Sea fishing
As a young lad, I once went sea fishing with my dad during a family trip to Scarborough.

He caught a cold. I caught 2 codlings(?)

The fisherman gutted them and wrapped them in paper. The car stank all the way to my gran's house, who filleted them.

When we got home, my dad made some batter and cut some potatoes into big chunky chips.

And that's how I ended up eating fish and chips that had been swimming in the sea no more than 3 hours before (the fish, that is. I cant say where the potatoes were sourced from)

Biggest. Smile. Ever.

And I have never tasted anything as good from a chip shop.

Lack of funny.
(Frample Tromwibbler climbs an obstacle like old people fuck, Thu 22 Dec 2011, 17:23, 3 replies)

Killed BOTH my parents.

You know what that makes me?



An orphan.
(seedybee68 not involved in any rioting since 31 March 1990, Thu 22 Dec 2011, 17:18, Reply)

Don't need a rubber thingie
No condom to stand guard
I killed my little swimmers
By sitting on my nards
(Rebooted Frazer Smoothly scrolling since, Thu 22 Dec 2011, 17:02, 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)

I’ve killed lots and lots of animals. Some I’ve done with a knife, some with a gun, some with my bare hands.

It does take time to learn. As a young kid lacking the skill and strength there were a few that went a bit wrong leading to much screaming, thrashing around and stuff. You soon learn though. And not to forget, stabbing a sheep to death is a great way to relieve stress.
( Ring Of Fire A petty, drooling belming butthurt retard., Thu 22 Dec 2011, 16:36, 6 replies)

Diesel Generators are a bitch to kill.
Wayyy back, many years ago the council dug up the road near my mates house and put up some temporary traffic lights. They kindly left the diesel generator outside his parents bedroom and it made a right racket.

After the first night of sleeplessnes my mates dad decided he was going to shut the damned thing up. Unsurprisingly these things are designed not be be easily shut down and any attempt to access any control panels were thwarted.

His approach? Pour stuff down the exhaust pipe until it filled up including Sand, Sugar and Water.

It seems they are designed to resist that approach too, up to a point. I remember my mate calling me triumphantly announcing his dad had done the deed,"He's finally killed the generator. The 4th can of Guinness did it."

I hope it was out of date.
( Airman Gabber Living life like a 70's BBC presenter, Thu 22 Dec 2011, 16:27, Reply)

I make an arch, knowing, "ironic" comments sarcastically about people's posts being shit.
As such, no one can kill me, because I'm so knowing, arch and ironic.
( Je suis un vagabond is an unfunny, up your own arse middle class knob, Thu 22 Dec 2011, 16:23, 4 replies)

I remember everything!
I remember every little thing as if it happened only yesterday
I was barely seventeen, and I once killed a boy with a Fender guitar
I don't remember if it was a telecaster or a stratocaster
But I do remember that it had a heart of chrome and a voice like a horny angel
I don't remember if it was a telecaster or a stratocaster
But I do remember that it wasn't at all easy
It required the perfect combination of the right power chords
And the precise angle from which to strike
The guitar bled for about a week afterward
And the blood was sough dark and rich, like wild berries
The blood of the guitar was Chuck Berry red
The guitar bled for about a week afterward, but it rung out beautifully
And I was able to play notes that I had never even heard before
So I took my guitar, and I smashed it against the wall
I smashed it against the floor
I smashed it against the body of a varsity cheerleader
Smashed it against the hood of a car
Smashed it against a 1981 Harley Davidson
The Harley howled in pain, the guitar howled in heat
And I ran up the stairs to my parents' bedroom
Mummy and daddy were sleeping in the moonlight
Slowly I opened the door, creeping in the shadows
Right upto the foot of their bed
I raised the guitar high above my head
And just as I was about to bring the guitar crashing down
upon the centre of the bed, my father woke up, screaming "Stop!"
"Wait a minute! Stop it boy! What do ya think you're doin'?
That's no way to treat an expensive musical instrument!"
And I said: "God dammit daddy!
You know I love you, but you got a hell of a lot to learn about rock 'n roll"
(Vigilante Man weeps because you're stupid., Thu 22 Dec 2011, 16:19, 7 replies)

I killed Kenny
THERE! The joke is done!
( Squiggy Alloria makes theme parks., Thu 22 Dec 2011, 16:14, 2 replies)

Well I'm a master at the art of how to kill
I've killed the things that I love the best
There's blood on the walls of my home
Packed with a coward's kiss
( Je suis un vagabond is an unfunny, up your own arse middle class knob, Thu 22 Dec 2011, 16:13, Reply)

I've killed QOTW by making mildly satirical and/or mocking comments about some stories.

( Amorous Badger NAKED BEA ARTHUR PHOTOS 4U, Thu 22 Dec 2011, 15:47, 19 replies)

Field mice.
Our first house was near a field, so we got field mice running around in the cupboards, nibbling the corners of packets of food and shitting everwhere.
Humane traps were useless, despite peanut butter being a foolproof bait, so I reluctantly moved on to poison. The mice, who were so reluctant to eat the peanut butter, were very keen on the poison, and I had two dead the morning after setting the traps (take note: peanut butter is not attractive to mice, but small, green crystals are irresistable), and thoroughly enjoyed my wife's terrified scream when she found them. However, the trick with mouse poison is to remember where you put the traps: I was less than impressed when, 6 months later, I found myself peeling the dried out remains of a field mouse, from the bottom of the leccy meter cupboard.

On the plus side, living in a semi-rural area quickly cured me of any sqeamishness with regards to dead animals. A pity that the same could not be said for my neighbour, who would leave whatever her cat killed for me to clear away. Shooing the local pre-schoolers away from the remains of a particularly large rabbit was not a highlight of my time there (I buried it in the garden, from where it was swiftly exhumed and consumed by the local foxes), and there were regular deposits of mice, small birds, and frogs, for me to deal with.

I hate cats. Not my neighbour, though - she was a bit of a milf.
( monster munch person, man, woman... camera... TV?, Thu 22 Dec 2011, 15:45, 1 reply)

I was chatting to one of my best mates a while back...
I'm going to be best man at his wedding in April. Conversation had turned to my speech and I asked him if there were any jokes I needed to avoid, like if any of his family had things they were touchy about. I mentioned as an example a joke about helping him hide a dead body, "for instance" I did have a joke in mind about getting to know my mate really well after I helped him hide a body).

"Well" he replied, "My dad did murder someone"

*face goes slack in astonishment*

I've met his dad, and he's a nice old guy, quietly spoken, polite... turns out years and years ago he killed his wife's ex in self-defence. This is before the days of "reasonable force" and apparently he did time for it.

I'm probably not going to make that joke, to be honest
(Professor Kenny Martin Hmm? What?, Thu 22 Dec 2011, 15:36, 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)

The career of my new boss
A much larger company bought the 30-man organisation I'd been working at for the past 10 years. They bought us mostly for the project I'd been in charge of for the previous 4 years. I was the Development manager and my best mate was lead developer.

The larger company decided they wanted their own man in charge so I was effectively demoted along with a compensatory sizeable cash sum and the rest of our company (including some good friends) were systematically screwed over.

Fortunately my salary, contract and benefits stayed the same.

Initially I gave this guy the benefit of the doubt, up until the point when I realised he clearly fancied making a name for himself off the back of my efforts and started trying to throw his weight around.

Knowing the company desperately needed to keep me employed I started to seriously take the piss, bordering on downright subordination.

I was happy to argue with anyone or anything who was willing to listen, even to the whole board of directors. I feared nobody. I felt like a god telling these overpaid managers they didn't know their arses from their elbows and my lack of respect reflected badly on my boss.

After about 12 months he was sidelined and we were appointed 2 or 3 other bosses who I, along with my best mate helped ruin. But still they needed our expertise.

It was about 5 years after the take-over, at the final Christmas party before we all got made redundant that the first boss staggered up to me as I was stood with my best mate, poked me in the chest and drunkenly slurred,"You fcuking well ruined my career here, you did."

"Naw mate. You ruined it yourself." I replied and I we walked off.

Probably the last time I spoke to him. Not sure what he's doing now but I do wish him well. He was a nice guy, I just don't like being bossed around by manager wannabes.
( Airman Gabber Living life like a 70's BBC presenter, Thu 22 Dec 2011, 15:21, 18 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)

The power.
www.youtube.com/watch?v=yoN6XfyQsr4
( Je suis un vagabond is an unfunny, up your own arse middle class knob, Thu 22 Dec 2011, 14:49, Reply)

Coat?
I once shot a man just to watch him die, then I got distracted and missed it. Oh my friends tried to describe it to me, but it just isn't the same.
(Official Sarc, Thu 22 Dec 2011, 14:45, 2 replies)

I was
Responsible for the death of Richard Blackwood's career, my name is Col Onic.
(bROKEN aRROW PUA HVI Master, Thu 22 Dec 2011, 14:38, 1 reply)

I just baked some bread.

( Dr. Shambolic je suis charlie, Thu 22 Dec 2011, 14:29, 16 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)

A heroic rescue....
Let us first set the scene... my mother is terrified of spiders. To the point where she can suffer heart palpitations and potentially need hospitalisation.
On this given day of manliness, I was happily watching the football (soccer for my American comrades), and my dearest mum was doing the weekly laundry. Imagine my dismay, when I heard a blood curdling scream coming from back of the house. Sensing danger, I rushed to aid my petrified mother, to discover, spinning its web across the door to the yard, a garden spider of titanic proportions. I'm sure this thing was attempting to seal us into our own home with it's web of steel.
Thusly, to protect our castle, and to relieve the terror of a damsel in distress, I proceeded to pick up the first heavy object that came to hand to eradicate this pest.
Due to my hobby as a budding Airsofter, the first object to hand happened to one of my replica, gas operated pistols. To put the firepower into perspective, this has a muzzle velocity of approximitely 250 Mph, firing pellets of plastic weighing .2g, at ranges easily around 50-60 feet. Not much to a large adult human, altho I have known the larger weapons of this type break flesh at close range, but to a spider, infinitely lethal.
With a smile on my face, I picked up the object of immenent distruction, placed the barrel within a mere inch of the offending creature, and pulled the trigger.
It was as my finger gripped the trigger, I had realised what I had done. Not only had I applied force the equivilent of a howitzer to a unarmoured man to the unfortunate spider, but had neglected to check the setting on the pistol. By chance, the particular weapon of choice, was none other than a Glock 18C. Those among you who have an affinity with weapons, or play Call of Duty on a regular basis, will know what this means, but to those who do not, the C, for all intents and purposes, designates fully automatic fire.

I had, in one pull of the trigger, and in less than 2 seconds, emptied a 23 shot magazine, into a spider. There were no survivors. Nothing to suggest a web had existed. There was not so much as a stain where the spider had been, it had been simply vaporised.

To this day, I cannot look at a spider without a smile crossing my face.....
(Big Spen, Thu 22 Dec 2011, 14:18, 5 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)

I killed all parent-child holidays to Portugal
plus dads on a space station too.

And about 50% of potential QOTW answers by posting this early :)
( Jeccius Steam Borderlands 2 junkie, Thu 22 Dec 2011, 14:00, 1 reply)

I have OCD
It kills QOTW stone dead.
( ousgg is not seeking approval, Thu 22 Dec 2011, 13:32, 2 replies)

So there I am, in Sri Lanka, formerly Ceylon
at about 3 o'clock in the morning, looking for one thousand brown M&Ms to fill a brandy glass, or Ozzy wouldn't go on stage that night.

So, Jeff Beck pops his head 'round the door, and mentions there's a little sweets shop on the edge of town. So - we go. And - it's closed. So there's me, and Keith Moon, and David Crosby, breaking into that little sweets shop right.

Well, instead of a guard dog, they've got this bloody great big Bengal tiger.

I managed to take out the tiger with a can of mace, but the shopowner and his son... that's a different story altogether. I had to beat them to death with their own shoes. Nasty business, really. But, sure enough, I got the M&Ms, and Ozzy went on stage and did a great show.
(Oobla, Thu 22 Dec 2011, 13:28, 4 replies)

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)

Bastard Mozzies
When I was about 15, I was in bed with my legs out of the duvet when I felt something. I looked down and watched a mosquito filling itself up with my delicious blood, the evil bastard. It had it's fill, then flew onto my shelf beside my bed to have a little sit down and digest my haemoglobin. I swatted it with my hand, wiped it's gooey corpse down the side of my bed and then proceeded to cry for a full fifteen minutes because I felt so guilty. I'm a loser.
(natakins, Thu 22 Dec 2011, 13:23, 1 reply)

SECOND!!
i am the cancer that is killing b3ta. so FUCK YOU.
( janet aylia y'all motherfuckers need jesus, Thu 22 Dec 2011, 13:22, 29 replies)

any sense of self respect
LOLz


first ha!
( Signify, Thu 22 Dec 2011, 13:21, Reply)