greed
One Christmas I was investigating the fridge when I discovered a huge bowl of brandy butter.

I was about to reap the rewards of my find, when my sister walked into the kitchen.

"You shouldn't eat that", she said flatly.

"Oh really!?" I asked, "and why not exactly, will you tell?"

I then performed a dance around the kitchen table clutching the bowl, while I sang "will you tell, will you tell, WILL YOU TELL????"

At the climax of this performance I scooped an enormous handful of the stuff into my mouth, which turned out to be translucent wobbly chicken fat.
( browser still relating boring anecdotes into a void on, Thu 21 Feb 2008, 17:26, 8 replies)

I'm still kinda working on this one.
This is kind of a long and involved ramble without a punchline, so bear with me.

I live on the south side of Richmond Virginia, just outside of the city limits. I can travel ten miles from my house and either be in the city itself or in the middle of nowhere.

As I have been laid off yet again, I have a fair bit of time on my hands. As one can only do job hunting for so many hours per day, I find myself needing to get out of the house on my own a bit. Being unemployed, I have no money coming in, so I have to do things on the cheap.

One of the things I decided to do was play around with photography. So one day I got in my car and drove out along one of the main roads here in the direction of countryside, as I knew that there were some old farm buildings to be photographed out thataway. Here is one picture I shot, and here is a detail from the same building. Pretty cool, huh?

So after poking around in this building a bit and finding that it wasn't safe to go upstairs or even through some of the downstairs, I decided to look further out and see what else I could find. And sure enough, as I went by a bit of a hill that they had cut into for the road, I saw the peak of an old structure back in the trees. So I backtracked and found the old driveway and parked at the end, and continued on foot.

As I approached the house I became a little more hesitant- I could see curtains in the windows and other signs of habitation, yet the place was clearly not inhabited now. I stepped between rotted pieces of furniture on the front porch to the front door, and saw that it was standing open behind the screen door. Not sure what to expect, I stepped inside.

The house is full of furniture, clothing, dishes and glassware, much of it kind of scattered about- someone had obviously ransacked the place looking for anything of value, then left it where it was to decay. The roof has holes in it, so the ceiling has fallen in throughout much of it and the floors have begun to rot through- and throughout it all are someone's abandoned possessions.

I was morbidly fascinated by this and looked around very carefully, and realized the following:

-the house had been inhabited by an elderly black couple. I found women's clothes as well as men's, and two photos of little black kids- apparently their grandchildren. And amid the wreckage I found his social security card- but instead of being paper like mine, it was a small aluminum plate. I don't think they've issued those since the beginning of Social Security.

-the woman had predeceased the man. Her bedroom (they stayed in separate rooms) was in advanced decay, with much of her stuff gone. At a guess I would say she was gone between one and three years when he died, judging from the state of the house- it had been rather messy before it was ransacked.

-the man was one of those old black handymen that you rarely find anymore, the kind who drive an old pickup with some tools in it and can fix anything that ever worked in the first place. Behind the house sit a number of old vehicles, and his pickup truck- with some tools in the cab, along with his last load of laundry, still in the basket.

-he died there in that house, most likely in his sleep. There was still food in the kitchen and old bedding on his bed, his razor and toothbrush are still in the bathroom, his glasses were on the kitchen table, and I found what appeared to be his cane lying next to the bed.

Apparently they took out his body, his relatives rooted around for anything they might want, and left the rest to decay where it was. In his bedroom are about a hundred ties and at least fifty suits, still hanging. All of his books, his records (there was still an LP in the record player), his papers, everything he had, are still there in the rot.

I don't know what kind of karma the old man had to be treated in this way- Google turned up nothing at all on him, not even an obituary. Were it not for his Social Security card, I wouldn't have any idea of his name- and in another few years there won't be anything to show that he ever existed. His family obviously doesn't care- and that's what really sent a chill through me, so that I had to get out of there, fast.

And yet... well, I did take a few things from there, which I will cherish and use. I took his Social Security card, his glasses, his cane and a few hand tools that I can put to use. I'm going to see if I can find out who currently owns the property so I can contact them and ask if I can take the rest of his stuff out of there for the Salvation Army. If his family doesn't care about him or his stuff, then I will. Someone needs to. No one should die so ignominiously.

And an interesting note to this: when I picked up the cane it rattled a little. I found that the brass tip unscrews, so I tightened it- and still it rattled. So I twisted the top, and it unscrewed in my hand and came off. I turned the cane upside down- and a long piece of wood emerged, with threads on one end and a cap on the other. The cane is actually a full length pool cue, with a very elaborate dragon carved into the handle. I'm going to take it with me one night and shoot a game or two in his honor.

RIP, Emmitt.

EDIT: w00t, it's my b3ta birthday today!

Update: his family are still in the area, and very nearby. It appears that they're still using his identity, which is even more horrid, despite the fact that Social Security records his death in 2000.

If my kids do this to me after I die, I'm going to come back and haunt them by playing Barry Manilow in the night.
( The Resident Loon Not a demographic. Do not measure., Sun 24 Feb 2008, 14:12, 13 replies)

Karma?
This isn’t a particularly easy post for me to make, but because of this week’s question I thought I’d share…

Usually this story is one I only tell people who have known me a fair length of time because, believe it or not, I’m actually a very
private person. However, I was once asked to do some work for the Lavender Trust – at the time I was too busy bringing up my sons so instead here’s my bit in the interests of offering hope…

Good grief - that sounds terribly worthy – I'm not, but the story is.


*****************

Many years ago during the summer of my 21st birthday I had it all – I was at uni studying history with plans to become a primary school teacher, I had my own car, good friends, and a handsome boyfriend who was two years later to become my first husband and as I was also to discover, gay….but that’s another story…


One day I was laying in the bath feeling smug about my perfect life when I noticed a small lump sitting on the top of my right breast, in fact more on the flat part of my upper chest. I thought it strange as I’d never noticed it before and put it down to hormonal fluctuations – surely it would disappear when I’d had my period. So I left it for a couple of weeks waiting for it to go.

It didn’t.

Full of shame and embarrassment I booked an appointment with the nurse at my doctors’ surgery – why the shame and embarrassment?

Need I remind you I was a good catholic girl?
Despite having long since lost my virginity I had not had many boyfriends, I was not accustomed to whipping out my boobs at any drunken opportunity – to my mind (despite obvious evidence to the contrary) I was fat and therefore unattractive – in other words I was pretty much an ordinary young woman.

So with head hung down to hide my burning cheeks I took off my t-shirt and bra to show the nurse the lump I’d found on my breast. She took one look, called me silly for coming to see her and not the doctor and called in my GP. This man had known me all my life – seen me go through measles, chickenpox, german measles, mumps – in fact, you name it, I’d had it. My shame deepened – he was going to see my breasts!

He examined me and told me, "Oh, that’s nothing, just a fibroid adenoma."
A what?
"Very common. Nothing to worry about."

Weeks passed and finally in the late autumn I saw the surgeon. "This lump – yes, probably a fibroid adenoma, but let’s take it out just to be on the safe side"

Fast forward to March – two months before my 22nd birthday.

I go in for day surgery to have this lump taken out – I’m in the hospital at around 8am and have left by 3pm feeling fine but a little sore. Told to come back in a week to have the stitches taken out.


All the other appointments I had attended alone – I’m a very independent person, always have been. This time however my mum came along – I made her sit in the waiting room, as I wouldn’t have her see my breasts!

In the examining room I sat with a nurse, she was probably in her early thirties and was there to help the surgeon remove the stitches and act as female chaperone. The surgeon came in and before he began to attend to the wound he very gently told me that unfortunately the lump hadn’t been a benign fibroid adenoma but instead it was a malignant tumour.

Breast cancer.


When I got up from the emotional number 8 bus which had just run me over my first question, the obvious question, “Am I going to die?” And to his credit he didn’t lie to me or fob me off – he was completely honest, “I don’t know. Come back this afternoon, speak to a colleague of mine, an oncologist, and he will be able to tell you more.”

He then took out the stitches, squeezed my hand and wished me good luck. Then he went to get my mother. I was left with the nurse who simply kept repeating, “Oh please don’t cry! Don’t cry, please don’t cry!”

I drove myself and my mum home – she’d already phoned my dad who happened to be having a day off. I don’t honestly remember much about those few hours between being told and then going back to the hospital in the afternoon. Except that I truly believed I would die within the year. I went for a shower and stood under the water sobbing with regret that I would never be married, never have children, never have a life. Then I began to pull myself together – the strangest things get you through times like these – I kept on thinking of all the young servicemen who had been killed in wars – they would have been a similar age to me and they were dead now. If they could get through it, so could I.

The next six months passed in a daze – I had been reassured that I was not terminal, everything had been caught at an early stage. However because of my age they needed to be sure that that I didn’t have a reoccurrence. I had chest x-rays, a bone scan, ultrasounds of my liver and then the treatment.

First off was six weeks of radiotherapy – just like having an extended x-ray – three times a week for about 20 minutes at a time. During those six weeks I wasn’t allowed to wear deodorant or even talc because they would interfere with the treatment. The skin on my breast and under my arm became reddened then sores opened – I had to wear a t-shirt under a bra like some sort of bizarre female superman.

Around the same time I also began a regime of chemotherapy – I was lucky my hair didn’t fall out, but I had it all cut off to a short crop just in case. After the radiotherapy finished I spend a week in hospital alone in a lead-lined room with five radioactive wires skewering my breast and no one was allowed to visit me for more than fifteen minutes a day to protect them from the radioactivity.

Throughout the entire six months no one would have known I was ill – I looked just the same, yes I’d cut my hair and I was a little tired, but I didn’t lose any weight or look ill. I saw other patients – thankfully mostly old – come and go, many of them dying, including a young woman only a few years older than myself who had two young children.



Karma? I did wonder for a long time what I’d done in a previous life to deserve this.

But…..



Fast forward six years – I’m divorced from the handsome gay man and have remarried. One month after the wedding we decide to start to try for a family – no hanging about as I had been warned that I may find it difficult or even impossible to conceive because of all the treatment.


And that’s where the Karma comes in….

First attempt.

Twins.

Non identical twins – that’s two eggs – in other words, don’t sit to close to men on buses as you are über-fertile.

Healthy pregnancy, boys delivered full term and large – both around seven pounds.


That was ten years ago. I continue to go for regular mammograms but my chances now of developing cancer are the same as anyone else.



If that’s Karma, I can deal with it.
( chickenlady b3ta's very own Elizabeth Taylor, Fri 22 Feb 2008, 11:34, 33 replies)

Flatmate from hell
OK, so I'll get straight into it...

In 2002 I went to uni in Edinburgh. Initially I was quite anxious as it was quite a way from where I'm from (NW England) and I was the only one I knew going there, but it is a beautiful city and student life is great. Turns out anyway, that Edinburgh uni doesn't really present much of a cross section of Scotish society, being largely made up as it is of rich English people from Surrey eager to try out the snowy wastelands on Daddy's tab.

Cue the end of 2nd year. My group of friends and I are choosing who lives with who as we move from halls to flats. My course is pretty intensive so 9 times out of 10 I would have to turn down any invitation for a night out/spliff/party. Hence, my name was not too high up on people's wishlist when it came to populating their soon-to-be uberparty-pad. So I got lumbered with 3 other guys. Now, two of these guys are fine, one (Joe - a rather wealthy Surrey boy) was unknown to me and, as you'll see, turned out to be a bit of a shit.

We got lucky with our flat. Super-close to the new Parliament and with 3 floors for 4 people, the rent was undervalued hugely because it was brand new and we were the first tenants. Everything was gleaming - it was worth £500k apparently. Not bad for £270pm each in Edinburgh. So we got everything signed and went to our prospective homes for summer to work etc. Except for J, who decided to hang around for summer and enjoy the festival. The last I see of him is when I leave for home having just put all my coursework, architecture models, computer stuff etc in my room and locking the bedroom door behind me.

About a month later, I'm heading up to Edinburgh with 2 friends. We decided to celebrate my birthday by having a week in the festival. Why not? I've already paid for the rent. On the train up I get a phone call from one of the other flatmates telling me he's moving out.

'What?!' says I, a tad surprised and concerned.
'It's the flat, man. It's fucked up. Joe's fucked it all up'. Says he.

It doesn't sound good. So I tell him I'll check it out for myself and not to tell Joe that I'm coming.

We arrive in Waverly, walk the short distance to the flat and get ready for what awaits us. The plan was set: go quietly straight up to my room on the top floor, leave our stuff then have a look around. Up we go. As I reach the top of the stairs I notice something different about my bedroom door. There seems to be only half of it left on the hinges, the rest splintered across the floor. Shit.

We go in to my room. There's three tussled but empty sleeping bags. I step on a used condom. I survey the room. My flatmate's description was accurate: it's fucked. The blinds have been torn and snapped off the wall. The en-suite (nice flat as I say) - brand new until now - was a tip. Piss everywhere. Smears of what I can only assume to be shit along the shower walls. The shower head is smashed and hanging like a New York payphone. I open my wardrobe. Coursework: crumpled into a ball. Architecture models: completely decimated. Computer: side has come off and one of my jumpers has be shoved inside it. On inspection the insides have been smashed. Time to see Joe.

We go down to the kitchen via the living room. The living room is off the kitchen with double doors, so it's pretty much one huge space. Walking in, we see about 10 sleeping bags and a mattress (we had no furniture at this stage). In the corner is a comatosed Joe half on the matress, half on the floor. His head being on the floor. We step over him and enter the kitchen.

What followed was the most breathtaking site I've ever seen (including goatse). Scattered amongst spilled beans and cans of beer were: 1 large pile of coke - the scale of which can only be described as 'Scarface', the remenants of about 50 lines, a bag of ketamine, 5 large bags of pills, 2 (!!) ounce-bags of weed. Many discarded pieces of foil with burn marks (I presume crack, heroin). The fridge is ajar. It's full - to the point it won't close - of mushrooms. And there, in the middle of all this, is one used syringe.

I walk over to Joe to wake him up. His eyes are deep pink. His expression on seeing me standing over him was a lot like the 2 girls 1 cup mammal thing on the front page. Imagine your expression if your dad walked in on you wanking over a picture of your mum. That's the kind of shock/shame/fear in his eyes right now. He stares at me. I stare at him. Finally he pipes up with, 'What the fuck are you doing in my flat?'.

Come again?

'Get out, man. This is my flat now. You can fuck off. Go find yourself another place to stay.'

This went on for a while. Me pointing out the obvious, him still tripping off his tits telling me to get out of his newly-conquered territory. I'll cut this bit down as this is getting long... Basically, I looked for another flat. Eventually, I realise I've got a good one as it is and shouldn't have to be spending my birthday flat hunting because he decided to fuck up our current flat. I decided I'd better get the landlords involved.

We met the next day outside the flat (we were staying at my mate's in the meantime). On the way we walked down Princes St. We saw something rather bizarre: some guy leaning forward off a traffic light post in the middle of the road (think Titanic, king of the world scene) staring at oncoming traffic as if wanting a fight. He then lets go and runs straight at the oncoming cars. Cue much beeping, running over bonnets, and narrowly avoiding a bus. All while half naked and screaming 'Wahoooooo!'. Wierd. But it is festival time.
Anyway, I explain everything to them. They were shocked but, to their credit understanding. They appreciated the honesty and the chance to save their expensive new property. We say thanks and stand back as they enter the flat...

Now, you know that scene from Ratatouille where the woman's ceiling falls down and about 10,000 rats come flooding out of the house. Yeah, like that but with Spanish and French people. Some half naked, some fully. All fucked up and running as if Robocop himself had just walked in. I've never seen so many bouncing dredlocks in all my life. After about 5 mins it's pretty quiet except for a shouting/whimpering exchange. Then, just as things look like they're coming to a close someone sprints past us heading for the flat, bumping us on the way:

'Wooohooooooooo!' The half naked guy pelts straight in ready to join the party. About 3 seconds later he comes running out again, minus the woohoo.

So yeah, the karma is, he got kicked out, he lost many friends and fucked up his degree. The one stand out moment, though was when my friends and I were sitting in my bedroom window a few minutes later. I was enjoying the fact that I no longer had to face flat hunting at the worst time of the year or be homeless, while my mates were happy to be watching the spectacle. As Joe slinked away, pashmina-clad girlfriend in toe, he looked back and we all gave him a wave. The cunt.
( thiswasmyclone, Wed 27 Feb 2008, 7:14, 15 replies)

Karma, dish out your own.
A couple of years a go I found out my loving fiancée of 2 and partner of 6 years was fooling about with a lard ass fool at the local bar behind my back.

I hacked her email to discover she had changed a holiday we had booked and I paid for, got the travel agent to change my name for his on the tickets.

When I confronted her she denied everything, even when I showed her the ticket change as proof. I couldn’t believe that the bitch could look me straight in the eye and lie through her teeth without even blinking.

As it was my house I dumped her gear in the driveway while she was at work, changed the locks and as a parting gift I put Immac hair removal cream in her shampoo and pissed in her conditioner.

Come holiday time that I paid for, her and the new fat lad went away on my trip. Now as I hacked her email I was able to reset her EasyJet account password and then was able to change flight details, you can see where this is going. I never changed the outgoing flight but when they arrived at Malaga airport for the return flight they found themselves 24 hours too late.

Turns out the couldn’t get another flight home for 2 days and as it was last minute had to pay £100’s extra for a seat.

On her return she bleated to the cops who came to my house and nicked me. I ended up at the loal cop shop where all the coppers patted me on the back pissing themselves laughing saying that was the best revenge they had ever seen and telling me the bitch deserved it.

All I got from the cops was a caution from a grinning sergeant much to my ex’s dismay. She wanted full prosecution to which the cops told her to look at her own 2-faced actions.

2 months down the line the fat lad grew bored and kicked her out of his place too.

She now lives in a room above the crappy bar she picked him up in where as i now own the 3 bed semi and have a 23yo girlfriend who i know would do anything for me.

Karma....gotta love it.
(mabazaritchie ...Its not rape if she cums first..., Fri 22 Feb 2008, 10:31, 3 replies)

What goes around, comes around.
Not really sure if this is Karma, but since when has that stopped anyone from posting a good tale?

When I was about 10, one of the houses that back onto my folk’s place was owned by a local “hard nut” gangster-wannabe type, along with his wife and two kids. Really nasty piece of shit he was.

Every Sunday, he had the same routine, he would drive his prized BMW 5-Series to a pub a few miles away, have nine or ten pints with his “well’ard” cronies, probably glass some poor fucker who looked at his pint funny, then drive home. Once he got home, it would start “MY DINNER’S COLD YOU STUPID BITCH!” *SMACK* “HOW MANY” *SMACK* “TIMES” *SMACK* “HAVE I” *SMACK* “TOLD YOU” *SMACK* and so on. It would then move on to “AND YOU TWO CAN SHUT UP AS WELL!” *SMACK SMACK*.

You could hear this shit through two closed windows and a distance of about two hundred feet. And it would last for hours. His two kids went to my school, but kept having time off with things like “measles”, which they must have got a couple of times a year and “the flu” which caused mysterious swellings around their eyes.

So anyway, lovely guy.

One Sunday, he was down the pub as usual when he spotted a black kid walk past the afore mentioned Beemer. Did I mention he wasn’t exactly fond of the darker-skinned members of society? Well, he wasn’t. He comes flying out of the pub and accuses this kid (who was about 8) of first trying to steal his car, then of keying it. After hurling a bit of racist abuse about, he gives this kid a normally reserved for immediate family members slap and goes back to his drinking and general hardcuntness.

Ten minutes later little black kid arrives back in the pub, still crying, being dragged by his dad, points at knobhead neighbour and says “that’s him”. Guy goes up to big bully boy and says “what the fuck do you think you’re doing hitting my kid”. Bloke, safe in the knowledge that 1) He’s well’ard (in his mind at least) and 2) he’s with 10 of his “crew”, turns to the guy and says “Oh fuck off, you stupid n*****” (radio edit for racism).

Father of crying child sticks the head on the racist, bullying prick, slamming him straight down to the deck. One of the “crew” looks like he might intervene, but is stopped by a look from the now very angry father. This angry bloke then proceeds to paint the pub with the guy who hit his kid. He proper battered him. He actually beat him so badly that he lost an eye and walked with a limp for the rest of his life, since he was pretty much paralysed down one side. All while the guys “crew” stood and watched, shitting themselves in case they caught some of what he was getting.

Funnily enough, we never heard him hit his wife and kids after that, possibly because he couldn’t anymore. He moved out about 9 months later, since he could no longer afford the mortgage and, rumour has it, his wife took the kids and fucked off not long after, since she was no longer scared of him.

You lie down with dogs…
(ScousersPet, Fri 22 Feb 2008, 9:10, 8 replies)

I work with a man who is utterly abhorrent.
He's an arrogant American chap who, at Christmas, rammed his version of festivity down the entire office's neck. This included lots of tinsel, a singing nativity set and an advent calendar that he guarded WITH HIS LIFE. So, one of the guys ate the largest chocolate (designated for Christmas Eve) and left this in its place.

I'm not sure it's strictly karma, but it was fucking awesome.
( Fictional Emma, Mon 25 Feb 2008, 14:11, 7 replies)

Karmic Retribution?
I was 16, severely messed up from events I don't need to go into here, and pretty emotionally vulnerable, (not to mention very immature!) - some of the reasons I got ensnared into a bizarre underworld which, by comparison, make the shenanigans of Shameless look pretty tame...

I got pregnant at 16, and, while in such a happy condition, my partner (to give you a flavour of his lovely nature) was basically shagging anything that walked, buggering off out of our flat at 6 am to go to his mum's with the only set of keys, so I was either forced to stay at home or wander the streets til he decided to come home...he spiked my tea with lsd 'for a laugh', seduced his 15 year old cousin in our flat, sided with some of his mates who'd raped a girl by holding her down in turns (which, incidentally, was so similar to the reasons I left home as could not tell my alcoholic mother/workaholic father)...I obviously didn't know the last fact til I was pregnant and had burnt all my bridges and teenage pride...stupidly, one of the reasons I was attracted to him was because I thought he'd stop anything else evil happening to me...

It culminated in him beating me up and locking me in the car one sunny August afternoon after I'd asked for a few hours with friends instead of incessant baby care and housework - basically, even though they were all female, we were playing pool, I was 3 stone overweight, he accused me of playing around.

As we sped around the hole of the town where I grew up he told me he was going to knock me out and torch the car with me in it...

There aren't many times I've been so terrified - I did the only thing I thought I could and leapt out of the car - hey, better to kill yourself that sit by and let someone else do it. I just vaguely remember seeing out of the corner of my eye the spreading pool of blood on the road and hearing people screaming...

Fast forward a bit (I have to, I've lost months/years of detailed memories because of losing so many brain cells on the road - though, funnily enough, my dad says that's what finally knocked some sense into me - every cloud huh?)

He got it together with a younger girl (I was 18 by the time of the accident) and they had another baby. The only time I saw him cry was when that baby was born...

Before anyone starts yelling at me - this is NOT NOT NOT the karmic point (although he, the stupid bastard that he is, thought it was god's way of punishing him for being a C*nt)

She was born with Down's syndrome - and is really badly affected by it (I've got a couple of mates with Down's and you can only tell they have it by the physical characteristics - it affects different people to different degrees) and as one of the side effects had hole in her heart. Surgery to correct this caused alopecia, so little Beth is bald, she also has massive difficulties in speaking, so communicates part by speaking, part by sign language - my son (there's a 3 year age gap) learnt it, so they always got on really well - she really loves her big brother.

Anyway, the Karmic Retribution for Charlie was Beth, not because of her genetic makeup - but because she's the only woman who's ever stood up to him.

Now, Beth's perfectly able to have a conversation and know exactly what she wants, and is a loving and beautiful young lady - if you can be bothered to listen to her and learn to speak with her - but this guy's way of bringing (hauling) up the next generation is to belittle, intimidate, bully and insult them. He told me about 5 years ago he thought our son would grow up gay (as if it mattered) because he was always in clean clothes and had nice manners....

So a strong minded, 'no-shit' attitude little girl who has so far grown up to far out-weigh his 9 stone 5'6" frame seems to be just what he needed. Seeing her thwack him one in his shins when he's putting her, or someone she loves down,is quite heart warming...and it makes me love her all the more for it...

She takes no shit from him, she tells him like it is, seeing her one time tip a whole bucket of MuckDonalds fizz on his head as he was driving (his un-mot'd, un-insured car, the toss) when he was being his characteristic, knob-like self was hilarious.

She has no fear, she does not give a duck for social niceties, she's never been worried by thoughts of 'scared of being rude to my dad even though he's a bucket full of w@nk'.

She tells it like it is, and that is a gift, not a disability.

She's the daughter I always wanted, feisty, strong minded, perfectly intelligent, (just unable to communicate in the way than the majority of people can) The icing on the cake is that she is the only person who can let him know what a fuckwit he is - and know that he doesn't know what to make of it.

Heh, Beth rocks!

As a little p.s. my own son, Kieran finally got shot of his father about 6 weeks ago - he (nearly 15, skateboarding, guitar playing, Kurt Cobain lookalikee, friends with girls because they're people too, and doing bloody well despite having such shits for parents thus far) had a call from him, and nearly vomited when his father (sperm donor) informed him he was trying to impregnate a girl the same age as most of Kieran's friends - 18.

Kie put the phone down...thought about it...asked me and slimtallgoth's opinion...and promptly rang him back, and left the following message - you're a f*cking paedophile and if you ever come near me I'm going to rip a door off it's hinges, ram that down your throat and shove the knob up your ar$e!

I don't think Beth could have put it better herself.
( curvylittlegoth heard the voices in your head on, Tue 26 Feb 2008, 0:18, 18 replies)

Not entirely Karma but very close
My best mate at school was a young man who has gone on to be a successful Premier League Footballer. Currently at Manchester City but previously of the mighty Aston Villa.

Anyway shortly after he established himself as a regular first team player at Villa we went out for a few drinks in Birmingham. While stood at the bar we were approached by a local gent who proceeded to berate him for his latest performance which even my mate accepted was crap. The tone of the conversation changed somewhat when this chap started complaining that the only reason he was picked was

"'cos he was a n*****".

The chap then went on to say how brilliant his son was and how he could do everything that my mate could do but he didn't get into the Villa setup cos he wasn't a n*****.

This continued for a few minutes and my normally placid buddy was getting mighty irate, with all of this my son can do that you can't crap, and all the racist bullshit that was now being aimed at him he cracked and responded with a retort that still makes me smile.

He took his wallet out of his pocket took about a £100 quid out of it and promptly set it alight with another mates lighter.

"Bet he cant do that though can he, you redneck cunt".

Hearing my god fearing mother loving chap come out with such a response left the whole of our group somewhat shocked. Not as shocked as the redneck was though.

Racist twat.

Length ? about 6 years ago.
(kickstandrich last had sex with your mum/sister/wife/daughter on, Thu 21 Feb 2008, 19:18, 9 replies)

Looking after a friends pet is too much of a risk
This isn't my story but I feel it needs to be shared. A mate told me of his friend's dog-sitting experience...

A family friend had asked her to look after the family pet Labrador whilst they were on holiday for a few weeks. Seeing no particular problem with this she agreed and it was arranged that she would go to their house every day to feed and walk the dog.

Everything was going smoothly until a week or so in to the dog-sitting when she was alarmed to find it had died overnight. Unwilling to bring the bad news to the family over the phone and ruin their holiday, she decided the best course of action would be to take the doggy-corpse back to her flat and hold it there until the family came home, so she loaded it up in to a suitcase and headed for the tube.

When she arrived at her stop, she found the escalator to be out of action meaning she would have to drag the Labrador suitcase up the stairs. Already feeling quite uncomfortable with the whole situation, she tried her best to carry it, declining several offers of assistance. After a while she admitted defeat and asked for help from the nearest passer by.

As they were walking up the stairs the man began to ask what she was carrying that could be so heavy. Thinking on her feet she blurted out that the suitcase contained her boyfriends DJ equipment and she was carrying it across town for a gig he had that night. At this point the not so friendly passer-by seizes the opportunity and makes off with what he thinks to be several thousand pounds worth of musical equipment. Really it was just 80lbs worth of dog.
(Daveypants laffo, Thu 21 Feb 2008, 18:19, 6 replies)

It was a beautiful beautiful moment
Some years ago I was out of work for a while. Most of the people at the DSS were OK, punctuated by the odd cunt.

On one occasion and only one occasion I missed my signing on time, and popped in the net day, apologising for not being able to make it the previous day

Cunt: What's you excuse?

Me: Excuse!? I can tell you the reason if you like?

Cunt: Go on then.

Me: My 18 month old daughter was throwing up, I could have come in, but there would be sick everywhere.

Cunt: But you have to be available for work or interview.

Me: I am. If I had an interview I'd have arranged child care, but this was jut signing on.

Cunt: But you have to be available for work....

The cunt was in robot mode, and told me the next time my child was ill they'd stop my payments. Nice.

Anyway a few month later I'm an IT Support Manager and all is right with the world. 2 years later I'm interviewing for 4-5 new help desk people..you know what's coming.

In walks the cunt. I couldn't believe it. I actually had to make my excuses and leave the room for 5 minutes to calm down, and THANK THE LORD.

No doubt some others on here would have wreaked long winded and complicated revenge. I just explained to cunt that I was someone who'd been on the receiving end of her 'customer service skills' at the DSS and there wouldn't be a place for here. She demanded to know the details, but I told her 'I'm not going to waste my time on this' and ended the interview. All with a fucking huge grin on my face mind.

So there you have it. For those couple of minutes my universe was wonderful ordered place run by a benevolent divine power.
( Ring Of Fire A petty, drooling belming butthurt retard., Sat 23 Feb 2008, 10:18, 6 replies)

bullying chicken
My family used to keep chickens, and there was one rooster who was a terrible bully, always pecking the others and harassing them. But karma got him in the end. The other chickens staged a coop.
(apeloverage committed the vile act of onanism on, Thu 21 Feb 2008, 23:19, 5 replies)

I think I have finally come around
I got married early and had a reasonable job (working with Doctor When) with reasonable money, our own place (rented) and a rock club at the end of the road (XLs in Edgbaston). Every few months we'd get a performance related bonus of a few hundred quid (back mid-90s it was good money) every four months and life was sweet.

Then my ex fell out with her boss and the income dropped. She couldn't find another job and as we were just above the benefit line, we got no help. I changed jobs for a percieved improvement in pay but lost the job as it was a contract and they didn't need to give me any notice.

The only job I could find was at my dad's engineering firm so ended up working 12-hour shifts from 6pm till 6am, back breaking work although it did improve my upper body strength...

Then her mum became ill with Motor Neurone disease (like what Stephen Hawking has) and we moved down to Cornwall to look after her. She died very quickly and as it was where she grew up, my wife of the time didn't want to move back up to Birmingham.

I couldn't get a job anywhere- all the electronics industry was miles away and I had no car to get there. To get a job in the deep SW at the time you needed to be in the tourism industry or self-employed tradesman. We were stuck both living with her parents. Eventually the only place I could get a job was at Flambards' theme park for the summer season, and for a pittance.

The people were mainly pleasant but I was cooking in the SW sun all day and my eyes felt like they were hot gritty marbles because we weren't allowed to wear sunglasses. Eventually a company relocated to the town and I got a job in electronics again, assembling equipment. Not great, but I learned stuff and the people there were generally nice, including my best mate down in Cornwall who I still keep in contact with 11 years later.

However we were under threat of eviction from my wife's dad who, at the time, turned nasty after his wife had died and was making a grab for all the money she saved while he spent all of his. My daughter was born at this time and he was persuaded by the wife's older brother to let us stay while paying rent but he got us out eventually, sold her childhood home and pocketed the cash after burning his wife's will which left the house to my wife.

We rented a place in town but the wife was sufferring from all the stress and developed two auto-immune diseases triggered by the hassle. She was in hospital and almost died.

Eventually we managed to get a place of our own on an affordable mortgage for part-own through a housing association and wrote her dad out of our lives. But all the stress and pain caused my ex to lash out on the only person she felt would put up with it- me. I for my part had become sullen and withdrawn and unresponsive which made her madder. I played my part in the downward spiral of destruction. Hands up.

By the time my daughter was four I'd been through years of hostility, anger and frustration and our relationship was torpedoed. I moved out and lived in a pitiful bedsit earning toss-all money and having to live on beans and sausages on toast- 1 meal cost about 30p - to pay for rent and the mortgage on my daughters' place.

I had to get a better job to be able to afford my divorce and the only option was contracting up in Cheshire- but it was 350 miles away from my daughter. For three weeks out of four I'd try to come down to Cornwall with a car given to me by my dad (a huge Volvo estate) and do the 700-mile round trip to see her. I was exhausted permanently but gaining experience and had some peace during the week. Me and my wife got divorced amid the usual acrimony but because I was coming to see my daughter every fortnight she let me (and still does) crash on the sofabed so we learned to mainly get on, if very uncomfortably, with the occasional fall-out.

Then that contract came to an end and I was out of work for three months, during which timke the lease terms on my new car meant I owed £1000 and they reposessed it, screwing over my credit record for years to come.

I had to move back in with my folks, and anyone who has moved abck in with their parents will know it's hardly ideal and causes friction. I was driving 90 miles a day, 5 days a week to get to work and celebrated my 30th birthday with no money at all. Miserable.

The new job was closer than Cheshire so my trips to see my daughter became bi-weekly plus holiday time in the summer, easter and christmas. I was on a lower wage but respectable- I cruised for a few years doing this while the company that employed me contracted me out to a car maker in the West Midlands for more and more each year based on my growing exp[erience and skills but passed on very little of their increase. I started getting depressed and took days off for being ill- this came and went on-and-off for years.

The turning point came when I moved in with friends from work- we had a shared house and the social suport of having friends to come home to after work instead of a silent house and the cheap cider. I cheered right up, even with the occasional relapse.

I then tried to leave my company and go to work for the bigger client direct but I was backstabbed and prevented and found myself in a hellhole role which plunged me back into despair.

After a year I started looking in earnest for another job and found one working out in Peterborough- a 140 mile round trip but in a calm, clean, decent position, but boring- I had been so hyped up for difficult work I found this well-paid sedentary work difficult to adapt to- then I got a call from a manager I used to work for briefly a few years before- he had a role to fill and would I like to come and talk to him about it?

I went to see that fellow and came away determined to go there. After giving a months' notice I went. I had to drop a couple of pounds an hour pay but the job was the best....

Now my ex is calmer, happier and my daughter is 11 and relatively well adjusted, all things considered. I still come down every fortnight but now I often get to borrow a car from the work development fleet of prototypes (for which they pay for the fuel) and I'm getting paid enough to be able to treat my daughter and even my ex occasionally. I'm happy in my job and am privelidged to be able to drive the cars. Karma has paid me back in spades.

(Oh, I now work at Aston Martin BTW... nothing cheers up a bod than a weekend with a DB9 or a Vantage, unlimited petrol and 700 miles of driving a posh car)

/apologies for length
( Rotating Wobbly Hat That's not a banana. THIS is a banana., Thu 21 Feb 2008, 19:31, 8 replies)

Have a look on Friends Reunited
And that'll disabuse you of any delusions that karma could exist. For example:

1) Nobby Smith - the school bully who kicked you in the knackers and stole your sandwiches almost every day. He failed all of his GCSEs and got arrested for GBH. Now he's happily married with kids and has his own carpentry business earning more than you.

2) Vincent Bodkin - brainy kid whose parents were both university professors. He was bullied mercilessly for years on account of his large head and thick specs and went on to get five As at a level. Now he's dead - cancer of the colon aged 31.

3) 'Chip-pan' Katy - daughter of unemployed scumbags, she was a slag who'd toss off anyone for a Curly Wurly and who got pregnant aged 14 by a man she met outside a pub. Expelled for sniffing glue. Now she's a lottery winner living in Mauritius.

4) Bruce Legover - handsome but utterly ignorant football player with the charm and presence of a fart. Treated girls like shite and bullied boys who didn't line up to be on the team. Now playing for Man United on £100, 000 a week.

Fuck karma.
(frankspencer, Thu 21 Feb 2008, 15:03, 9 replies)

I HAVE A WINNER !!!!!!!!!
Prince set for 'secret hip replacement'

The Age Melbourne - February 26, 2008 - 10:17AM

Fingers crossed... pop star Prince reportedly requires hip replacement surgery.
Pop singer Prince - who released his first album in 1978 - is being forced to undergo the surgery at just 49-years-old after suffering excruciating pain as a result of years of blistering performances.

A source told Britain's News of the World newspaper: "For months Prince, who always puts on the most energetic shows, has been complaining of pain every time he moves.

"He is totally crushed because he knows he will never be the same again."

The surgery will involve removing the ball and socket of Prince's damaged hip and replacing it with a titanium joint.

What with all the fuss about the Purple Pain a few weeks ago, I thought B3ta should be the first to know . . .

I shouldn't giggle, but man - *that's* karma . . .
( Mrs Legless . . . belongs to, well, you know . . . :), Tue 26 Feb 2008, 8:01, 5 replies)

Instant Karma, just add idiot
This only happened last weekend, I went down to MotorWorld with my brother as he was looking to buy a car stereo with all the bells and whistles.

He found one, that had bluetooth on it and in his infinite wisdom decided to scrap CD's and continue playing his awful R 'n' B from his phone, through his huge boom box via bluetooth.

Now, the thing with my brother is he is a bit* of a slag, i mean he usually has 3-4 girls in his company, and he'll sleep with one until she gets boring and then move on to the next and then repeat the whole process and the poor naive young girls have no idea what hes up to!

well one of the cooler features of his stereo is the option to put a call through your speakers via bluetooth and my brother was giving one of his girls a 125 point inspection when his phone rings and is automatically put through to the stereo! (your supposed to accept the call but somehow it happened automatically, i suspect this was karma playing its part)

and who is on the other end? one of the other girlfriends, and when his current girlfriend heres the call coming through the sub she starts yelling and demanding who it is etc..etc, but of course the girl who had phoned him can now hear this girl who is in the car and she starts yelling and demanding and then she hangs up and the girl in the car gets out...without her knickers she had left them in the passenger footwell and stormed out,

unfazed my brother puts said knickers in the glove compartment of the car and drives around to another of his girlfriends houses to sate his sexual frustration. She gets in the car and asks if she can put a CD on he agrees and she opens the glove compartment to get a CD.....

you couldn't make this kind of crap up.

*Bit, is a little bit of an understatement on a par with saying Hitler was a bit disturbed
(The Reverend annoying the regulars since, Fri 22 Feb 2008, 12:45, Reply)

Icy Goodness
One cold and snowy day, I was amongst a bunch of commuters walking out of Marylebone Station in London - the forecourt was covered with a sheet of ice and it was extremely tricky to find a way across. Subsequently, we were all picking our way very slowly and probably looking like a selection of mongs.

Some twunt in a pin-striped suit (there's a lot of 'em here) was obviously pissed off with our tremulous progress and pushed past, shouting, "Excuse me!" and tutting loudly.

Rather predictably (although not to him, obviously) his doom was close at hand. The ice and his speed combined to make him slip in the best way I have ever seen anyone do it - both legs raised high up in the air, where he seemed to hang for a delicious amount of time, before smacking down very heavily onto his arse.

I am proud of my fellow commuters - they joined me in pointing at him and laughing in a loud and prolonged manner (no mean feat when also trying to maintain one's balance).

Watching him slip over again when trying to stand up served only to increase our joy.
( thealternativefact, Thu 21 Feb 2008, 17:16, 1 reply)

Karma's a bitch
I've been lurking for years now, and only recently realised that I've had story for nearly every QOTW so far. So I'm finally IN.

So I left the girlfriend's place early one morning after getting in late and it'd been raining. As I stepped over the gutter I noticed a worm wriggling about in the stream.
Feeling sorry, I lifted it out with a key and carefully put it down on the grass footpath.
As I look up I see a glowing AUD$50 note on the road. I run over and claim my Karmic prize. As I cross the road to my car, I see another worm in the opposite gutter. "What the hell" I think, and lift him to his muddy salvation with his mate. As I turned to go back to the car, something caught my eye. Another $50 note on the road. "Score" thought I, doing a short dance. "This could turn into a very profitable enterprise." I spend the next 10 minutes scouring the gutters for more stray annelids, notes in hand but alas none are found. "Oh well, maybe I've done my Karmic duty for the day and received due reward, fair 'nuff" I think as I open my wallet to store said currency until it can be spent on boiled sweets and soda pop. As I stood there, in the rain, trying to figure out where the two $50 notes I had withdrawn the night before had gone, I'd swear I could hear some kind of ghostly laughing...
(Edktstsss, Tue 26 Feb 2008, 13:48, 4 replies)

Karma is the best teacher
The house that I grew up in backed onto an old stately home which was owned by the council. During the time we lived at that house the stately home went through many various uses. At one time it was a hospice, then an old people’s home and then, for about three years, was a day centre for the handicapped. I was about 10 at this time – my brother was about 18.

Everyday the kids and adults would arrive in their yellow bus and spend the day playing games and learning life skills with their friends. During the summer I would often jump over my fence and play football with the more able bodied. Once in the winter we had a massive snow fight. I became friendly with a lot of them (and still am) and was allowed to join in the games and help the care workers. They may have had a tough break in life but they were lovely people with the biggest hearts I have ever known.

My brother on the other hand was a complete cunt to them.

At every possible occasion he would gleefully shout out spastics, window lickers etc. He would spend his days finding new and inventive ways to upset them for his own enjoyment. It started off with verbal abuse but it finished quite seriously. Once – around Guy Fawkes – he through a load of bangers over the fence as they were getting into their bus. The resulting bangs scared the crap out of them and they all run in different directions, some screaming and crying, and hid. It took the poor workers hours to get them all calm and on the bus.
My brother was quite obsessed with paintball. As there were no organized events at the time you had to buy your own gun and meet in some random field. He saved his money and brought the top of the range gun. The thing was he wasn’t the best shot. So he decided that the best way to practice was to sniper the disabled from his bedroom window as they got off the bus.
The police were called and he got a dressing down from my parents. For some reason in his twisted logic he decided that this was the “spastics” fault and he would get revenge.

It was announced that the centre would be closed as the council wanted to build flats on the site and they had a large party one day so they could all say goodbye to each other. My brother ruined the party. He spent the day chucking water bombs over the fence – playing Led Zepplin so loud that they couldn’t hear there party songs – shouting abuse – spraying the hose over the fence and generally being a cunt in the highest order.
His reasoning to all this was “I fucking hate mongs”.


So where is the Karma…..

Well my brother had his first child last year. And guess what!!!
( KISS.ME.WHERE.I.POO Signed the sex offenders register on, Fri 22 Feb 2008, 19:54, 7 replies)

Always help the disabled!
When I was in grad school there was one professor in my department that was a real bitch. The undergrads were generally terrified of her and the grad students for the most part never put her on their committees for her outright abusiveness.
So one semester she had a student in a wheel chair that had a rare type of dwarfism that we had to by law accommodate. The girl in the wheel chair was well liked by all the grad student teachers, she was a hard worker, and we figured out ways for her to get work done. This was art school and the grad TA's had her participating in complex tasks like bronze casting, welding, ceramics, etc. The girl ended up in the bitch teachers printmaking class one semester doing wood block prints. The professor immediately kicked the student out of class on the grounds that the girl couldn't do the work. It was woodblock... the simplest form of printmaking! Us grad students were appalled and even after we figured out how the girl could print the professor wouldn't budge. (More background, the professor got her job by sleeping with the dept chair and then sued for tenure and won years before.) So naturally a lawsuit starts up after it was clear accommodations could be made. The bitch professor had tenure and was bullet proof and a settlement was taken out of my departments funds... wiping out all the money for supplies and operations, as well as the money us grad TA's were given to work and offset our tuition. The bitch professor blew the whole thing off, felt no remorse and talked about it in a joking and flippant manner to us. The grads were seething with rage... our funding was pulled and the professor was punished in no way.

The karma part?
Two weeks ago she was out riding a horse, was bucked off and snapped her neck when she hit the ground. She is paralyzed from the neck down and will be wheel chair bound for the rest of her life most likely.

That professor was a huge bitch... but Karma is even bitchier!
(TribeDoktor, Fri 22 Feb 2008, 21:43, 3 replies)

The Parasitic Karma Mobile
You'll need a bit of background for this story, and then a bit more, so bear with me a tic.

I have a few phobias. Mostly, they don't interfere with my life, unlike people who spend their existence cowering from spiders nonchalantly weaving webs and digesting flies. I fear geese (they're bloody evil, and they chase you) and wasps (they're bloody evil, and they chase you), and I fear parasites.

My sister once bought home hair lice from Brownie camp, and I wore a swimming hat and screamed at her if she came near me. I even adapted a stick to become the Sister Prodding Stick if she came too close.

Skip forward many years to when I was at university, in an appalling house with appalling people. One morning, I was up early, doing my coursework, and I casually scratched my scalp, as you do, and came back with a fingernail bulging with life.

I had lice.

If you want to understand just how upset I was, try to picture a grown woman, in her pyjamas, crying and trying to run away from her own head.

After I calmed down enough to form sentences, I practically ran to the pharmacists, and demanded poisons. NOW. The pharmacist asked me a few questions, which I answered in a frenzy. One of them was "do you have asthma?". When I answered yes, she sighed and shook her head. "I'm afraid I can't sell you the ten minute lotion then. You'll have to use the 12 hour one." I tried to convince her that I'd made a mistake, and I didn't have asthma at all (to hell with breathing when your head is holding a population equal to Chinas), but she was having none of it.

And so followed the longest twelve hours of my life, coated in poison, wearing a plastic tesco bag with it's handles over my ears to catch the cascade of dying parasites. I bought enough to treat all my housemates too, as I was mortified at bringing such a plague into our home.

Or I was, until my housemate's boyfriend muttered the famous line "Oh, well you can't have caught them off Carol, because she had them last week."

Such stunning logic floored me, and then enraged me as I realised she'd been infested and neglected to tell any of us.

I waited for her in the lounge, drenched in poison, wearing a tesco bag over my ears, full of a deep and terrible rage.

She came home, and I launched into an epic rant. She apologised, and I relented. Slightly. However, my final words were these:

"I can just about cope with you giving me hair lice. Just. But if you ever bring home scabies, I will fucking kill you where you stand. Do you understand me? I WILL KILL YOU WHERE YOU STAND."

Skip forward a week. A traumatic week of finding the bath coated with dead lice, burning my hairbrushes, and constantly searching my head to prove the plague had gone. I come home, and Carol is waiting for me in the hallway.

"Smell my skin." She says. It's not the most enticing offer, and I declined.

"Smell it." She insisted. I sighed, and gave her a tentative sniff. She smelt exceptionally toxic.

"I went to the doctors. I've got scabies. They've given me a lotion for us all to use."

For those of you that have never had scabies, the treatment for getting rid of colonies of repulsive creatures burrowing, shitting, screwing and making babies under your skin is to paint yourself from earlobes to ankles in toxic lotion, and then wait for 24 hours. There is no indignity quite like having to get someone to paint your arse with poison while you cry.

It was the worst twenty hour hours I've ever endured. I wept, I retched, I threw away all my bedding, and I had to tell my boyfriend that there was a very good chance tiny creatures were pooing in his skin.

So where's the karma?

Skip forward another week, and Carol has been back to the doctors for the results of her skin swab. The kicker?

She didn't have scabies at all. The stress of me threatening to "FUCKING KILL HER WHERE SHE STANDS" had bought her out in a psychosomatic rash, which had been diagnosed as scabies.

Oh how we laughed :(

There you go. Parasitic karma in action.
(Smaldini www.fuggler.com, Fri 22 Feb 2008, 12:29, 6 replies)

on my way to work
on the bus one morning when i were a little younger. the bus was a massive, slow and very old double decker,

coming into norwich on the ipswich road there is a section where 2 lanes merge into one and shortly after this there is a traffic island in the middle of the road, passing a car in the right hand lane at the last minute is dangerous as if u dont get into the lane in front of the car in time you would bounce off the island

one morning a lady in an old vw polo who was obviously late for something thought she would try it with a bus, rather priditably didn't make it and she ended up screeching to a halt in front of the traffic island and she sat there holding her horn down for a good 10 seconds as the bus truddled past.

Now mr bus driver (for that was his name) had done nothing wrong, he neither speeded up or slowed down and he had no need to slow down to give way to her as she was no where near the front of the bus when the lanes merged, in fact she was just about level with the back of the bus, any police officer or driving instructor would tell u to pull back and merge in behind the bus

I (and the rest of the passengers) assumed that was the end of it but oh no..... about half a mile up the road the bus pulls into a layby/bus stop to let people off and the woman comes roaring up and parks in front of the bus. Now no accident had occured so the bus driver had no reason at all to stop however when he then went to pull back out into traffic the woman decided to create an accident and reversed her car into the front of the bus, there followed much raising of voices between the drivers and someone on the bus called the police out,

the first good bit came when both drivers came back on the bus faced the passengers and the lady demanded "I need someones details as a witness" at least 3 people told her where she could stick her pen and paper, then the driver pipped up "i could use a witness" and the woman stared on as we all formed an orderly queue, when my turn came i noticed that some had written their details and some comments aswell

the second good part came as the police turned up i enjoyed telling the officer exactly how it happened and how it wasn't the bus drivers fault and even recited parts of the highway code all while the woman stood next to him turning redder and redder, i then sat down and watched the woman turn whiter and whiter as the officer simply told her that on the basis of initial evidence and witness statments he would be arresting her on dangerous and wreckless driving, endangering the public, breach of the public peace, criminal damage and some others...

i saw the driver some months later in a shop and asked about it..... all but 2 of the witnesses had replyed to the police questionare with almost identical information... the result ? she got 6 points and £400 fine and had a job where she was supposed to have a clean licence.... nice
(maxumus HEY!.... diddly dee, de de de de de de, Thu 21 Feb 2008, 18:58, 2 replies)

Redressing the Balance
I'm a firm beliver in Karma. So much so that when bad or unfair things happen to me for no reason, I go out and kick a child in the face, just to balance things out.





What?
(FerretTrout be illin', Tue 26 Feb 2008, 21:35, 5 replies)

This may get me in trouble . . .
Bugger it - it's still an apt story for this QOTW.

Mr Legless, as you all have previously read, was married once to a fat gold-digger with a penchant for infidelity (and I'm being diplamatic here).

She took everything in the divorce (funnily enough it was her screwing around that caused it), and made merry while my Legless had a miserable number of years post this.

Where's the karma you ask ??

Well, Joe's now here in Australia with me - we're happy (even if we both work more than the average bear), looking at buying a nice house to live in (given we already have an investment property), and planning a wedding later this year (whenever I can be arsed thinking about flowers, receptions and the long list of people my Mum will want there).

And what of the pig? I believe she's still in the village, still fat, still snotty, and still alone. So (here is where the trouble might be), here is my message to you, you waste of DNA:

Thank you.
Despite treating my Joe like the local bank, and making his life a misery, he still has someone who will happily walk to the end of the earth for him, who cherishes him, looks after and is looked after by him. You didn't break him, though by God you had a good shot at it. You won't be here when we start a family of little ones, or as we watch them grow into good people. You won't know what having a good circle of friends and family feels like. You have no idea what a stable home life built on trust and partnership feels like. There's only so much satisfaction to be gained from nights at the pub with your "gal pals" or from work (I believe you actually had to go and find a job now that your ill-gotten gains have run out - welcome to the real world).

Hurts, does it? Good - it might make up just a little for what you did to Joe.

When you're old(er), your daughter has left home, and you ponder what could have been in your life . . . remember you had a good man who you treated like dirt - and pray your little girl *doesn't* follow your appalling example and end up just as alone.
I don't need to curse you for what you did to Joe - you managed very well to induce divine retribution for the sorry human being you are.

So again, I thank you for being too self-centred, too weak and too stupid to know a good man when you see one.



Mrs Legless
(the *real* one who actually deserves the name)
( Mrs Legless . . . belongs to, well, you know . . . :), Sun 24 Feb 2008, 0:36, 11 replies)

Teenage Pert Lovelies
When I was a mere stripling in the late 80s, I was a typical male teenager, in that if it was remotely female, had a pulse or was at least still warm, I'd be after it. The phrase 'rat up a drainpipe' applied.

I was a hormone-addled wretch, letching over any unfortunate female unlucky enough to come within a 30 meter radius. And this was the days before reliable access to decent porn, and waaaay before t'internet (yes kids there was such a time).

Skip forward to university, and I was still a keen student of the beauties of the female form. Although I never strayed if I was in some form of relationship (and believe me'some form of' describes most of them) unlike one particular lady who fucked with my head good and proper for three years, I would still have a look.

Skip forward to literally the very end of University, and I met the future Mrs Osok. Despite her talons being firmly wrapped around my scarred and ossified heart, I was away for the summer, letching away. Once her term had resumed, I was an occasional visitor to an all female Hall, with obligatory perving.

For the next 5 (yes bloody five, I'd have got less time if I'd shot her)years we were weekend lurrrvers as she studied, post-gradded and entered work. I 'enjoyed' a succession of crap jobs and watched any vestige of a career gurgle noisily down the plughole. Still perving, natch, but that doesn't make me a bad person as we were 250 miles apart.

Eventually I agree to move from the other end of the country, and we get hitched. By this time t'internet had arrived, and the occasional viewing of 'artistic' sites was pretty much a given.

Sooo, we get to a point where as a 'completely stable' idiot cunningly disguised as a responsible adult, I still play 'Rate the Arse' while going around Sainsburys (less than ten points per visit and it's a bad day).

What's that? Oh, Karma.


The thing is,


I've got a baby daughter.

A beautiful, beautiful baby daughter.

With HUGE blue eyes.

Who is already an accomplished flirt with any bloke she claps eyes on. Even the window cleaner agrees.

I've got to spend the next couple of decades on the alert for all those filthy bastards out there who will want to do to my daughter exactly what I spent so much time and effort attempting to do to someone else's.

Bugger.


Bugger, Bugger, Bugger, Bugger.

I've been practicing 'Scary Dad' routines already (she's 15 months old, get a grip you shout) but am becoming a gibbering wreck at the prospect.

Anyone know of a good nunnery, preferably with very big guard dogs or at least extremely hirsute nuns?
(osok Rebel without a clue, Fri 22 Feb 2008, 13:42, 19 replies)

The joys of childhood - sorry about length
So I had this particularly horrible teacher when I was about 8, one of those ones who was around for corporal punishment and was none-too-happy about the change. So she always had the attitude that the little buggers in her class were all conspiring to fake sickness to get off doing adding and subtracting so each time a child would present with a complaint the following would occur:

10am
Pupil: Miss, I don't feel well.
Teacher: Well, we'll just wait til morning break and see how you are.
Morning break
Pupil: Miss, I really don't feel well.
Teacher: We'll just leave it til lunch and see how you are.
Lunch
Pupil: Sorry miss, but I think I'm sick
Teacher: Ah well, it's nearly hometime now anyway, sure you're fine.

And we would spend the afternoon feeling like general crap while she gave out to us for being distracted from the five times tables by our pain.
So one day I'm feeling like absolute crap, stomach is doing ninety on Space Mountain with some kind of extra dimension thrown in. So we did the usual deal until just before lunch, when the following happened:

Me: Miss, I'm really bad, my tummy feels sick.
Teacher: Well, like I said we'll wait til lunch now sit down.
Me: But miss, I think I need to go home.
Teacher (beginning to shout right in my tiny green-tinged face): I told you to sit down! Now do as I say or you'll stand in the corner!

Now I was a timid little child and didn't usually answer back but as I was feeling so awful that I said I'd take one last crack at it.
Me: But miss-
Teacher: That's it, you go to the corner!!!
Me: Projectile vomit noises

Yes, that's right, I spewed up my breakfast (semi-digested cornflakes and toast) and my morning snack (ham sandwich and apple juice) all over her desk, the blackboard, a few of the desks up the front of the class room and most importantly on her hideous, self-righteous, wart ridden face.

My class mates and I got to sit at the back of the classroom and watch her clean it all up.
The beauty of it was that I got sick because I'd eaten too much for breakfast so that meant that not only was there a lot more vomit than there would have been but also I felt grand after I'd thrown up and so was able to fully enjoy my accomplishment.

Length: About eight rolls of toilet paper and a full bottle of Jif.
(WhitieMcPaleface, Sun 24 Feb 2008, 1:07, 3 replies)

Cars and idiots
Back when he was studying medicine, my friend Dr Woods used to punt around Colchester and Ipswich in a little brown Mini.

One evening an Escort looms large in his mirror, stereo so loud that Woody can hear the bass tube booming away over the Mini's own sound system. Said Escort was three feet from the Mini's bootlid and the driver was intent on bullying Woody for fun.

Woody doesn't bother with brake testing or direct confrontation. Oh no, his idea was much more subtle.

He slows almost imperceptibly to 0.5mph below the indicated limit. This enrages the knuckle dragger in the Escort who edges close, flashing his lights and waving his fist.

Lining up for his target of a stationary and very expensive black BMW saloon, Woody wrenches the streering wheel hard to the right, in a manner akin to Ayrton Senna taking the chicane at Monaco, threading around the BMW in one swiftly executed manoeuvre. Mr Escort, possessing neither time to swerve or the Mini's natural "flick of a wrist" agility ploughed into the back of the Bee Emm.

Woody indicates and pulls over (he's a medical professional after all). The shellshocked chimpanzee in the stoved in Escort is looking bewildered, but is unfortunately going to live.

But not for much longer it seems, for the front door nearest the wrecked BMW opens and two, large and extremely annoyed gentlemen are seen to exit. Woody decides that he's seen enough so he rolls down his window to give a cheery wave and departs in the general direction of away, as the two large gentlemen extract the dazed simian from the steaming Escort by means of his lapels.
(Bicycle Repairman "you're also a bit of a wanker", Fri 22 Feb 2008, 16:42, 2 replies)

I was driving home from work one day years ago
on the motorway.

I was happily going along at 70, when the car in front was going 60. No problem, I pulled around to overtake, and the guy speeded up, so i got in behind him again.

He slowed down.

I went to overtake, and he sped up.

He played this stupid game 3 or 4 times, much to the obvious delight of his 3 passengers.

I was driving a clapped out old metro at the time with a top speed of 80 on a good day, and so even if I wanted to go stupid-fast to overtake him I couldn't (not that i generally condone excessive speed).

Roadworks were just up ahead. Driving the road every day, I knew EXACTLY where the speed cameras were.

"Right", i thought, "i'll get you you bugger".

I pulled out and planted my foot down, and he kept up same as the last few times. Then, at the last possible moment, i slammed on my brakes and went through the speed camera at exactly 50mph. He flew through at about 80 and got flashed.

He was, from then on, mr. 45, and i cruised past him at a leisurely 50. I gave him a smile and a wave as i did so and felt great for about a week afterwards.
( Lumpbucket tekcubpmuL, Fri 22 Feb 2008, 15:07, 2 replies)

Never mix drunken divers and coffee
I know this was posted not that long ago, during the 'Evil Pranks' QOTW, but I kind of think it fits the bill... A tale from my diving club. One that has passed into the an(n)als of legend.

***********************************************

Years ago some of the club went on a week's diving holiday in Scotland and stayed in a caravan park.

One of the lads (we'll call him Davey) could be a bit obnoxious, and was always taking the piss, especially after a skinful. One evening, after a heavy post-dive debriefing, i.e. piss up, the lads had decamped back to their caravan. Davey, somehat the worse for wear, declined the 'one for the road' and slunk off to bed, pausing only to undress himself before slumping bollock naked into bed. The others were still up for a bit more drinking and were by now very, very drunk.

One of them decides that Davey needs to be taught a lesson, having been particularly offensive to everyone that night. In his drunken wisdom, he grabs the coffee jar and a teaspoon, stumbles to where Davey is by now comatose, and pulls back the duvet to reveal Davey's naked arse, which was quivering rythmically as he snored.

Opening the coffee jar, he kneels down next to the bed, dips the spoon in, and proceeds to ever-so-gently part Davey's buttocks. He then inserts several spoonfuls of coffee in Davey's sweaty arse crack. However, while he's doing this, another of the lads spots what he's doing and is less than impressed.

"What the fuck are you doing"? he asks, swaying unsteadily in the doorway. "give us that bloody spoon you idiot, coffee costs a fucking fortune". And with that he grabs the teaspoon, and proceeds to scoop the coffee granuals (by now a bit damp) out from Davey's arse cheeks and back into the jar.

At this point, everyone has been hit mightily by the effects of a day's diving and excess alcohol, and all stumble into their beds where they spark out instantly.

Can you see what's coming?

Next day, as they are all nursing stonking hangovers, Davey arises and apologises for being such an obnoxious cunt the night before. By way of amends, he offers to make everyone a cup of coffee. Having been totally pissed to the point of oblivion the night before, no one remembers what happened and accept his caffeine-tinged apology.

One by one they are all sitting enjoying their brew, when Davey exclaims, "I don't know what I ate last night, but my arsehole is absolutely burning this morning. Don't think I'll be diving today".

It was at this point that collective memories started coming back, and four divers, in pefect synchronicity, pushed their by now half empty coffee mugs away from them in horrified realisation...

Karma? You bet - dry roasted, full aroma karma. With sugar.
( Davros' Granddad a voice of calm reason in a world of spastics., Mon 25 Feb 2008, 12:43, 3 replies)

Payback
.
This has nothing to do with me. I was just there.

I was with a bloke from work in a pub in Reading having a few beers. I didn't know this bloke too well, he was just another techie and he seemed to be up for a laugh. I'd bought the first beer and Jim went to the bar to get the next round in but he seemed to be taking rather a long time. He eventually came back and he was pissed off.

"Thieving fucking pikey bastards" he spluttered. "I gave her a 20 for the beers and the bitch gave me change of a 10 and point blank refuses to give me the other tenner."


He was not a happy punter. So we drank our beers and decided to head for another pub.

"Back in a minute Legless" says Jim heading for the bog

Couple of minutes later Jim comes back.

"Come on, lets go" he said heading for the door

"Oh - darling" he yelled back at the barmaid "I've left your tip in the poolroom" And we exited the pub.

"Come on, run" says Jim

"Eh? Why?" I asked.

"'Cos I've just shit on their pool table" grins Jim

We ran.


Cheers
( Legless Mister Stabby - shanks for the memory, Fri 22 Feb 2008, 1:05, 8 replies)