my cousin
tripping her tits off once with some of her friends. they were driving to a party, when suddenly, my cousin yells "STOP THE CAR!"
thinking that she was going to be sick, her friend slammed on the brakes. my cousin shot out of the car and over to a poor man who was sitting in the road. she sat with him for ten minutes, listening to the tale of how he'd been dumped by his girlfriend. after hugging him and telling him things would get better soon, she went back to the car.
"sharon(for that is her name), what the fuck was that about?" one of her mates enquired.
"i was comforting that poor bloke," she replied, "his bitch of a girlfriend has just kicked him out."
her friends looked at one another, before the bravest among them turned and said "um, sharon, that's not a man. it's a dog."
( Smash Monkey lowering the tone of the whole internet, Tue 21 Sep 2010, 22:44, 5 replies)

Fucking Adam Sandler!
Not me, but a lad I met at an employment course, I'll call him "Harry" as I can't remember his name, told me this gem.

"I'd just been to Amsterdam with some mates, we came back with a load ofmagic mushrooms and decided to go to the cinema. Before the feel we got some MacDonalds, and slipped the shrooms in the big macs, then went to see 40 first dates." (an Adam sandler comedy in which he falls for a girl with no memory) "Any good?" I asked. "Scariest thing I've seen in my life mate."

edit! Apparently it was 50 first dates. That's even more terror then I first realised.
(Mong goose, Tue 21 Sep 2010, 18:03, 2 replies)

You've gotta love a walk in the country
Fairly recently my better half and I took a few days off from work and went to stay in a lovely little cottage in Bedfordshire. We found a book of walks which go around pubs - excellent - just my kind of walking. We set off to a neighbouring sleepy little village to do a five mile walk.

The book we had was quite old and unfortunately the boundaries of the fields had moved somewhat since the time of going to print, luckily using mobile phone GPS we tracked our way to the nearest road and picked up the trail again. We walked past the airfield and back to the other end of the village and then the route took us off down a bridal path.

The mud was quite moist and was sticking in huge clumps to our walking boots and weighing us down, I was getting quite fed up as I was tired. We followed the path through a belt of trees and the path became less worn and a bit overgrown. I became aware of a strange smell, a sort of sharp almost medicinal smell. As we kept walking we suddenly found ourselves in a FUCKING MASSIVE field full of cannabis plants, they were at least head height. Me being a girl of questionable past immediately knew what they were although couldn't kind believe it, my better half was skeptical "nah it'll just be some wild grass". I walked up to a plant and rubbed the bud filled stem and sniffed my fingers "IT IS!!!!!" I said now wholly convinced.

A chap walking his dog was coming towards us so I kept walking and we smiled and said hello the way walkers do as we drew level. I wondered if he realised he was walking through a field of cannabis plants and why he didn't seem phased. After he'd walked further on I snapped the head off one the plants for "evidence" and we finished up our walk and headed back to the Honda Accord.

Safely ensconced back at cottage I fired up the laptop to demonstrate to my more innocent fiance that the field was indeed full of naughty plants. Once he'd seen the pictures he realised that I was right and then became really excited. He retrieved the seized evidence from my pocket and began to sniff it. Now it wasn't really at the harvesting stage however it did smell rather potent.

I read a few articles about sexing plants on t'interwebz and I think we had a female one. We decided we should definitely bake a cake and began mixing flour and eggs in the kitchen and threw in some Baileys truffles that we'd purchased earlier. We waiting for the cake to bake and I decided I'd just smoke the little bit that was left over a) for old times sake and b) cos I wanted to. I don't smoke tobacco anymore and could never roll spliffs anyway. I found a biro and removed the inky bit, I snapped the plastic part in half and made my own crackhead style pipe. I put the bit of bud on a folded piece of tin foil and held it over the gas hob while toking heartily on my home made pipe.

As i inhaled the smoke and felt the comforting burn I thought "Ohhhh I've missed this, I wish I had some more to smoke," given it's 3 years since I last smoked anything illegal. Soon enough through my comfortable slightly stoned haze the cake was ready and we both quickly scoffed half each and waited.

I was already feeling nice and mellow so it came as a surprise when J started laughing his head off. I looked at him and he was crying with the effort of supressing his laughter. "Are you okay?" I asked him. He nodded and said "I feel a bit funny" and began to titter a little more loudly.

Soon I was laughing along with him and then like the boring pair of old farts we have turned into we fell asleep.

We still can't believe that our civilised walk in the country in a sleepy village turned into a free space cake and some good giggles.
(Fireyfox is prepared to change, Tue 21 Sep 2010, 17:58, 10 replies)

i was in Camden the other night
and I was standing just behind Jeremy Clarkson having pint and in walked Amy Winehouse and they got chatting,
Amy -so what do you do?
Jeremy - Top Gear
Amy - Fucking brilliant, I'll have a couple of grams!


Da dum tish!
(nimrodihnio making gravy for one., Tue 21 Sep 2010, 17:45, 3 replies)

I must have been around 12 or 13 when I took my first massive drugs
It was quite fun giggling all the time and generally being a cock until for some strange reason I concluded that my cat's whiskers should all be the same length.

Just to throw it out there I'm not the best whisker-trimmer in the world.

With every snip they got shorter and more uneven, which required more trimming to even them out, until all that was left were little whisker stumps.

They grew back and the cat was fine apart from not letting me anywhere near him for the next year (well I can hardly blame him)
(NuffMuff fucks shrubbery, Tue 21 Sep 2010, 17:14, 3 replies)

Is it just me
Or is this a pretty dopey subject for a QOTW?
(Vice Admiral Sir Charles Cockbrush KCB MBE DSO, who is finding it increasingly difficult to log into b3ta.com wants to duck your aunt and kick your puppy, Tue 21 Sep 2010, 16:13, 18 replies)

Oramorph and teh fluffeh
My Mum has a broken back and has been on oramorph for many years. This is a woman who can handle her MASSIVE DRUGS. She's completely addicted to it but as the NHS provides, she seems okay with that.

Anyway, her elderly cat was very ill and, being rather tight and on a limited income, my mum decided that it would be better to just load the cat in to the old Honda Accord, hire him a few supermodels for the back seat and give him MASSIVE DRUGS in the form of an OD of her oramorph than to take him to the vet for the "final solution".

Cat gets rounded up and administered with 10 ml through a dropper. Result? Cat sleeps nicely for two hours then wakes up and seems a lot better. However, the next day the cat is back in a sorry state and clearly needs that appointment with the reaper. Cat is once again rounded up and this time administered with 20ml. This time the moggy sleeps all night but still somehow evades the white light.

At this point the fun and games stopped as my Mum fell very ill and was hospitalised. I visited Mum at the hospital and she was desperately worried about her poor cat and asked me to have him put down for her. I then had to take the sick kitty for his last injection and bury him in Mum's garden. The worst part was telling her that I'd done as she'd asked me to on my next visit. She just cried and cried and I felt like a murderer.

Sorry about the lack of funnies toward the end, but the first half makes people laugh when I tell it.

Despite the Honda references this one is actually true.

First post. What have I done!
(Booce, Tue 21 Sep 2010, 16:11, 6 replies)

Feelings of warmth and assurance
Glastonbury, 2006. I decided to make my first foray into the world of psilocybin, accompanied by a small group of friends who had all been there and done that before. Amongst many moments of oddity and hysteria, by far the stand out memory for me is that of one of the girls in our party being absolutely convinced that she had pissed herself. She hadn't. We tried telling her this, but she refused point blank to believe us. She spent about ten minutes apologising and telling us all how embarrassed she was and then promptly forgot all about it.
(clumsyeloquence is a girl, Tue 21 Sep 2010, 16:05, 1 reply)

Bombs
A grey, rainy winter’s evening, on a Tuesday, in Liverpool was probably not the best time to take mushrooms. Yet, having a few left over from the weekend, myself and one of my housemates thought fuck it, why not.
We made a tea and ate the remainder and settled in for the effect. As we began to feel buzzy we decided we needed to get out of our scabby student house and felt it was imperative that we had a mission. We asked another housemate, who was hard at work on an essay, for a mission and the best thing he could come up with was getting to go to the petrol station for a can of coke. Still it was better than spending any longer in the shit pile we lived in so we left in to the cold dark night.
Our road ran perpendicular to the main road (Smithdown road for any of you who know the area) and as we were approaching it we were surprised to see that it was very quiet. Incredably quiet in fact. To be honest there were no cars or people at all. Bear in mind as it is a student area there is always someone around and it was only about 8pm. Finding it a bit a strange yet strangkly hilarious we approached and started walking towards the garage. It was then that we noticed all the police cars (5 and a riot van), ambulences (3) and a firetruck blocking the road a bit further up. We nonchalantly walked up and bought the coke and were just heading back when a policeman stopped us. He asked where we were going and we told him our address and he told us that we had to go the long way round.
“Why?” we asked trying to be serious,
“Because there’s been a bomb threat” was his reply.
Ah.

There followed a serious discussion of is our safe, who would do such a thing, etc. Very sensible. The only problem was that the copper’s face was morphing in and out of being a wolf and Pinocchio with small stars whizzing round his head. It took all my self control to try and reach out and grab his nose as it slowly sailed past my ear.

Finally he let us go, just before I asked him if having pointy ears helped keep his hat on and we walked quickly back to our house. On arrival we ran straight to our mate to tell to come outside as it’s really as no one is around and there’s a bomb threat and wolf policemen and EVERYTHING!
Slightly dubious he follows us outside and walks with us up to the main street which was, as usual filled with cars and people with not a single cop, ambulance or firetruck. No one else we spoke to who lives in the area had noticed anything happen that night. If I was by myself I would put it down to hallucinations, but with two of us?
(ab1kenobe, Tue 21 Sep 2010, 15:52, 4 replies)

Dr. J. Jackson
has some very in depth analysis of this issue.

www.youtube.com/watch?v=-1VeUCRfNZY
(FondaAccord, Tue 21 Sep 2010, 15:51, Reply)

Everything's drugs when you think about it.
Coffee, Tabasco, wasps, tyres, clothes, Vimto.
(patchsticles Me and you, elbow fetish club:, Tue 21 Sep 2010, 15:45, 5 replies)

Fizz and Whoosh
For a while in the mid-90s, I went tee-total for a few months. I'm not sure why. Anyway, I went to pub with my mate and I matched him pint for pint; him drinking Riding mild, and me drinking fizzy pop.

By closing time, I had drunk 5 pints of Coke and then set about the business of cycling the 2.5 miles home, with surprising energy. I didn't sleep that night and was still buzzing at 8am the next day.
( sandettie light vessel automatic New Twitter - @bollocksreally, Tue 21 Sep 2010, 14:56, 1 reply)

As a northerner
i like to inject ectasy straight into my mouth, we call it e by gum...
(djgalaxe, Tue 21 Sep 2010, 14:17, 7 replies)

White Lightening strikes twice
I don’t do drinking any more and this story is not the reason why I stopped either. I used to be really proud about the amount I could drink, much more than my friends and I could hold it too. I put a lot of effort in to practicing, honing my art form. Wines and spirits were my tipple. Also having a very liberal (too cool for school) mother underage drinking was allowed in my house.

So as was usual my best friend would come and stay over at mine. I was showing off my talent to my friend we were both 16 and White Lightning (for merikins only - a kind of strong cheap cider) was on the menu. Eventually I got drunk, I vomited on my bed. That didn't put me off so I then got into bed then later that night then pissed the bed.

I am a woman now nearing 30, so as a 16 year old young lady I got up the following morning soaked in piss with the back of my head caked in vomit. I am thinking I will suggest as the theme of 2012 Pirelli calendar.
(Free pens 100, 101, 102 is still counting on, Tue 21 Sep 2010, 13:18, 3 replies)

Under Vauxhall Bridge there used to be a good trance club called Cloud Nine.
One evening, I decided to stay straight but for drinking a couple of Red Bulls.

I was chatting to an Aussie? A Saffer? Anyway, he was a lovely chap and completely off his neck, enthusiastic about everything in the world, and as such gurning away in a manner that would make Jim Carrey jealous.

As he reached his stride in praise of the DJ, I heard a sickening crunch, and he spat half a tooth into his hand.

"Oh!" he said, looking up, grinning. He had snapped one of his front teeth clean in half. "Anyway, so this DJ's fuckin' great isn't he? I mean the tunes he's been playing ... "

I don't think I've touched E without a huge wad of chewing gum since.
( Je suis un vagabond is an unfunny, up your own arse middle class knob, Tue 21 Sep 2010, 12:52, Reply)

Mouthing words.
My mate was part of a door team that worked a very popular club in the north of England during the early 90's. Part of his role was to "tax" unauthorised dealers to keep things under a certain amount of control and discipline. Generally, it was all good humoured, but with enough muscle behind it to keep everything safe.

One of the fringe benefits was that a large amount of "the tax" ended up back at my place after closing, to be redistributed amongst the poor and needy. Me.

There was a great story about someone mistaking charlie for whizz, making a huge bomb, and necking the lot and becoming very paralysed. But I was not there, and cannot verify this tale.

Also, there were nights when some of our fuelled antics attracted the attention of Greater Manchester's Finest. But again, not very personal, as they were collective moments. There were acid and mushroom trips, that were some of both the scariest and funniest times of my life. There were kids who went to far, and got the jacking mixture a bit wrong and are no longer with us. There were all sorts of dodgy deals, tales and goings on that make that period of my life a blast.

But my personal tale, surrounds a cocktail of pills and powders that I partook of one evening. I don't know what they were, or whether they had a kite mark to prove they were genuine drugs. But the strangest sensation took hold. I was sweating like a blind lesbian in a McFishery, and could not move, whilst at the same time, the largest "I'm feeling goooooooooooood" look was plastered all over my face.

Inside, I was shitting bricks. I was thinking that this was the big one, my limit had been reached, and I was to say goodbye now because I'm not coming back.

I tried to call for help, but couldn't speak. Like lockjaw, I couldn't move my mouth. Sweating more, I'm trying to look around for someone to help me, but I can't move my head. And my grin is getting wider... my eyes may have been rolling a bit, but from the inside the only thing I felt was functioning was my eyes.

So I tried to use them.

Using just my iris, I was using them to communicate to people around me by mouthing, yes mouthing, with my eyes: "Help me! I'm dying"

But nobody noticed. They just continued talking shit around me. I sat there for what seemed like ever.

Finally, the paralysis subsided. I sat back and said "thank fuck for that" or something similar. The girl sat next to me said "Here, want some..." and passed me round two.
( Piper Alpha is being a grumpy northerm bastard on:, Tue 21 Sep 2010, 11:42, 1 reply)

A mate of mine decided to smuggle drugs into a festival up his jacksie
The original package was small and humble. But greed got the better of him; he kept thinking, "Hmm, better add a bit more, don't want to run out", until the package was approximately the size and shape of a pregnant narwhal.

Watching him attempting to walk nonchalantly past the sniffer dogs, while feeling like he was being buggered by Hagrid's hulking hard-on, was one of the funniest things I've ever seen.

Sweat was pouring down his face, every step generated a tiny whimper, and he was turning a delicate shade of greenish-purple. How he didn't get huckled is a mystery to this day, but he made it in, and just managed to get to the portaloo. Cue more rolling around laughing at the groans coming from within.

Strangely, no-one wanted to share his stash - at least, no-one who knew him.
(moon monkey is busy making memories worth repressing, Tue 21 Sep 2010, 11:38, 1 reply)

Fuck it, he's deid
For a number of years, I worked on a public health project monitoring levels of HIV among injecting drug users in Glasgow. To be eligible to take part, the drug user must have injected at least once in the previous six months. If they had, we then filled in a long and detailed questionnaire about all aspects of their drug use, sexual behaviour, general health and so on. Out of the hundred or so that I interviewed over the years, one man’s story stood out. I asked him the opening question, ‘Have you injected in the last six months?’. He replied, ‘Oh yes.’ This is the story of his last injection.

He claimed that he normally injected heroin three times a day. On the day in question, he had had his usual morning hit and was sitting in his flat when the doorbell rang. It was an old acquaintance who now lived in the far north of Scotland. She was in town to score a few bags to take back up the road with her. Could he help her out? The deal was he would buy five £20 bags, she would take four up north and they would share the fifth bag between them. So out he went and, very quickly, the deal was done. Back at the flat, he set about splitting the fifth bag and they decided to have a hit ‘for the road’. As he told it, ‘Greedy bastard that I was, I went into the kitchen and gave myself the bigger share.’ He also forgot that he had already had his morning hit. At this point, Lou Reed starts singing ‘Perfect Day’ and our protagonist disappears through the floor.

An ambulance is called and the paramedics arrive. He is given naloxone but, as he’s being stretchered out to the waiting ambulance, he goes into cardiac arrest. The stretcher is set down on the pavement (two or three people stand and watch including, apparently, his brother). Out comes the defibrillator. He’s zapped once. Nothing. Twice. Nothing. Three times. Nothing. One of the ambulance crew says, ‘Fuck it, he’s deid.’ And this is the thing, your man HEARS all this. It’s said that your hearing is the last sense to go when you go. So, lying there, in a smack-induced, near-total coma, he gets to hear someone pronounce him dead, and he’s utterly unable to tell them otherwise. One of the ambulance crew then says, ‘One more, and we’ll call it a day’. Fourth time lucky - his heart starts. And that, he said, was the last time he had injected heroin.

The cynic in me was tempted to write it off as another junkie urban myth. However, later in the year I was working on another project examining the medical records of patients who had been through detox. Going through the files one day, there were the records of a man who had arrested on the pavement. It listed the time and place and number of defib attempts. It’s possible that he had just imagined what the ambulance crew had said. Either way, it seemed to have kept him off the needle for a while.
( ThisCaledonianClown has left it far too late, Tue 21 Sep 2010, 11:05, 5 replies)

Some people think alcohol is a drug.
It's not a drug, it's a drink.
(Galve, Son of Galve, Tue 21 Sep 2010, 10:55, 19 replies)

Not me but a friend
Had a recording studio in a shed at the bottom of their garden. Now anyone familiar with recording studios will know that they are fueled by copious amounts of pot and this little shed of sound was no exception.

The music industry being what it is, it helps to pay the bills if not all of said pot is smoked. Some of it must be distributed to the masses at inflated prices to help keep the wolves at bay.

Unfortunately the local constabulary take a very dim view of such activities and decided to raid my friends house in the wee hours of the morning one day.

Luckily heaps of recording equipment make for excellent hiding places so after searching the house and shed our piggy little friends had found nothing. "Call in the dogs" they cried.

A sniffer dog was duly dispatched and was taken into the shed studio after coming up blank in the house. As soon as the poor thing entered the shed though, it's finely tuned nose was bombarded with the odours of 5 years extreme skunk immolation and sweaty feet in an enclosed space with very poor ventilation.

The dog went fucking apeshit.

The handler removed the dog from the shed immediately claiming that another second in there would render the dog retired from active service unable to even smell another dog's ass.

The busies left empty handed and all was right with the world til they came back the following week and caught them red(green?)handed with a couple of ounces and threw the book at them.

Those books hurt.
(lurkylurklurk swings more, Tue 21 Sep 2010, 10:22, Reply)

As a smokerof roll-ups
At parties, younger women will regularly come up to me, tip me a sly wink and take my new cig, and wander off with it to share with friends.

This tends to amuse me more than annoy, depending on how "mashed" they get.
( Je suis un vagabond is an unfunny, up your own arse middle class knob, Tue 21 Sep 2010, 10:20, Reply)

I once did some MASSIVE DRUGS.




Unfortunately they were in suppository form. It was quite unpleasant.
(FondaAccord, Tue 21 Sep 2010, 10:06, 20 replies)

My Dad was working for the drugs squad...
So my dad, one of the finest human beings ever, joins the Police as a civilian driver. He loved it, looking after the motor pool of Hampshire police, getting to drive high performance vehicles, road trips all over the country, picking up ne’er do wells and recidivists far and wide and doing his bit for society.
His stories are legend but this one still makes me smile.

Part of his job was to move evidence, equipment and generally any stuff needed to go from one place to another. So he got to see a lot of things and one day him and his mate get a call to bring a big van and go to a farm just outside Andover.
They take the Transit and have a lovely drive in the country and turn up at this ramshackle farm in the middle of nowhere.
The DI from the drugs squad is there and is rubbing his hands with glee, he has turned up what is one of the biggest cannabis farms to date with over 150 plants at full bloom and a couple of growers who had started to harvest the weed. The farmer had allowed his son to use one of his huge tomato greenhouses to grow the weed and in a close knit community word had got out and hence the raid.
This was 1980 and was very unusual, so the process and procedures they have in place now to deal with this was completely absent. As they had never done this before and that is a huge amount to keep for evidence and they obviously can’t leave it there, a quick call to the Met and find out that all they have to do is bag the flowering top of the plants for evidence and then destroy the rest.
So Dad and his mate John are left while the Drugs squad take the growers in for questioning and celebrate the win. They start to realise that this is a pretty big job so they cut the heads, bag it and proceed to bag up the rest and take it to the station.
As there is nowhere left to store it they lock it in the basement and destroy it the next day.
So next day mid morning Dad and John take it to the incinerator in the boiler room, now there must have been about 40 large lack sacks of this stuff, now in this is a windowless room and they start to burn this stuff, its green and very smoky, not only that the air is filled with the smell and their hands are covered on the resin from the plants.
They both started to find things very funny and were getting very hungry so they nipped upstairs for a cup of tea and started to snack their way through the choccie biccies which were tasting very very good.
Eventually they went back down and realised it was taking far too long and if they used the outside incinerator at the back of the police station they could get it done far quicker. So they took the remaining bags out and stated to burn it. By then sense and reason had been left behind and they had a great idea that if they built a big bonfire they could get rid of it in one go.
And build it they did, it was all going beautifully and by this time the smoke was billowing out and they didn’t seem to mind which way the wind blew the smoke and were having the best and funniest day ever. At that point the somebody informed the chief super about a big bonfire at the back of the station and he came down to deal with it as he had seen them from his window rolling over and pissing about.
He had opened his window to shout down, smelled what was burning and realised pretty quickly what was going on and being a good mate of my dad from the Hampshire police golf society which dad was the secretary, saw the funny side. By this time the billowing clouds had drawn more people, the fire brigade were called and my dad was oblivious to it all.
it was now mid afternoon and the Chief Super got a PC to drive them home and advised them to go straight off to bed.
I came home from college to find my dad in the kitchen with food all over the shop, red eyed and he was talking absolute bollocks , I could smell the smoke on him and gradually pieced together what had happened and when I told him he was stoned, he refused to believe it he was just a little ‘light headed and hungry’. After I made him a huge dinner he wen't off to bed and not a word was mentioned about it the following day.
I got the full story years later at his retirement do and his colleagues were remorseless in ribbing them about it with nicknames like Scooby and shaggy, and making druggy hippy references and all in good fun.
To be honest I was a little disappointed at the time to hear about that huge amount just being destroyed but the comedy of seeing my dad off his trolley on weed was brilliant.
(nimrodihnio making gravy for one., Tue 21 Sep 2010, 9:55, 1 reply)

Drunk kids.
As a child in Africa, I remember that we had to boil all our drinking water, this was to protect against water-borne parasites. Often the water was stored in used spirits bottles. This was I suppose because the spirits would have guaranteed a sterile bottle in the first place. With 20-20 hindsight and as a parent now I can only hope this practice has ended – read on MacDuff.
My mother and I were visiting some friends of hers, I forget the names but lets call them the Junipers. There was Mr & Mrs Juniper and their 2 sons Potato and Rye-Mash. The boys were about 4 and 6 while I was the eldest child at 7. After our arrival we ran around, teased each other and all the other things 3 young boys do as a gaggle.
The day wore on and while the adults were talking we asked if we could get a drink. No parent felt so inclined to get up so we were sent inside to refresh ourselves. We decided on orange juice (back then many things were not always available so you got what you could when you could). We poured oj’s with what we thought was 2 thirds water to orange, out of a cold Absolut bottle. Yeah shure it tasted funny, but... Half an hour later and a couple of very stiff screwdrivers each we staggered out the kitchen door to the accompaniment of wails and gnashing of teeth. Those poor Junipers – vodka let alone Absolut must have been hard to come by, we had to queue to get coke and we had polished the entire bottle in one short sitting and falling over! I don’t know if any blame was apportioned but I never saw Hops and Sour-Mash (or whatever) again.
I can remember the drive home – the first time I felt sick after getting shitfaced, though not the last by a long shot! So that was in a defining moment, when I began my correspondence with liquor. I think the moral of the story is – don’t store anything other than alcohol in alcohol bottles, oh and store your vodka in the freezer.
(Misery McUglywife an attention seeking sociopathic fuckstain., Tue 21 Sep 2010, 9:42, 4 replies)

Just say no.


As a squeaky voiced 12 year old I made my first and only live broadcast.

There was a ‘should cannabis be legalised’ debate on the Radio, LBC if I remember rightly. The program was basically a load of South London heads phoning in saying “Yeah…of course it should”. I listened to this travesty getting angrier and angrier. I ‘d recently read an article in the Readers Digest that very clearly spelt out the dangers of this illegal drug, dangers that none of these idiots seemed to be aware of.

I phoned in and was more or less immediately on air. I let rip on the full horror of this devil substance. Societal break down, moral degeneration, not to mention the addiction and unwanted pregnancies, oh yes.

Tommy Boyd, thanked me for the call, and I felt a little surge of vindication when he said “A lot of sense from our young caller”, instantly deflated when he then laughed for a good 20 seconds.
( Ring Of Fire A petty, drooling belming butthurt retard., Tue 21 Sep 2010, 9:27, 3 replies)

November. It's dark. And it's late. The doorbell rings.
The bloke standing outside my front door appeared to be in an advanced state of dope-induced paranoia. Shuffling from one foot to the other. Eyes the size of saucers. A typical stoned university student, in other words. Said he'd got lost walking back from the pub and needed directions back home.

Turns out his place was way over the other side of Exeter. A brisk half-hour walk at the best of times. None of my local boozers are worth that much effort, so I guessed he must have wandered over from some other part of town altogether.

I'd just finished pointing him in the general direction of his street when a crunching sound came from under his foot. There was a genuine look of horror on his face.

"Oh no," he said, "I ju... I just trod on a snail. D..D..Do you think I'll get sent down for that?"

I toyed with the idea of telling him that killing molluscs during the hours of darkness carries a mandatory life sentence, but I was itching to get back indoors. It was cold out, and it was starting to rain. I told him he'd probably get away with it and sent him on his way.

Five minutes later the rain was really crashing down. (No, he didn't have an umbrella :-D)
( revolution now 👊, Tue 21 Sep 2010, 5:12, 4 replies)

So
How much for the ape?
(McChinaman banned, Tue 21 Sep 2010, 4:43, 3 replies)

I'm addicted to brake fluid
But I can stop at any time.
( The Incredible Sulk Finally remembered his password on, Tue 21 Sep 2010, 4:20, 4 replies)

drugs are handy dandy
when you split up with someone and you know they are a heavy ketomin user, you have a special guarantee that they wont be getting with anyone for a good long while
(ladyintheradiator, Tue 21 Sep 2010, 2:33, 2 replies)

between the age of 15 and 20 my mates and I did vast quantities of most drugs known to man
it is handy when your friend's brother is a major drug dealer who used us as guinea pigs to test quality/doses etc.

Now I am on the best drug ever invented - celebrex (Celecoxib).
It's great being an old man and have the ability to walk!
(wallynothere rnot without protection, Tue 21 Sep 2010, 1:52, Reply)