milkman. He was gay so he couldn't fight. He usually had a few quid in his back pocket so we'd steal it and use it to buy things like bread, milk, cheese, poppers, thimbles - the usual stuff. Then one day he got wise and stopped carrying cash so we had to change our plan. Young Julian was a bonnie lad. We taught him the ways of the world and the skills he would need. We were very thorough about it. And then, when he was ready and the scars had healed and he could walk again, we pimped him out around town. We thought we'd have problems getting people to take him seriously because he had such an insanely laughable speech impediment, but ultimately we took comfort in the fact that he couldn't talk with his little mouth full. Ah, that sweet, warm mouth. He disappeared soon after. We heard tales of him riding in boxcars to Sheffield. Other sources told us he'd joined the travelling circus, playing the role of Colin The Amazing Coin-Operated Shoe-Shine Girl. Wherever he was, one thing was for sure: he'd never be without a bob or two with that small, moist, warm mouth of his. I can still smell him, as though his aromatic ghost is pursuing me with lust from beyond the grave. The thought of it makes my cock twitch."

So there you have it, straight from the horse's mouth. I never tire of that story, although I sometimes feel sad that my mum was mistaken for a space hopper.
(stusut79, Fri 19 Aug 2005, 12:05, Reply)