When I was teeny
I could barely speak. I couldn't hear much and sort of grunted. My first few years were all speech therapy and determination. I didn't watch much TV because of this. My mum has recently told me a story when I managed to make her go BRIGHT red:

When I was about 5, there was a big thing going around when I was little, about 'the black man and woman'. These people weren't racist as such, they were just uninformed. Looking back, I think it was when the Somalians were coming over. I was really sheltered in those early years, and just assumed that they were white people in black clothes. I was shit-scared of goths, put it that way!

Anyway, I was walking with my mum to the shops, and a Pakistani woman walks past. I had my eye on her the minute she was in sight, and could only GAWK at her. The sort where my nose was wrinkled up, following her every move and eventually looking over my shoulder. I then said (very loudly, a weird compromise that some deaf people do) MAMMY, IS THAT A NIGGER?

When we turned the corner she nearly pissed herself laughing.
( Methylene Blue - electrohead, Mon 21 Apr 2008, 20:02, Reply)

Hulk
Before I was born my folks were struggling to choose me a name. My big bro suggested Hulk, damn my parents for not listening to him.
(Wilesyo, Mon 21 Apr 2008, 19:38, 3 replies)

I forget about accents...
I was a teacher's aid in a kindergarten one year. I'm from a desperately white area, but every now and again people from other lands arrive to feel out of place. In our class there was one boy from Japan. His English was fine and I barely would have known that it wasn't his first language except for the fact that his parents barely spoke anything but Japanese.

So.

The kids' assignment was to trace their hands, then stitch around them and make a gorgeous keepsake for their parents to feel too duty-bound to never throw away. And underneath the hands, the child's own quote about what they do with their hands (you think you know where this is going... you're wrong.)

I draw with my hands, I eat with my hands, I wave with my hands...

I got to little Shou and asked him what he does with his hands. He piped up, "I pray with my hands!"

Now, this is a conservative school in a very keep-your-faith-away-from-my-tax-dollars kind of way and I didn't want any reprecussions, so I gently helped him change his mind: "I don't think you need your hands to pray, just your head and heart." Aww.

But his pained little face showed he wasn't ready to leave it. "No!" he insisted, "I pray!" And he took his little hands and mimed sqeezing and patting. "I pray with cray!"

He plays with clay.
Bless his sweet little sushi soul.
( salamander, Mon 21 Apr 2008, 18:44, 1 reply)

When I was born, my mum thought I was the placenta. ):
She said, "Eurgh, what's that?" and had to be told that I was her baby.
I also had to be pulled out by the head with forceps, so I had a pointy head for a few hours. And I had no hair at all until I was two. I must have been such an ugly baby.
( Bob Todd whee, Mon 21 Apr 2008, 18:42, Reply)

old joke
A new baby has arrived, and the family is gathered around the crib, giving their first impressions:
Aunt: "Ooh, she looks like her father, she's got his eyes!"
Uncle: "No, look at those dimpled cheeks, just like her mother!"
Brother: "I think she looks just like her Granddad. No hair, and no teeth!"
( bnt what, me worry?, Mon 21 Apr 2008, 18:34, Reply)

A black friend of mine
told me that when he was at primary school, one of the other kids came up to him and asked...

"When you do a poo... Does it come out white...?"
( Bert Monkeysex is waiting for the mods to delete him, Mon 21 Apr 2008, 17:20, 2 replies)

My first joke
I heard this in Primary school, which is a miracle in itself on how I didn't get expelled repeating it there. I was 5 at the time, so sheer children's ignorance most probably paid a part, but I digress.

I'm happy and schools out. We all rush out, little nippers legging it in every direction. I leg it home and wait for dad. I've got a new joke for him.

"Dad, dad" shouts I as he gets in the front door.
"What is it young Jeccy?" says he.
"I got a joke for you daddy!" screams me, almost creaming with pre-guilty delight.
"Come into the living room before you have a heart attack" says dad, ands leads me into the main room. He sits down and says "Cmon then, lets hear it."

I take centre stage, take a deep breath (well deep as far as a 5 year old can manage) and begin.

"My friend Jonny has no hands. Poor Jonny.
Jonny has no nose. Poor Jonny.
Jonny has no lips. Poor Jonny.
Jonny has no feet. Poor Jonny.
But Jonny can sing. Sing for us Jonny, sing sing sing!
.
.
.
.
.
.
Mmmmnnnnnppphhhhuuurrrghhhmongmmmmmuuuuu!" which was accompanied with me walking around the living room flapping my arms and feet like a delinquent chicken.

Me dad literally still laughs at this joke a good 25 years later. Bless 'im :)
( Jeccius Steam Borderlands 2 junkie, Mon 21 Apr 2008, 17:18, 3 replies)

Disabled child
Not mine, but something my boyfriend told me a couple of years ago (and still makes me laugh today!) He was at home, and the phone rang, which his mother answered. The caller says "Hello, sorry to bother you, I'm from the local council," or something to that effect, "and I was wondering if I could interest you in some raffle tickets - it's for a disabled child." To which my boyfriend's mother instantly replied, "What would I want with a disabled child!?"
(paisleypiglet, Mon 21 Apr 2008, 16:53, Reply)

I spent a year in Sydney
being an au pair. I lived with my Dad's cousin (so my first cousin once removed I think, though feel free to correct me), who had recently spilt up with her husband, and spent a fantastic year looking after her two kids (aged 7 and 10 when I first arrived).

One of the best things I remember was a couple of weeks before Australian fathers day, my cousin came home and told me that her daughter (the seven year old) had been saying that as it was Fathers Day, she should get althegeordie a card. "But althegeordie isn't your daddy" replied my cousin. "oh I know" said the daughter "but he's like a daddy isn't he".

That really made me happy.



She didn't get me a card in the end though. Little shit.
(Bazongaloid, Mon 21 Apr 2008, 16:53, 8 replies)

My sisters
Three of them. Sort of like the three witches from Macbeth, only with less humility, milk of human kindness and pacificism. They, when younger, tended to operate like a wolf pack. Ever seen a nature documentary of wolves bringing down prey much larger than themselves? Thats how my sisters operated.

I once had a friend round, staying overnight as we'd been out to a club. In the morning poor Joe* is a little hungover. He sat, bathed in the early morning light, groggily sipping a cup of tea. Several feet away, peeking around the corner of the door is the Pack, then aged 8, 10 and 12.

Joe* never knew what hit him. Two of them used a skipping rope to pinion his arms to the chair, whilst the other put a dish cloth in his mouth to stop him from shouting (I was upstairs at the time).

At this point Joe is probably thinking what the hell is going on. Number 2 sister then breaks out the make up box, and all three of them proceed to paint his face in a weird variety of lipstick, eyeshadow, and rouge. Then they 'style' his hair, put perfume on him, and to top the whole thing off get a spangly blue dress from the dressing up box and squash him into it. Then they bugger off, leaving the poor sod there, painted like a transvestite madonna, dressed like a cheap tart, and still tied to the chair.

My dad found him 10 minutes later, and immediately grabbed a camera and took several photos. It was only when my mother and I came downstairs that he was untied. He never stayed at mine again.

They also fight viciously amongst themselves. The youngest has put the middle one in hospital several times - once fracturing two fingers by slamming a door on her hand when we were on holiday in Wales. The youngest also concussed me with an oar (she was 5 at the time) and then managed to gash my arm with the oar as I staggered around dazed. That was 12 years ago and I still have the scar. They had full on punching fights and one was put in hospital overnight by the other at the age of 6 after being headbutted.

When my mother was pregnant with the youngest she was very tired a lot of the time, and lay down to rest on a sofa. She fell asleep & No. 1 sister (5 at the time) coloured her eyelids in with a green felt tip. The same sister also drew a large picture on the back of my dads shirt as he was having breakfast. He thought that she was tickling him, but when he got to work and took his jacket off, his secretary pointed out he had a large drawing of a cat on his back.

As for me, well when I was younger (2-4) I was obsessed with running around in the garden. Apparently anything that looked green was ripped up, to try and help with the gardening, and I would bring worms as a present for my mother. In addition I loved cadburys minieggs. One day when I was 3 or so my mother heard me crying from the garden and found me with a half eaten birds egg that had fallen out of a nest. Apparently I had thought it was a chocolate egg.

No. 1 sister once greased herself up with a huge tub of E45 cream and ran naked around the house. It took my parents an hour to catch her because she was like the Greased Up Deaf Guy from Family Guy.

Another speciality of mine was falling in ponds. Anyone know Rowntree Park in York? When I was 2 or 3 we went there during the winter. My dad had just bought his first new car. I managed to fall through the ice and get covered in the sludge at the bottom of the lake. The Old Man was not pleased on the 5 mile drive home. Six months later I did exactly the same thing (minus the ice of course).

I think the defining moment for my parents was when I decided to help with the washing. We all used the old fashioned towel nappies - the kind that you'd clean and reuse. Obviously the baby gunk was shaken into the toilet, and then the nappy was disinfected and washed. I decided to help mum as No. 1 sister had just been born. I took an entire draw of clean nappies, stuffed them into the toilet and flushed repeatedly. The bathroom carpet had to be thrown out after that. In my defence I was only 4.

Sorry for the length, I'm avoiding work.
(Zapiola zip-zap-zop, Mon 21 Apr 2008, 16:50, 5 replies)

When I was about 13
I used to pick up my 4 year old sister and hit my 11 year old brother with her.

I am efficient.
(teebie jeebie, Mon 21 Apr 2008, 16:47, Reply)

I have a feeling this is apocryphal, however:
I live near a small village in the West Highlands. Local legend has it that some years ago the primary school had a particularly rough kid who had moved up with his parents from Glasgow.

Everyone in the final year of school got a part in the nativity play so that they didn't feel left out, but the teachers were a bit nervous about how this kid would behave. The starring roles should go to the better behaved children, they felt, but the supporting cast also seemed fraught with dangers. Giving him a shepherd's crook sounded like a good way to start a fight, and when they tried him out as a sheep but he wouldn't stop shouting "Baa" and trying to butt the Holy Family in the knees.

In the end he was "promoted" to be the Star of Bethlehem, which basically involved standing on a box holding a large cardboard star which had been covered in tinfoil.

On the day of the play the lad did admirably well, until Mary and Joseph were about to receive the Three Wise Men, by which time he was thoroughly bored with proceedings.

Thus it was that as "We Three Kings of Orient Are" droned to a chaotic and tuneless finish and Balthazar stepped forward with his gold tea caddy, the audience was treated to the Star of Bethlehem announcing loudly "Ach! I'm fed up wi' fuckin' twinklin'" and stomping off the stage.
(richardm, Mon 21 Apr 2008, 16:31, 2 replies)

That really gets my goat.
No, not another rant. Normal service has been resumed...

My mother, the esteemed Mrs Rakky, is a psychologist and currently works in a hospital with children. You know, I can almost hear the murmurs of “Aaaah, that explains a lot then…”

Some of the kids mum works with are severely damaged. They’ve been abused, beaten, bullied, abandoned. You wonder why some kids are fuck ups, look at the way they’re treated by the very people who are supposed to protect them.

One of the things that mum has tried to do is to take kids out of the hospital setting and let them interact with the real world in a carefully controlled manner. This can be something as simple as a trip to the supermarket, to help them understand how to behave in public, or how “buying things” works; an alien concept to a teenager who has been brought up in a family who traded drugs for their daily essentials. She also takes them out to do nice things, education fun days, to museums, art galleries. People thought she was mad to try it, these kids are out of control and my mum is barely five feet tall, in her 60s, how in god’s name is she going to deal with a six foot 14 year old boy who thinks that exposing himself is a good way to introduce himself to people. But she has a way with them, plus she takes along a cohort of strapping male psychiatric nurses, just in case.

She took a group of the little uns to the petting zoo. It was a glorious day – the staff at the zoo had been prewarned that these kids were a little different and had got some of the less easily spooked animals out so that the kids could interact with them. One of the things mum tries to encourage is for the kids to improve their communication skills, to talk about what they are doing and describe their surroundings. Stuff that I guess most of us took for granted.

One little lad, about 9 years old, was stroking a goat. He was obviously totally fascinated by it and so my mum took the opportunity to get him to talk about it. Now this kid has been in care and in therapy since he was about 5 years old. Mum turns to him and says

“Do you like the goat?”

“Yes Mrs Rakky, the goat is beautiful”

“What does the goat look like?”

“He has white fur and two things on his head and big brown eyes”

“And how does he feel?”

The boy stops, considers, then looks the goat straight in the eye and says

“How do you feel?”

Apparently the nurse who was videoing this exchange had to hand mum the camera so he could go off and wee himself laughing.

Mum retires this summer. She’s spent the last 40 years looking after the children that no one else wants. She’s been punched, kicked, spat at, flashed more times than she cares to remember and has had to talk a child out of suicide. And she never once raised her voice or raised a hand in anger. I’ve had emails from kids that she taught (mum doesn’t do email) asking me to thank her for believing in them as they now have a job / house / family and a life.

And she didn’t do that bad a job with me. After all, she created a b3tard…

Click “I like this” if you think my mum deserves an OBE, or at the least a big ice cream and a gold star for being fab…
(Rakky (forgot her password) The muffin maverick, Mon 21 Apr 2008, 16:18, 21 replies)

first time be nice
right anyway
i dont know what it is but kids are just really scared of me, even two nieces, maybe its the long hair or the nice use of chains and slayer tshirts. Anyway i thought all kids where scared of me until one little bugger came up to me on a bus and just pointed ask what ive come dressed as.

p.s. i hate kids, never want them, hopefully never will

but first time post be nice please
(dobbsey, Mon 21 Apr 2008, 15:52, 3 replies)

Kid art
I was over at my best friend's house, and we were drawing a picture with crayons. We were probably about 10 or 11 at the time.

I wish I kept a copy of the picture. It was of a big fireplace, and on the back wall of the fireplace were small holes just large enough for a person to stick their butt through. It was kind of like an incinerator/outhouse I guess. Not really a bad idea. We drew pictures of many of these butts defecating onto the fire.

Then the front door opened, and my friend's mom was home. What did my friend do? Did he hide the drawing? No, he exclaimed "Uh-oh, now I'll have to change Meggy's (youngest sister) diaper for a week!" We both had a bit of a copro-fixation, but I never figured out if his went deeper than that.

I do know he used to gather people at the long-jump pit at school and try to raise funds from people so he could take a crap in front of them. The only time I saw him do it, he squeezed and strained for a few minutes, then decided nothing was coming out and gave up.

Coincidentally, I later became the school long-jump champion, able to jump clear over the sand pit.
(racetraitor has an alibi for, Mon 21 Apr 2008, 15:48, 1 reply)

Two Kids One Cup
My sister was young, but old enough to talk and walk around. She came to my mom and said "Mommy, can I please have a cup?" So my mom gave her a cup, and she wandered away.

Curious, my mom followed her. To the bathroom, where she found me leaning over the toilet, scooping up toilet water in my own cup and drinking it. My sister wanted the cup so she would be able to join me.

I must've been around 5 or 6.
(racetraitor has an alibi for, Mon 21 Apr 2008, 15:44, Reply)

Kids, I'm just glad they are not all the same.
By n large most of my family versions of the current topic are fairly tame, well behaved and respectable little humans in training.......

However as with all families we have a small collection of duds, .

There's my niece who seems to live with a constant sugar rush, bit like a gerbil on speed......... lots of speed...........

Some months ago when the brother came over for a visit he brought number one niece with him.

Door bell rings and I trip happily down and open the front door to an eight year old who is doing star jumps.

I then close the front door and wait, oh maybe 30 seconds and then open it again.

They're both still there and number one niece is still doing star jumps.

I never asked the bro if she stopped when the door closed in their faces...........

Our other family dud lives on the other side of the world i.e Australia, land of bad spiders and badder snakes.........

He's five and as mental and as bad tempered as a bag of ferrets.........

I got my ear clipped last time I was there when I was overheard telling him that if a snake was ever to bite him he was to keep quiet about it or his mum would smack him harshly......



Still makes me laugh that one.

I need more holidays...
(Dark Matter All The Wonders In The World & We Invent Boredom, Mon 21 Apr 2008, 15:42, 1 reply)

Kids, free to a good home
Link (sfw)

"A search for foster homes for a herd of goats used in Navy decompression experiments has been launched."

I'm tempted...
I've got an 11-acre field... And a double bed.
( Cawl, Mon 21 Apr 2008, 15:30, 18 replies)

Screws
I had been putting together a garden bench on the lawn. The bench was finished and all tools put away.

Half an hour later three year old son comes running into the house shouting that 18 month old sister had 'got a screws in her knee'.

Cue me running full pelt into garden scooping up daughter expecting to see blood / tendons / meat etc.

Nothing.

Just daughter holding knee.

Turns out that 'a screws' is a bit of a scrape and a bit of a bruise.
( insignificantsnivellinglittleturd I Like Peas, Mon 21 Apr 2008, 15:26, Reply)

Musical prodigy
When I was younger, around 9 or 10, my parents decided it would be good for my 'cultural development' to learn a musical instrument. No 'cool' instrument like the guitar or drums for me, however - being painfully middle class, my parents decided that the violin would be the perfect outlet for my creativity. This was before my teenage rebellion phase, so, anxious to please, I practised day and night with that infernal instrument. At first, the 'music' resembled a choir of cats slowly being strangled in a vat of acid, but, gradually, I improved, until I was capable of making a grown Irishman weep with one stroke of the bow (note: may be an exaggeration).

I became quite accomplished in my playing - so much so, that my parents actively encouraged me to enter a local talent competition for youngsters. When my turn came, I stood, gently sweating, and serenaded the audience with a beautiful rendition of 'When The Saints Go Marching In'. The entire audience rose up on their feet, and applauded until it seemed as though their arms would rip from their sockets (note: may be an exaggeration).

I ended up winning first place - ended up with a cheap and tatty plastic trophy.

That's right folks - I am officially an award-winning kiddie fiddler.

Thinking of adding it to my CV...
(Pavlov's Frog figures no-one really reads sigs anyway, Mon 21 Apr 2008, 15:25, 7 replies)

Mrs Vagabond's sister once asked her mum which was her right and which was her left hand.
Her mum's response was that her right hand was the one nearest the wall.
( Je suis un vagabond is an unfunny, up your own arse middle class knob, Mon 21 Apr 2008, 15:14, Reply)

Since we're being a bit cathartic and posting non-funny responses here and there...
I'll share with you one of mine that still jangles my nerves.

I've been pretty open on here about the fact that my ex and I had a pretty bad split, and that we don't exactly get along, and that I have a rather low opinion of her. I've given some humorous examples in the past that could easily be construed as exaggeration for the sake of a funny tale. This is not one of them. Please bear with me, and apologies for the huge cast of characters.

Let's see... it was four years ago, I believe. My daughter (who I'll refer to as Mini-Me, or MM) was either 10 or 11 at the time. I had been out of the house for about four years, and things had settled into an uneasy truce, despite the ugliness that had gone on. My daughter was friends with the daughter of one of my ex's friends (who I shall denote as Cuntwipe here), and much as I disliked the mother, I had no quarrel with the kid (who shall be called Battleground) so I let my daughter hang out with her a fair bit.

Now, Cuntwipe had gotten in the middle of my divorce and had said a lot of very unpleasant thing to my kids regarding me, most of which were either outright lies or distortions. I had called her on this numerous times- not only was it not her place to say anything to my kids, but trying to turn a child against a parent is about as low as you can get. To say the least, I consider Cuntwipe to be one of the slimiest forms of life on the planet. But again, her daughter Battleground was blameless, so when my daughter wanted to spend the night with Battleground at her father's house, I allowed it- the father (call him Victorious) seemed a decent enough sort, despite having at one point been with Cuntwipe.

Perhaps I should have included this story in the Karma question, for what followed was divine justice in a way. In essence, Cuntwipe and her ex were having a custody battle, and it looked like Victorious was going to win. I smiled inside at this, but said nothing.

Then one day Mini-Me called me and wanted to talk- she was highly upset, so I dropped what I was doing and went to get her.

It seems that MM had been for an overnight with Battleground at Victorious's house, and had been present when Victorious and his parents were coaching Battleground on what she should say at the custody hearing. MM was highly upset by all of this as she had been through a bad custody hearing herself between myself and the ex, and confided to her mother what she had witnessed.

So what does my ex do? She calls Cuntwipe and tells her all that my daughter has told her, and she and Cuntwipe agree that MM simply MUST testify at the custody hearing.

Remember, my daughter was barely in middle school at this point. She was scared shitless of having to testify, and wanted nothing to do with the custody hearing that would determine which house her friend was going to be living in. And this is what she wanted to talk to me about.

Needless to say, my rage knew no bounds. I called my ex and asked if it was true that she was going to force our daughter to testify and she said yes, that MM's testimony would be vital. At this point I exploded and told her that there was no way in hell I was going to permit this to happen, that the morning of the trial I would drive MM down there myself and explain in great detail to the judge why I was objecting to my daughter being put through this.

The ex was equally adamant that MM was going to testify, so I told her that I'd see her there and hung up. My daughter sat there with tears streaming across her cheeks. I assured her that the judge would listen to me, and all would be fine, and she spent the night over at my apartment.

I explained to my boss why I needed part of a day off work for this, and he was aghast that my ex would do such a thing, and told me to take the entire day if I wanted. So the morning of the hearing I was ironing my clothes when the phone rang. It was Cuntwipe's attorney, informing me that she had decided that she didn't need MM's testimony after all.

I put away my clothing and put on jeans and a tee shirt and drove to my daughter's school, and wrote a note that I asked be taken to her immediately. The note said that she didn't have to go, that I love her and I would come get her after school and take her to dinner.

The ex was very frosty about all of this, especially when Cuntwipe lost custody (as well she should- she shouldn't be allowed to have custody of a goldfish, let alone a child), but there was nothing she could do about any of it. I said little to nothing and let it drop.

The end note to all of this, however, came about two years later when I was going through MM's school backpack. In one of the pockets, folded and frayed but still intact, I found the note I had written. It was one of her most treasured possessions, and she carried it with her all the time. I'm not sure, but I think she still has it somewhere...

My apologies for such a long-winded rant, but I feel a bit better now. I told this story to the Lunatic Artist this weekend, so it was still in my mind this morning.

Bottom line in all of this, people- however ugly your divorce gets, no matter how much hatred you feel toward your ex, however bitter you may be- LEAVE THE KIDS OUT OF IT.

Edited to give longer names to make it easier to follow.
( The Resident Loon Not a demographic. Do not measure., Mon 21 Apr 2008, 14:51, 15 replies)

So my uncle helped look after a disabled kid...
Good start I know. Anyway, the kid was given the part of the innkeeper in his school's nativity and had one line - "I'm sorry, we have no room". For two weeks he was walking about the house opening doors and saying his line. The kid practiced day in, day out. Every door opened then the line. So finally the big day came. Mary and Joseph approached the inn door and knocked. He opened the door as rehearsed a thousand times, then a bemused look came over his face. Finally he moved to speak. He raised his arm, pointed at Mary and said "You can come in, but you can fuck off." Best nativity ever.
(brain_blessed, Mon 21 Apr 2008, 14:45, 4 replies)

Bullshit advice...
When I was but a wee child, my mum offered me this piece of highly useful advice:

"If you ever snort cocaine, don't whatever you do drink alcohol at the same time, or your nose will drop off."

So the first (and one of the very few) times I tried cocaine, fifteen years later, I suddenly remembered these words of wisdom after the best part of a bottle of Vodka. So, rather than enjoying myself, I spent the whole night in fear that my nose would suddenly dissolve.

Thanks mum.
(Half of Stephen Fry's right buttock pissed on your dog on, Mon 21 Apr 2008, 14:42, Reply)

Trikes & Stairs
As previously mentioned, I was a clumsy child, and a frequent flier at A&E. Dad used to joke that they had a reserved cubicle with my name on it.

So, I'm aged about 3, and its raining outside. Again. So WeeWitch, showing all the common sense and lack of self preservation you'd expect in a 3 year old, has dragged the trike inside the house. And up the stairs. Our house had a lovely, long hallway, and the stairs went down at the end, with a 180 degree turn (and no stair gate).

There I was, belting along the hallway, and skidding to a halt at the top of the stairs. The inevitable happened after two or three turns, and down the stairs I went. Still holding onto the trike.

I swear I hit every stair on the way down, and ended up totalling the telephone table at the bottom. Good job it wasn't the fancy glass-topped one my Mum had wanted....

Dad was summoned home from work, older bro was deposited at Granny's, and off we went to A&E. Several X-rays later, I emerged, arm in a sling, my elbow having been forcibly relocated. That hurt. That hurt like hell. I needed sedatives to get to sleep for three or four days, and the sling was on for three weeks if I remember right.

Did I learn how stupid it was to belt along the hall on a trike and skid to a halt, broadside, at the top of the stairs? Did I heck. I did the same bloody thing six weeks later, when my auntie was babysitting. Mum had banished the trike to the shed, but I could always talk Auntie Dot into anything. Including getting the trike out of the shed, and playing in the house with it.

She phoned an ambulance, and Mum arrived back just as they loaded me up. They kept me in that time, as a fractured collar-bone needs careful monitoring. I'm not sure they entirely trusted my parents (poor sods did their best). When I got home, the trike had gone. I was more upset about that than the (still painful) collar bone.
(TheWeeWitch hasn't been here much recently .., Mon 21 Apr 2008, 14:28, 1 reply)

Time delay swearing
My friend Gary is a bloody magnificent father. That's a bold statement to make, but seeing him with his kids is a wonderous thing to behold, for he's patient, never patronising and always treats them like they're mini-adults, taking the time to explain things to them in minute detail. Whenever any of our friends throws a child friendly function, you'll find Gary being followed by legions of doe eyed children all following him like lost sheep. He's truly in his element with kids.

A few years back, Gary was attempting to repair a PC when his hand slipped and he speared his finger with a screwdriver.

"Argh, fuck it!". Now this is an understandable and often involuntary action, however Gary was mortified when he looked up top see his two year old son Harry stood there watching him, with an expression on his face saying "Ooooh?".

Gary puts down the screwdriver, walks up to Harry and kneels to eye level.

"Harry, I'm really sorry that I used a very bad word in front of you. I shouldn't have done that, it's a terrible word and I promise to be more respectful around you in future".

Harry nodded.

Everybody say "Aww!"

"Now mummy mustn't ever hear that word, for she'll be very angry with the pair of us" continued Gary, doing the evergreen Good-Cop-Bad-Cop routine to great effect.

Now Gary sweats for a few days, hoping that Harry won't imitate him. However, the days pass without sweary incident and Gary begins to relax a little. Even a couple of weeks later, when Harry drops something and hurts himself, he merely cries and says "mummy it hurts" instead of uttering the forbidden hurty word.

A few weeks later, the family are all walking through the local DIY store, while Harry appears to be happily mumbling to himself in that undecipherable fashion so beloved of the under fives. Gary's attention is diverted when all of a sudden his blood runs cold.

"Laa-dee-daa-dee-fuckit-dee-daa..."

Gary tries the subtle approach

"Shush Harry!" hisses Gary quietly

"Laa-dee-FUCKIT-dee-daa..."

Mrs Gary was stunned and turns to Harry.

"What was that you just said young man?" Asks Mrs Gary.

"fuckit?" squeaks Harry innocently

The two flustered parents tried desperately to coax Harry into being quiet.

"Fuckit? Fuckit... Fuckit-Fuckit-Fuckit!"

Shoppers meanwhile are staring to turn around and look. Harry is in his element, for despite two parents desperately trying to placate the sweary toddler, Harry is now jumping up and down on a chair enjoying his moment in the limelight.

"Hehehehehe-FUCKIT!-Hehehehe-FUCK-IT!-Hahahaha"
(Bicycle Repairman "you're also a bit of a wanker", Mon 21 Apr 2008, 14:27, 3 replies)

I was a racist child.
I'll set the scene - I was living in New Cross, South East London at the time (I was 3 years old) and me and my mum had gone to Tesco to do the shopping. Somewhere along the line she had bought me a bag of jelly babies, and I was happily munching on these in a taxi on the way back.

Suddenly, I blurted out: "These taste nice. I like biting the heads off. Especially the black ones."

Mum went bright red. "Ssh! You shouldn't say that."

Me: "Why?"

Mum: "You just shouldn't."

Me: "Why?"

Mum: "Just shut up!"

Me: "Why? Why? Why? Why?"

Fast forward a few minutes - we get home, my very red-faced mother said 'Sorry!' to the (Jamacian) taxi driver.

And then gave me a hiding when we got in.

Well, how was I supposed to know? No-one told me.
(Half of Stephen Fry's right buttock pissed on your dog on, Mon 21 Apr 2008, 14:15, 4 replies)

I wasn't going to reply to this QOTW
but I will (I've only read the first few pages so far)

Anyway, to put it bluntly, I fucking HATE kids, I don't even like my own that much never mind anyone else’s bundles of joy shit (I wouldn't have had any if I'd been given the choice, but that's a certain type of woman for you - yes I should have worn a condom... 12 yrs too late for that advice),

'Yes' they say and do funny things every now and again but the noise, expense, the inability to go out with your friends and go on holiday without them is a real drag and far outweighs the delight of little Johnny saying ‘look Daddy, I’ve done another Poo on the carpet’ or telling Granny to fuck off at the age of 2 (the kid, not Granny)


Examples:

One of the guys at work is always saying shit like 'Ahh.. Thomas has learnt to say 'Why' - fucking magic! like I really give 2 flying fucks, more fool him for teaching him the word.
We also get every bug going around not to mention when his Missus brings the little chap in to grab or mice/keyboards and such like, oh the joy!

Why do people insist on taking kids on holiday before they reach 10? What’s the point? They won’t remember where you went and most likely what you did also, send them to the outlaws and enjoy your holiday without them and save some cash too and more importantly your kids won’t be pissing off the couples around the pool (who sensibly left their little mini thems at home) by screaming for fucking ice creams every 5 minutes!

I have to pay about £200 per year more to go to select places that don’t allow children – why should I? just because some parents take their kids out of school so they can save a few quid by missing the rush, I think you should be fined if you do that!

Supermarkets too, why can’t you go shopping whilst the kids are at school? So us sensible kid free people can choose our groceries without tripping over 2’ tall twats whose mothers can’t control, even my Ex who incidentally takes a third of my wages off me every month to sit on her fat fucking arse claiming benefits, goes to Tesco’s during the day because it’s quieter.

I went for a nice quiet drink with the better half yesterday and we were quietly having a nice chat when all of a sudden 3 kids went past screaming ‘you can’t catch me’ at the top of their voices, WTF? Where are the parents I thought? Anyway after 5 mins of listening to this I could see other people getting pissed off, so I complained to the bar staff, who got the parents and when the Mother/Auntie came over she said ‘come on boys and girls’ and with that all the kids dived under peoples tables! What??? I would have twatted mine if they’d even thought about doing that.

If parents gave their kids some discipline to start with then this country wouldn’t be the shit tip that it is.

On a slight tangent:
I get mine once a month for the weekend and treat them to all sorts of stuff like, skating/bowling/cinema to educational stuff like the science museum or the zoo etc.. and the thanks I get? Fuck all!

It’s not the kids fault really, we try to instil manners, but we’re on a loosing battle seeing as we don’t have them very often and their mother obviously doesn’t give a shit and would rather buy them DS’s, Wii’s, PS3’s etc (with my fucking money I might add) and dump them in a different room out of the way.

Sorry – Rant over.

I must be getting old??


Kip
(Kip, Mon 21 Apr 2008, 14:04, 35 replies)