Pigeon Torture
One day I was driving home early from work, and I get a phone call. It was my wife.

She was absolutely distraught and was sobbing down the phone at me, and I couldn't understand a word she was saying. I pulled over and thought "Oh shit, who's dead?" Tried to get her to calm down, and finally after about 5 minutes she began to tell me, through racking sobs what had happened.

Turns out the cat hat brought in a big pigeon through the cat flap. Problem was, that the cat hadn't done enough to slot the bastard and it was screeching and honking it's head off and half flapping around the room. My missus, obviously concerned about the pigeon's welfare elected to put the flapping blood soaked wobble headed twat out of it's misery.

My missus, however, had never had to do such a thing, and she didn't know the best way to do it. Luckily, something in her head told her to put on a pair of rubber gloves, pick the bluntest knife out of the drawer, and attempt to saw it's head off.

She chased the cat away, managed to grab the pigeon, and proceeded to go at it like 'Handy Andy' with a bit of MDF and a handsaw.

Once the blunt knife met with the winged rat's head, the bloody thing went mental as if to say "What the FUCK are you doing woman?!" and made my missus recoil for long enough for the pigeon to think "Fuck this off, HELP! Somebody!!" So there is my missus chasing a fucked pigeon round the kitchen trying to pin it down and cut it's squarking head off, all the while feathers are flying everywhere, as if Starsky and Hutch, Smokey and the Bandit, and the A-Team had just driven through stacked boxes of chickens during a rally.

Eventually she got it down and did the deed after a long struggle, and a long drawn out session of decapitation, the pigeon finally brown bread and lifeless on the kitchen floor. She then took it outside, crying, and lobbed it into the field behind.

She then spent the next hour cleaning the blood and feather murder scene in the kitchen whilst sobbing her heart out.

The cat looked on, emotionless, eyeing up the tin of Kit-E-Kat on the sideboard.

While she was telling me all this, I was doing that thing where you laugh silently on the other end of the phone, tears rolling down my face, and trying to keep it together to make the occasional "mmm" noise and tutting. After I told her she should have just picked it up and twatted it's head hard against the wall, she really started wailing and asked "Do you think I made it suffer?"

I burst out laughing, and when I got home, a cold shoulder was forthcoming, and there was no sex to be had.
(Spaff_Quaffer Wise fwom your gwave., Fri 23 Dec 2011, 8:17, 6 replies)

New house
Moved into a new house,the previous owners took their dustbin with them so for the first few days we left our rubbish outside in a bin bag.

One night Mrs. Barnetboy came in shouting "There's something in the bin bag, it's a rat, it's a rat, it's a rat", for she was pregnant and hysterical. I suggested tipping up the bag so the beast could make good its escape.

"You have to kill it" replied she.

I approached the bag with a 4 foot length of lumber and did smite it with almighty force. Two things happened; the length of wood snapped in half and the beast let out a deafening wail that alerted the neighbours.

"It's a kitten, it's a kitten, it's a kitten" wailed my beloved above the wailing of the beast. I then set about hitting the dying beast with the remaining lump of wood until the wailing stopped..... from the animal at least.

I considered it job done but Mrs. B didn't "You have to find out who's kitten it is so that you can tell them that you killed it". For now I'm the villain of the piece. Gingerly I slit the side of the bag open fearing reprisal from a near dead rat/kitten.

Then I discovered the horrible truth, it was a hedgehog.... I had battered to death Mrs. Tiggywinkle.
(Barnetboy, Thu 22 Dec 2011, 15:27, 10 replies)

I murdered a director (Pea)
I used to work for a company that was run by academics. Marketing types would ring speculatively and, being academics, they hated talking to real people let alone sales people and would often hang up, not answer or just leave them on hold while they went off to do more interesting things. This often left me, acting as the receptionist, getting an earful from some very annoyed phone monkeys.

Eventually the directors and I came to an agreement where we would give marketing companies the name of a fake marketing manager, who would be "out" a lot. And when one of the academics was bored, or the company seemed useful, they would speak to them.

As the head academic was particularly keen on X-men, we named the marketing manager Dr. Jean Grey, but pronounced it John.

It all started very well

PM (Phone Monkey): Can I speak to your marketing director?
Me: So sorry, he's out on the road
PM: Can I have his number?
Me: He probably won't be able to pick up, he's in China, you can send some literature if you like, address it to Dr. Jean Grey.
PM: Okay, I'll call again after I've sent some information

All very nice, no-one got hurt, and everybody was more productive.....

Until we met the jack russells of the sales and marketing world. They started ringing, and I gave them the above speil.

After a week or two, they rang again

PM: Hi, can I speak to Jean Grey?
Me: It's Dr. John Grey and I'm sorry, he's "out" on the road.
PM: Did he receive the material we sent?
Me: Yes, I'm sure he did
PM: Do you know if he read it?
Me: No idea, I'll ask him to return your call when he comes in.
PM: Great, thanks

*sniggers from office*

And again:
PM: Hi I called last week to speak to Jean Grey
Me: That's Dr. John Grey
PM: Okay, sorry, has he read the material?
Me: Oh yes, he said he was very interested and he was going to get back to you. Did he call?
PM: No I have no record of that
ME: Well not to worry, I'm sure he will soon, he's in India at the moment.
PM: Thanks

*sniggers from office*

Another week passes:
PM: Hi, could I speak to Jean Grey?
Me: It's Dr. John Grey, I'm sorry, he's not here at the moment
PM (getting irritated): Do you hold his diary? I've been trying to speak to him for weeks
Me: I'm sorry, Dr. Grey *sniggers* is a very busy man, I'm sure he will get back to you when he's available
PM: Well, make sure he does...

I had a bit of a "handbags at dawn" moment there, and everyone thought it was hilarious, but I knew we weren't going to be able to do this all the time, afterall, Dr. Jean was supposed to be saving everyone time, and phone monkey was being a bit of a pest.

So we decided to hurt him (Dr. Jean that is, not the phone monkey)

The beginning of the end:
PM: I would like to speak to Jean Grey please
Me: It's Dr. John Grey, and I'm sorry, he's not available
PM: Look, I've been ringing for weeks, I know what my company is offering is not hugely important, but it could be highly beneficial, if I could just speak to him once, I'm sure arrangements could be made very quickly.
Me: I appreciate that sir *sniggers* but unfortuntely Dr. Grey has been involved in an accident and I'm not sure when he'll be returning to work.
PM: Sorry to hear that, I'll ring next week
Me: You do that, thanks!

I'm sure you can see where this is going can't you? We had to kill Dr. Jean Grey, it was a hard decision because he was such a valued member of the team, but he had finally become a bit of a millstone, he had to go.

Next week:
PM: Hi, can I speak to Jean Grey please?
Me: *sniffling* it's Dr. John Grey, and I'm sorry, but no, he's unavailable.
PM: He's always unavailable, is there someone else I can speak to?
Me: There's no need to speak to me like that sir *sniffle*, Dr. Grey was the only person you could speak to
PM: Was?
Me: Yes, he died yesterday, he stubbed his toe at the Australian embassy and contracted gangrene, it spread to his abdomen, they tried to amputate, but he just didn't make it.

(Think about amputating an abdomen - honestly! Australian embassy? Don't ask, I don't know why)

PM: I'm so sorry.....*BIG Pause*...have you found a replacement?
Me: That's very insenstive sir, I suggest you don't call again

*SLAMS Phone down*

Everyone laughed like horses, we toasted Dr. Jean Grey at the pub later.


ADDITIONAL
The whole company agreed that Dr. Grey had to be killed, and that I was the person to do it. Although there was no mess to clean up, no body to hide and no snooping by the cops, this dirty secret was particularly guilt-free and legal (and nonsensical).

But the emotional price was high, not only did I "give birth" to my very own fictitious marketing director, I then killed him with the Australian embassy. I still miss Dr. Grey, sometime I feel a deep ache of longing, he'll be forever in my heart

Most of this story is true.
(Jugular, Thu 22 Dec 2011, 14:03, 4 replies)

Forgive me (again).
A long, long time ago, when I was but eight years old, my family were searching for a new house. That particular summer, my brother and I were dragged round property after property as my parents searched for the perfect family home.

One afternoon we visited an old, detached house in Surrey with a huge rambling garden. We were greeted at the front door by a lovely pair of spinsters, at least in their mid-seventies. Turns out they were sisters who had moved in together after losing husbands in WWII and they were selling up to fund their final stay in a countryside nursing home.

After we'd accepted tea and cakes from the ladies, my brother and I raced out into the garden, leaving my parents to talk about square footage and rising damp.

'Say hello to Tommy when you're out there', said one of the ladies as we scampered off, 'he's in the vegetable patch.'

The garden was truly amazing - well it was to an eight and six year old. At the back was a large, overgrown area fenced off with chicken wire. This was the 'vegetable patch'. My bro and I stepped over the wire and wandered about, kicking things and throwing dirt at each other.

We ventured further and it was then we discovered 'Tommy'.

Tommy was a huge, lumbering and obviously amazingly old tortoise. He didn't do much. Just stood there, very comfortable in our presence, munching on a rhubarb leaf or something. The two of us stroked him, fed him some more leaves and sat watching him, fascinated by his funny eyes and coarse, leathery neck.

In the vegetable patch was a very large, rusting old drum that was used to collect rainwater. It was full up. I could just peer over the top of the it. And then, suddenly, for absolutely no reason. For absolutely no reason I will ever understand, I walked over to Tommy, picked him up, held him over my head and dropped him in the drum.

He sunk instantly.

I could have saved him. Could have ran back into the house. Could have got my father to tip over the drum and rescue Tommy. But I didn't. I just stayed in the garden with my brother. My brother never opened his mouth. He just looked at me oddly, like this was some lesson in life he was too young to comprehend.

Eventually my folks called us back in. We left with smiles and thanks to the old dears for the tea and cake. No one mentioned Tommy.

Fast forward a month or two. And as fate would have it, my parents bought that very house and we moved in one rainy Sunday. When we arrived at our new house it was empty, the two old girls having moved out a few days before.

During the chaos of the move, with the boxes and the furniture and the lorry and the stress, one of the removal men slipped out back for a fag. He quickly called my folks outside and we all ran out to see what the fuss was about. There, at the back of the garden, in the vegetable patch were the previous owners. They were walking arm in arm in the driving rain, staring at the ground and were obviously extremely distressed. We went out to see them.

'Minnie won't leave until we find Tommy', one of them said, 'he has to be around here somewhere, we've had him FIFTY years, he HAS to come with us.'

Cue frantic searching of the garden by parents, children and removal men, all to no avail. After much tea and sympathy, my dad drove the wretched pair to the station, sans Tommy.

Various theories were bandied around about foxes and tunneling...but soon Tommy was forgotten. But not for me. I have never forgotten. Over 25yrs later and the thought can still wake me up in the night.

I'll never know what drove me to murder that day. But I know where I'm going because of it.
( Albert Marshmallow is a completely irredeemable cunt, Thu 22 Dec 2011, 14:26, 15 replies)

Rabbits
When I was a kid I used to spend most summers on my grandad's farm. My cousins would regularly go out with an air rifle and come back with a couple of rabbits for the pot. My father was determined to show that he was no city-type and could hunt like the rest. So he took me and the air rifle and we stepped out into the fields. There were hundreds of rabbits, but they all ran away before we could get within range. But my father was determined: we couldn't return empty-handed. So we kept at it. Eventually we saw a large, stupid looking rabbit, sitting up by a fence post. We crawled through the mud, getting closer to the rabbit, which had still not moved. Eventually we were close enough, if muddy, and my dad lined up the gun. He aimed, he shot, the rabbit fell over. Ecstatic we rushed over to claim our prize. Which was a large, rabbit-shaped clod of earth. We sloped home, dejected, and muddy.
(Smale is stuffed, Wed 28 Dec 2011, 11:20, 1 reply)

In a mouse-infested house some years ago...
My housemates and I were all as pathetically pacifistic as each other, so we bought a bunch of humane traps (the ones that catch but don't kill,) and baited them each with a square of dairy milk, as we'd read that chocolate makes the best mousebait.

Come the morning, one of the traps was sprung; meaning it would likely contain a very bored mouse, waiting impatiently for his glorious release on to the common, and the gnawed remains of the chocobait. We opened it up, carefully, to find no chocolate at all, just a tiny mouse, only very slightly bigger than the square of chocolate it'd apparently eaten. The mouse was quite dead. The little moron, bereft of anything else to do to pass the time, had grimly eaten and eaten and eaten until it'd ruptured itself to death.

Humane trap? We tried! We really did. We just didn't count on mice being such fucking idiots.
( Zoroastermouse thinks therefore he am, Sat 24 Dec 2011, 1:03, 7 replies)

Roadkill is my speciality.
The weirdest thing I've ever killed in my car has to be mackerel. I was driving across a causeway in a storm and a wave deposited a shoal of mackerel over the road ahead of me which I promptly ran over.

The second most unusual road-kill occurred when driving home at night, in a blizzard. I managed to hit a sheep which had unwisely decided that a white animal sitting on a snow covered road was a good idea. (Not an uncommon occurrence here, most people have at least one sheep related insurance claim.)

As the sheep was dead it went in the back of the car for a fitting disposal (I was going to eat it). Unfortunately, a reasonable amount of blood and guts had deposited itself over the engine and resulted in a sickly smell of roast lamb through the cabin for the rest of the drive home and I couldn't face eating lamb for months afterwards.

I know of someone who reportedly did the same with a deer. He hit it and loaded it into the back of his Volvo estate. Pity it wasn't dead and just stunned. About a mile down the road it woke up and as you might expect panicked, totalling the car from the inside. I'd have loved to see the insurance claim for that.


(In a karma balancing moment I once helped refloat a beached whale so in terms of weight of things I've accidently killed versus what I've saved I'm in credit.)
(azgiles, Thu 22 Dec 2011, 23:51, 5 replies)

A guy
It was the 1997 I had been out on a night out with some friends and had pulled the short straw, I was the designated driver. Leaving a club at 3am we walked to the car when a couple of drunk guys approached weilding bottles. They started going on about stealing someones girlfriend or something and broke the bottle over my mates head. Now I am not a fighter I avoid fights and this incident was my first and last fight. Atthe time I was 11 stone and 6' tall I was a big lanky streak of pish to be honest but I hit the bloke. I punched him on the face and he went down like a sack of tatties. He hit his head and the noise didn't sound good.

He died 2 days later in Hospital.

At the trial even though their was CCTV and plenty of witnesses I was sure I would goto jail. But I didn't I didn't I was not guilty even though I killed him.

Not a week goes by without me thinking about.
(BiggestNizzy your company name here pm for rates., Fri 23 Dec 2011, 12:13, 23 replies)

Not even funny in retrospect really
And I’ve been humming and hahing about posting this, but given the level of poor posts this week, I might as well.

It’s one of those things that people say without really thinking about, and when it’s in a film or TV programme, it’s always a huge joke, but believe you me, when it happened in real life, it was anything but.

It all started seven or eight years ago, about a year after I’d been divorced, and a few months into my online dating adventure. My low self-esteem was gradually picking itself off the ground as I discovered that there are a lot of men out there with lives a whole lot more pathetic than mine was. At least I had a job I liked and kids I loved etc. I’d got back into yoga and had joined a gym, was swimming three lunchtimes a week, cut booze down to half a bottle on Friday nights, and yes, I was meeting men on a regular basis – some of whom I spent the night with, a couple even lasted a month or two.

Then I met Bob; he was fifteen years older than me, which I didn’t mind. He had impeccible manners and because he was in his early sixties, he made me feel young. Also, he was recently retired and long divorced, he had a lovely house in Chiswick, a very nice Mercedes and a boat he kept on the river near Henley. This was life as I’d never experienced it – the Royal Opera House, West End shows, posh restaurants, weekends away in nice hotels (when the ex had the kids), and for my birthday, Le Manoir aux Quat' Saisons, I can’t begin to describe how lovely it was. We had a room as well as a table for dinner. Room? It was a palatial suite, his and hers baths, chaise longue, more cushions than a Habitat sale, and waiting for us as we were shown the suite, a bottle of champagne on ice, which Bob opened as soon as we were alone.

I ran a bath as we sipped champagne and before long, Bob was opening a second bottle as I dried myself seductively on the chaise longue, and as he brought my glass over I clasped him around the middle, undid his trousers and gave him the famous mouth-full-of-champagne-blow-job. He was fit for his age and I never failed to help him rise to the occasion, and this was an occasion all right. Like the gentleman he was, he reciprocated with a long and langourous licking as I draped myself over the chaise and he knelt on a pile of cushions. By this time, he’d shed the rest of his clothes and when I’d come twice in a row, I led him to the bed, climbed onto it and crawled up to the bedhead end on all fours, Bob in hot pursuit. I’ve always loved to be fucked from behind with my arse up in the air, and I was dripping from the licking, ‘Fuck me Bob, fuck me hard’ I growled with my head buried in the pillows. I felt him part my lips and gently push his cock into me, working it back and forth slowly,

‘Fuck me harder!’ and he did, grabbing me by the hips, grunting as he thrust, hard and deep, speeding up as I moved against him, catching the rhythm… ‘Yes, yes, that’s it, harder’

‘Oh God,’ he moaned, ‘Oh yes, oh YES!’

…and then he stopped suddenly, ‘Christ!’ he said before flopping forward onto me.

‘Bob, what are you playing at?’ he was crushing me, ‘Bob?’

No answer, he was gasping, he lurched to the side, pulling out of me and landing on his back next to me, spunk shooting out of his rigid cock, eyes wide open.

I leapt off the bed and rang reception, but by the time the doctor arrived and took over from the duty first aider, he was clearly dead.

Maybe he would have chosen to go out that way, I can’t say, but it put a bit of a dampener on my weekend, I can tell you. Still, the food was gorgeous and luckily, he’d paid up front.
(K.W.A. Knickers With Attitude, Thu 29 Dec 2011, 11:53, 16 replies)

God this is a harrowing question.
Here are some kittens.


(apeloverage committed the vile act of onanism on, Sun 25 Dec 2011, 1:58, 7 replies)

Christmas jobs.
It was a thankless job, being a janitor.
The shift pattern was arranged for some reason that some workers got a holiday in June, with the entire month off, and some in December.
Some liked one option, some the other, depending if they preferred a holiday lazing in the sun, or actually liked being with their family.

I vastly preferred the summer holiday, so usually took the Christmas shift.

One of the tasks was the unblocking of the toilets.
For some reason nobody could work out, the toilets seemed to block on a daily basis during December, at least until Christmas day, sometimes a bit more.
Perhaps the festive diet?

So, every day, I'd have to open up one of the doors to the toilets, and be faced with a special present to dispose of, subtly different every day.

At this point I was living in a flat, with the formidable landlady, Mrs Harrow.
We got on well, as did I with her daughter, Anne, who I came to quite fancy.
Anne was planning on studying at a Scottish university, though she was unsure how she'd manage it.

Eventually, I decided to give up the job, though I really enjoyed it in some ways, and support my girl as she went through university. Our own flat was a wonderful change!

So, to sum up.
I used to be an Advent-turder, but then I took Anne Harrow to Dundee.
(speedevil, Sat 24 Dec 2011, 9:49, 4 replies)

I don't know if it died, but it wouldn't have been too healthy afterwards.
A few years ago, I was driving my friend Alex into town in my dad's battered old golf estate. It was high summer, we had the windows down, some Led Zeppelin on the stereo... all was right with the world. Rounding a corner at about 50mph, I spied half a dozen pigeons on the road, trying to eat the tarmac or something. I was in a hurry (we were going to the pub), I was eighteen and Led Zeppelin were playing. I wasn't slowing for a pigeon. I thought they'd all get clear in any case.

Most of them did, but one was a fraction too slow. It bounced off the bonnet and clobbered the aerial, breaking it off. The slipstream then ensured that the aerial was sucked in through the passenger window to belt Alex in the side of the head. A fraction of a second later it was followed, beak first, by the (now enraged) pigeon. Somehow it managed to get in a solid peck or two at Alex's head, before leaving the same way it came in.

I nearly ploughed the car into a ditch, I was laughing so hard. It was only made better at the pub later when one girl leant over and asked "Alex... Why have you got feathers in your hair?"





/repost
( MatJ LOOK, Sat 24 Dec 2011, 0:21, Reply)

Not mine
But this is so funny it needs to be retold

A friend of mine worked for the gas board, and one night was called out to a suspected gas explosion.
On arrival at the house he found a smashed through and slightly burnt front door and a burned out vacuum cleaner on the front lawn.
A test showed there was no actual gas leak.
Further investigation revealed the following.
Lady houseowner while vacuuming had seen a mouse run across the floor and get sucked up right under the vacuum cleaner.
She got a bit worried that it may not be dead just mangled and suffering and wanted to put it out of its misery.
So she decided that getting a camping stove gas cannister and emptying it into the hoover bag would humanely kill the trapped mouse.
Waited a while for the gas to take effect then continued to vacuum the carpet
Vacuum bag full of camping gas, vacuum cleaner switched on, spark and boom.
Vacuum cleaner exploded, shot along the hallway and through the front door to end up a smouldering wreck in the front garden.
I think the mouse was definitely dead by then :|
(insomniac-surfer oh go on then, just this once, Fri 23 Dec 2011, 2:15, Reply)

'Let's keep chickens' says the missus
'No' says I.
'go on, it'll be ace' and thus began a few months of persuasion and research and budgeting, until she's exhausted all my reasons not to fill our garden with noisy, shitting, smelly birds.
Of course, I'm the one that has to build the coop. I'm the one that has to go to the farm to buy 8 shit-covered and miserable birds 'for my birthday.'
And, when one's arse prolapses and it gets very, VERY unwell, I'm the one that has to do the 'decent thing'. Brilliant.
So my research begins. Google 'how to kill a chicken.' Really. There are a surprisingly large number of youtube videos (all horrible), and websites offering tips and techniques. And eventually I decide on my tactics.
I take poorly chicken out of the run and into my shed (out of view of the other birds - I'm nice like that). I soothe her, I calm her down, I try not to get prolapsed arse blood on my jumper.
I take her head between my index and middle finger (confused, low, squawking)
I brace myself, then jerk her head downwards and back sharply. This I understand will break her neck and kill her.
I withstand the attempts at flapping that buffet me, as I have been led to believe this is a chickeny death-spasm and is OK.
I wait a bit, then let go of the head, expecting a floppy bird. INSTEAD, she shakes her head, does a massive sick and looks deep into my soul with baleful and distressed eyes. SHIT! She's NOT DEAD.
I'm now in a world of fear. I had not expected mrs chicken to be alive at this point and I have no back up plan or indeed, coping mechanism.
Right, try it again. Snappy movement. Flapping. An alive chicken. FUCK!
OK just fucking strangle it! i bend her neck completely over and hold the neck very tight, and wait. 2, 3 minutes until, hoping desperately, it's dead. My fingers are now numb from the pressure, the chicken sick is dry on my boot. I'm shaking and, thank fuck, she's dead.

Anybody want to buy 7 chickens, and a coop? Going cheap.
( mictoboy shitting in your cunt since, Thu 22 Dec 2011, 21:59, 9 replies)

I killed my chances and I blame B3ta
A few years ago, I was travelling home to Ireland from Sunny Liverpool (Where I was at Uni) for Christmas. Now, when I say "Sunny" Liverpool, what I really meant was "Cold, wet, foggy and bitterly cold with occasional snow"-y Liverpool. It was particularly bad this year and it caused all sorts of grief with the airlines and more importantly, my flight.

To save a long story, after a cancellation and several delays, the budget airline we were using decided it'd be best to ship us off to another airport, in Newcastle, to get a different flight the next day. So on the coach we got and I ended up sat right near the back with a group of people who seemed rather familiar with each other. They'd never met before that day, but after spending several hours cramped inside an airport terminal they got to know each other very well. This group was made up of about 3 girls for every guy and make no mistake, there was all sorts of flirting and shenanigans going on. Coupled with the fact that we were all getting a free hotel room for the night and you can imagine where this was heading. There was plenty of flirting, rude jokes and general excitement going on.

Imagine my surprise, then, when I start getting roped into the conversation. It seems that many of the girls were jealous and upset that their friends had paired off with someone else and didn't want to be the only ones not sharing a bed that night/morning. I thought my luck was in, good shag with some out of town strange would make up for the fact that I'd somehow spent 2 days "travelling" and yet didn't go anywhere. I even had a choice! There was at least 3 or 4 girls basically begging for it! It really was Christmas!

Then the conversation turned to what everyone did for a living, or rather what everyone was studying at uni since we were all about that age. "I'm a PE teacher!" says one. "I'm a barrister!" says another.

"I'm a rapist!" says I.

Everyone stops. Everyone. The coach goes completely silent, bar the engine and the occasional cough. Eventually, I was politely asked to move to a seat half way down the coach so that one of the girls could "Sit beside her friend".

To this day, I have no idea why I said it - I guess I could argue that I thought it'd be funny and on /talk, it might have been. But not the real world, with real "normal" people in it. Balls.
(Kushan just wants to fit in..to your mum, Thu 22 Dec 2011, 15:01, 7 replies)

Mamma...

( enoughblueskyforsailorstrousers, Tue 27 Dec 2011, 10:48, 5 replies)

Bullshit. City slickers, this is harrowing

( enoughblueskyforsailorstrousers, Tue 27 Dec 2011, 4:24, 7 replies)

When I find a snail travelling across the footpath
I put it where it's going so it doesn't get stepped on.
(apeloverage committed the vile act of onanism on, Sat 24 Dec 2011, 10:11, 11 replies)

Back when I used to be able to have cool ring tones on my phone.
*waves lines*....
It was one of those hot summers day, and I was relaxing with a pleasant game of Final Fantasy X. Sipping on Cola. When suddenly there was a buzzing noise near my ear. I struck out at it, thinking it was a fly. I hit it towards the window, only then did I looked to see a giant wasp, sitting dazed on the windowsill. (Me striking it, caused it to fly hard into the window, and stun the beast) I grabbed a book, and quickly squashed it flat. As I lifted the book away, I received a text. My text tone... was the Victory Fanfare from winning fights from said Final Fantasy game.....I felt awesome. I dunno how much experience and gold I got from it. :(
(Dante licked your nipple on, Fri 23 Dec 2011, 23:47, 2 replies)

Don't let the gerbils out...
My 4yo son and his friend were at the friends house, and decided it would be a good idea to shut the bedroom door and let the gerbils out to play.

Cue two excited children squealing as the gerbils ran around.. until my son, wearing shorts, knelt on one. Splidge.

Ever had to wipe gerbil brains off a kids knee?
(Smegma, Fri 23 Dec 2011, 19:38, Reply)

I'm telling this story for someone else,
because I doubt he'll ever post it here himself. I won't second-guess his motivation as I've never known his name, the man, his character, his face. What I do know for certain, and this is all one needs to know for the purpose of this tale, is that at some point towards the end of the year two thousand, in the wet and windy wee small hours of the morning, he climbed into the cab of a laden dump-truck, kicked the engine in and pulled off into the night somewhat the worse for wear with drink.

The protagonist of the piece, one Nameless Bob, looked into a shop window, smooth, dark, reflective, admiring his own reflection. He leaned slightly, and laughed to himself. It was around five am, and he was pilled off his tits. He mocked his own grinning face with his hands Big Fish, Little Fish, Card-Board-Box

Nameless Bob had a journey to undertake, a quest. He had to navigate his way from the club he had been to back to his place of residence, a hostelry where he lived and worked with a certain cs1ca, in the shadow of centrepoint, opposite soho. It was walking distance, around half an hour, but he was now in chinatown. This was not the way home. He was meandering, but at least he wasn't lost. He drifted through chinatown, all arches and strange phoneboxes, windows full of dead, skinned things. He reached an arterial road and turned right. He thought it was right. Was it left? Maybe. Right seemed good. He continued right.

He stopped suddenly and flipped his head back. He wanted to see the stars. For a second he looked skyward, disappointed by light pollution. He felt himself jolt as he was struck from behind. He grabbed a sign to steady himself as he fell forward.

"Watch were you are going, mither fickeur" cursed the stomping, surly frenchman as he barged past. I love you, stomping, surly frenchman, thought Nameless Bob. He looked at himself in the nearest window. His reflection grinned back. Big Fish, Little Fish, Card-Board-Box.

Nameless Bob ambled down the street. He stumbled off the kerb and walked a short way in the road. He hopped back onto the pavement. The frenchman stomped and surled up ahead, now a distant silhouette. Follow him, he knows where he's going. Ahead was the intersection of two main roads. The frenchman approached it, and looking left stomped out into the street.

Nameless Bob turned his head to track the frenchman as he ragdolled through the air. The dump truck skidded into vision from right to left, its wheels locked, spray arcing backwards from the damp road. The frenchman hit the road and his head exploded, to quote Nameless Bob, 'like a watermelon'.

The truck had stopped. The driver dropped from the door and landed awkwardly, as he was worse for wear with drink. As Nameless Bob arrived on the scene the driver fell to his knees. 'What have I done?', he screamed, 'what have I done?'.

Nameless Bob glanced between the driver and the frenchman and back. He pointed.

"Well, mate, I think you've just killed that bloke".
The driver looked at him and cried some more drunken tears.

Nameless Bob realised that he knew the way home. He crossed the road and walked away. The man stayed sobbing on his knees. Soon there were sirens.

Big Fish, Little Fish, Card-Board-Box.


On a serious note, kids, remember that drugs are bad, and that if you drink and drive you are a massive cunt.
(cs1ca, Thu 22 Dec 2011, 21:33, 1 reply)

The Intruder
(pearost)
As he chased me down the hallway, I knew deep down it was either me or him. This black bastard had forced his way into my home and was intent of getting me. I scurried up the stairs and headed towards my bedroom. As I looked over my shoulder, I saw that he had followed me and was clambering up the first step.
He was by no means a big lad, but he was quite gangly, and the way he carried himself was very imposing, with arms spread wide in a threatening manner. I was both livid that he’d had the cheek to come in unannounced, but also very scared about what he would do. He reached the landing and turned to face me.

A standoff ensued.

I stood in the opening of my bedroom door, too scared to say a word.

He looked back menacingly, and kept making small movements towards me before stopping again.

“FUCK OFF”, I bellowed.

He remained where he was. I felt a bead of sweat trickle slowly down my face, tickling me slightly.

Suddenly, he pounced and hurtled towards me.

I leapt backwards and jumped onto my bed waiting for his next attack. He was now in my room and he began approaching me slowly after his initial burst of speed. I decided to take action and I reached over to the bedside table and picked up the only object I could find to defend myself with; an empty mug. Deep down I knew it would be as good as useless, but now I was armed it seemed to make him think twice about coming any closer. My hand gripped the mug handle tightly, turning my knuckles white.
He was staring at me watching my every move, waiting for me to lose concentration so he could get to me.

‘One more step and I’m going to twat you so fucking hard’ I thought to myself. It was as if he’d heard my thoughts, or had I said them out loud? I wasn’t sure, I was too frightened to think straight, but he came at me once more.
I launched the mug from my hand with all the strength I had left in me. It cannoned off his face and he fell to the ground, with the impact causing the mug to smash. He lay on my bedroom floor, motionless, but I was wary of leaving the bedroom. To do so, I would have to step over his body, and I’d seen in the movies that you should never assume someone is dead. I waited for a further two minutes before I’d plucked up enough courage to get past him. I stepped down gingerly from my position on the bed and I was on the floor, moving slowly towards the door, pushed up as close to the wall as I could get.

SHIT! One of his legs twitched, and I panicked. All reason and thought left me and I smashed my foot down on his face. It was over now, I was sure of it.

I fucking hate spiders.
(Monkey the Chicken Twitter: death_stairs, Thu 22 Dec 2011, 13:28, 2 replies)

The first time I saw a kangeroo...
My grandparents live in Oz, I was excited to visit them and see the crazy down under wildlife.

It's getting dark, we're winding our way through the roads of Queensland on they way from airport to Nan's home. So, being a young pommy lad, of course I ask about koalas and kangeroos. I am laughed at and told that I'm more likely to see a koala in a zoo.

"What about Kangeroos?" I asked eagerly.

"They come out mostly at dusk or dawn, you're gonna need to get up early for those." Grandpa chuckled, weaving the pickup truck round the tabletop mountains.

Then we saw something in the headlights, but we were moving too quick to make it out and it made an almighty thud as we made contact with it.

There was a shape on the road behind us, not in the middle but off to one side, but we didn't get out to move it or anything. Grandpa reversed up a little, took a quick look out the window and drove on.

He said something about it not looking quite right.

When we got to the house he got out and inspected the front. There was a lot of blood on the bumper bit and flickers leaving a bit of a trail, over the roof and into the back of the pickup.

And that is where I saw the head of a freshly decapitated kangeroo.
(MrTeapot hasn't played with himself since, Tue 27 Dec 2011, 15:08, Reply)

Of course we didn't hit it, kids....
A mate was driving along one night when a ghostly shape flew across the road in front of them at low level, no chance of stopping at all. There was no bump though, so he told the worried kids that he'd missed it.

Which worked fine until they pulled onto a faster road and suddenly a huge wing just flopped up and flapped about on top of the bonnet...
(Smegma, Sat 24 Dec 2011, 15:08, Reply)

Another one featuring the same guy as below
Some years ago I had dragged two friends along to a large event being held on an airfield. As I was rather more interested by the goings-on than they were, they decided to bugger off home early. On the way back through the carpark, Alex found a freshly deceased hedgehog by the side of the path. As a group of approximately thirty schoolchildren rounded the corner, Karl shouted (with an evil glint in his eye) "ALEX! I CAN'T BELIEVE YOU KILLED THAT HEDGEHOG!".

Exit Alex, pursued for what I believe turned out to be a fair distance by a group of eight-year old vigilantes.
( MatJ LOOK, Sat 24 Dec 2011, 0:26, Reply)

Not quite death by chilli
One lovely day in October I was enjoying a fairly quiet shift behind the bar in the company of the nice regulars when, to my horror, the rugby club pub crawl reared it's ugly head.
Suddenly I'm surrounded by pissed up, braying, testosterone fuelled idiots. One particular young man seems to be trying for the coveted knob of the year award.
After a round of chilli vodka, the chief penis starts berating the drink, asking where the chilli was and demanding a refund as it wasn't hot enough.
Having been to the Southease chilli festival a couple of weeks before I decided to offer him something a little hotter and tell him I will refund the round and buy a new one if he eats one of my new chillis.
He proceeds to chomp down on a recently acquired bhut jolokia.
Quite quickly his shit-eating grin disappears. Colour drains from his face and he runs outside and proceed to double over and retch, sounding a little like something from the Exorcist. After a minute or so everything has gone quiet out there, so I decide to check on him. There he is, kneeling with his head between his knees, shaking with tears streaming down his eyes.
4 pints of milk later he manages to get shakily get back up and sit quietly in the corner, nursing a pint. He informed me that he thought he was going to die, his heart was racing so much.
I did feel a bit bad, but found out that the next week he was sent off for dragging someone out of a maul and breaking their jaw.
( monkeyboyalpha jumping on the bandwagon since, Fri 23 Dec 2011, 9:47, 4 replies)

Not me, but
Video killed the radio star.
(yourmumonastickwithmintsauce, Fri 23 Dec 2011, 9:20, Reply)

Mice!
I used to work for a guy who was raised in the backwoods of North Carolina on a farm. Redneck in the extreme, but not a bad guy overall.

One day we found that we had mice in the office. He chuckled. "We used to have mice in our barn. I used to get rid of them with a five gallon bucket and a sheet of newspaper."

I thought about that, but my imagination failed me. "Okay, how?"

"You fill the bucket halfway with water, then you stretch the paper tight across the top and tape it into place. In the middle of it you cut an X with a razor blade. Then you hang a piece of cheese from a long string right over the X. The mouse runs across the paper, then bloop!" He chuckled again. "You just have to remember to empty the bucket every few days..."

I can well imagine.
( The Resident Loon Not a demographic. Do not measure., Fri 23 Dec 2011, 2:18, Reply)

Junior School Class Hamster.
I was an excited 9 year old, bounding out to my Mum's parked car one afternoon after school.

"Mum, Mum, it's my turn to have the class pet Snowy the Hamster this weekend!"

My Mum was less pleased about this forced guardianship which she's sure she'd never consented to. We took it home, put the cage in the spare bedroom and woke up Saturday morning to find a very slow moving and sleepy hamster, or so I thought. Off to the vets we went only to be told he was in the advanced stages of wet tail and unlikely to make it through the weekend.

Sure as eggs is eggs he died that night. We had a little burial in the back garden, shoebox, wooden cross made of sticks, the whole works.

It was my job, as a vulnerable skinny child to take the now empty hamster cage back into school the next day. As the girls bound round me excited to see little Snowy again after a few days without him, I tried to cover it up best I could, "he's sleeping" I said, "and hiding", "hiding and sleeping" They soon realised there was no hamster in the cage, their sense of shock and disappointment lives with me to this day. Ok I didn't kill it with my bare hands, but try telling that to the children of 4B.

Now when I'm surrounded by a group of girls I have the exact same nervous reaction, eyes darting to and fro and a dry mouth, I'll forever be that boy standing there holding the empty cage.
( JebediahSpringfield, Thu 22 Dec 2011, 16:36, 5 replies)

A lot of people who've posted this week
seem to have two of the characteristics of serial killers.

Lying and bed-wetting.
(apeloverage committed the vile act of onanism on, Thu 29 Dec 2011, 2:44, 2 replies)