Flaming Snowman
Back in high school, a few of us were sitting around trying to think up oxymorons. One guy suggested "flaming snowman," and in a moment of inspiration, another one exclaimed "It! Could! Work!"

One night we went to a wide open field, built a snowman, acquired some gasoline (which required us putting down a sizeable deposit for a gascan; this was before any of us were old enough to drive), then dousing the snowman and setting it on fire. It takes a lot of heat to melt snow, so it held shape and burned a very long time.

Next year, we tried it again in a different location, building a God snowman and a Satan snowman and letting them battle it out. Satan burned longer and it's up for debate whether that means he won or lost. During the epic battle of snowgods, someone was coming, so we all hid in the bushes and watched as they walked by, keeping a hand over their eye so they wouldn't have to look at and contemplate the bizarre sight going on right next to the path.

I think we've since burned three more snowmen. The last one was February 2013, which I did by myself in a 22ha abandoned lot in Korea. In case you want to see what an immolating snowman looks like, follow this link:
www.daehanmindecline.com/2013/20130204.html
(racetraitor has an alibi for, Thu 22 Jan 2015, 1:16, 3 replies)

my older brother went to university in ireland
in his third year, he and his friends got a house overlooking the beach, real open fireplace, more than one toilet between the four of them, all very nice and civilised. however, shortly after they moved in, two things happened.

1 - my brother got a new girlfriend and spent nearly all his time at her house, which wasn't full of skanky student boys
2 - his housemate got a new dealer and spent nearly all his time at their house, taking drugs

one day my brother came home from a lecture to find a big smoking black wreck where the house used to be. when he found his housemates, his relief that they were unharmed turned to utter rage. it turned out that they'd had the dealer round and they'd been having a bit of a party, when someone had decided to "move the fire" because "it'll look better in the middle of the floor". needless to say, this had ended well.

but my brother's rage was nothing to my father's when he found out about the incident via a solicitor's letter a few days later. apparently my brother was the only one who'd bothered to sign the lease, so the landlord was holding him solely responsible. as guarantor, could my father now cough up for all the damage...

i was too young to be told all the details, so i don't know what happened. i do know my dad didn't pay, so i assume the insurer did. and that i learned a lot of new swearwords during the breakfast when he opened that letter. and no, i have no idea what sort of drugs they were taking.
( rachelswipe with a fork, Thu 22 Jan 2015, 8:09, 6 replies)

On Being Six Years Old....
July, hot summer holidays, 1962.

When I were a lad, I conned my granny into giving me a threepenny piece to go to the shops to buy myself some sweets. When I got to the Co-op I bought a box of matches ("for me dad's fags"), quoted our Co-op Number (184 - can you remember yours?) and took the matches back to my mates in the local playing fields. There we spent the morning lighting little fires in the grass and stamping them out, burning cornstalks, small twigs and each other, as only small boys can.

When the factory hooter went, it meant time to get home for dinner, so we stamped out the last little fire, hid the rest of the matches in a tree trunk and skedaddled off to meet my dad, walking home from the factory, agreeing to meet up after dinner.

When we got back to the playing fields an hour later we stood and marvelled at the three fire engines and attendant firefighters beating out a series of fires sweeping across the dried grass, not connecting the two. It was fun to watch. We must have stood for a couple of hours watching them put out the fires

It became apparent that this most definitely wasn't fun when two policemen turned up chez Groover with Groover's best mate in tow, bawling his eyes out, pointing at me, telling them all about my lies and pyromanic tendencies.

Dad was summoned from work.

I didn't play out much more that summer.
( The Lone Groover has mal des nuts., Wed 21 Jan 2015, 15:43, 1 reply)

Pearoast.
I was helping a friend of mine clear some brush from his land, including a stand of bamboo. We had piled a load of brush in a clear area and had a merry little fire going onto which we threw the shrubs and branches and whatnot that we had cut down. Then we threw on a load of green bamboo with the rest of the branches.

Did you know that those chambers inside bamboo are actually pretty airtight? Did you know that putting it into a fire while green would result in steam pressure building up inside those chambers until they burst? Did you know that a large piece of bamboo can produce explosions sufficient to hurl chunks of fire in all directions so that you have to simultaneously dodge and try to put out a dozen small fires that have suddenly sprung up all around you?

Well, I fucking do now.
( Wanderer, Tue 27 Jan 2015, 10:39, 2 replies)

My Mum saved the life of an arsonist.
Not much of story, but this QOTW made me think of it.

My Dad was terrified of fire. He would take ages to leave the house, as he would go back in multiple times to check that everything was turned off and there were no cigarettes smouldering in the ash trays. It used to get on my nerves, until my Mum told me the reason.

As a newly married couple, they lived in the nurses housing at Coldharbour hospital in Sherbourne. One night in 1972, the fire alarms went off, but they thought nothing of it, as that was a regular occurrence. Unfortunately, their slow response was mirrored across the hospital staff, and 30 patients were burned to death in the fire that was raging in the psychiatric ward. my Dad was a gentle and deeply empathic sort, and I don't think the events of that night, and the feeling he had let down his patients ever really left him.

The post script is that my Mum told me the man she pulled out of the burning building and revived turned out to be the arsonist who had set the fire.I questioned her on her feelings about that, and she shrugged and said she was a medical professional, and her job was help people regardless of who they were. Put in the same position, she would still grab the first person she could, even if she knew the fire was his fault.
( The Awful Puppy Bakery is still bored, Mon 26 Jan 2015, 14:35, 6 replies)

Lentil weavers
I run a pub in a lovely little town, that over the last decade or so has become a mecca for people wishing to leave the big smoke and lead alternative lives (because they've made a pile of money already so can afford to pursue vanity projects).
A group of these people have banded together to save the world and educate the hoi polloi in matters such as vegetarianism, buying local and, most importantly, releasing us from our addiction to energy.
Mostly they do this by trying to use my function room (for free, because that's how you support local businesses) for their meetings.
Without a shadow of doubt they are the most ignorant bunch of people I have come across; rude, condescending and with very little idea how the world works.
They are probably the only group that leaves all the lights on, doors open and electric fires on after they leave. I mean are they trying to use up all the energy in the world so there's none left for us to pollute the planet with?
The last straw came when they asked if they could have a log fire for one of their story telling event. I told them that I needed to check when the chimney was swept and was told, "Oh, it's fine. We brought in some logs last time and lit a fire to see if the chimney worked".
Obviously, if the 200 year old building had burned down in a chimney fire they would have known that they couldn't have a log fire for their story time, but they could have danced widdershins around my burning home.
Sorry, not exactly some pyro's wet dream but vaguely involved fire and my rage.
( monkeyboyalpha jumping on the bandwagon since, Fri 23 Jan 2015, 10:38, 12 replies)

"Cleanliness is next to Godliness, Richard," quipped Hyacinth as she wet wiped Richard's muck off her fanny.
"Now, let's get moving. We said we would meet Sheridan at the airport."
"Hang on a minute. I need a cold flannel for my bobbin."
"Oh, really. Must you lower the tone to the level of your genitals?"
"I thought my old boy was on fire at one point. You certainly like to slide up and down fast for an old women who has no enjoyment in carnal relations. A bag of spuds comes to mind."
"Come along Richard. Stop talking filth before I have to wet wipe it off my fanny again."

THE END.
( $$ ✅, Wed 21 Jan 2015, 9:01, 4 replies)

Brightening up dinner
A professor of mine once told me of one of his favorite childhood pranks. He had gotten some magnesium ribbon, so he took the candles off of his parents' dining room table, used a hot knife to slice them open, laid the magnesium alongside the wick, closed the candles up again and put them back.

Halfway through dinner the room suddenly got very bright...
( Wanderer, Thu 29 Jan 2015, 4:34, 1 reply)

We Were Young, Then
A group of us used to go up the hill and have a bonfire most weekends. We lived in a small rural village and it was mainly an excuse to get away from our parents and drink in peace. But everyone loves a good fire, too. My friend Steve and I were budding pyros in those days. We insisted on being in charge of building and tending the fire, after which we would wow the girls in our group with our pyromaniac displays, by which I mean force them to watch in weary concern as we endangered our lives. I have some great memories of our bonfire spot - on the top of that precipitously steep hill, under the stars. But there's one truly terrible one as well.

I'll never forget the last day we ever had a bonfire. We were actually taking it easy on the fire tricks that night; it had been a long, hot summer's day and we were more concerned with drinking ourselves into a stupor. But as the twilight closed around us and the buzz of alcohol settled in, Steve and I felt our energy return and for some reason we decided that taking turns to leap over the flames was a manly and clever thing to do. Somewhere around the twelfth run it all went wrong.

Steve's foot caught on something in the grass and he went flying hands-first into the fire. With my help he managed to get out of the flames reasonably quickly but a sudden scream from one of the girls prompted his discovery that his top was now quite enthusiastically on fire.

"Put him out!" someone shouted, but there was nothing but spirits to throw on him.

"Stop Drop and Roll!" I roared as I looked around frantically for a solution. It was at that moment that I noticed the heavy pelvic weight of my full bladder. It was a revolting idea, but worth it to save the life of my friend. I charged forward, undoing my flies and belt. But it was at that moment that I noticed, to my horror, that my own trousers had caught fire as well.

I don't know if you have ever attempted to run away from your own legs, but it is an extremely difficult thing to do; even more so if you are drunk and your trousers are making their way down towards your knees. I pitched forward, down the steep slope of the hill.

I hit the ground with a tremendous thud, knocking the wind out of me. I bounced and somersaulted forward, gaining speed as gravity began to take command of the situation. My trousers slid off, taking my boxers with them.

Another great thud, only this time a rock embedded in the hillside crashed straight into the middle of my pelvic area, putting my bladder under enormous pressure. As I bounced forward again, I felt that pressure release and my bladder begin to empty.

Time slowed down to a crawl. I was on my back in the air, looking up at the first gentle stars of the evening. As I tumbled forward, I noticed the hot jet of wee arcing up towards my open, screaming mouth.

It tasted awful.

Finally I came to a soggy stop at the bottom of the hill. A noise pulled my attention back to the top, where a miraculously unharmed Steve, along with the rest of the group, were hooting at me with derision and spiteful glee. I knew in that moment that they hated me. I let out a wracking sob.

And then I shat myself.
(Frank Snow, Wed 28 Jan 2015, 17:49, 7 replies)

Ya Kid K (born Manuela Barbara Kamosi Moaso Djogi, 26 January 1973, Kinshasa, Zaïre) is a Congolese-Belgian hip hop artist.
Ya Kid K, besides being a solo artist, is also known for her works for the dance/house act Technotronic. Her sister is Karoline 'Leki' Kamosi.
( drimble he'd been white, he'd been black, Wed 28 Jan 2015, 9:27, 7 replies)

Science Lab gas taps...
Story below reminds me of one of our favourite lab tricks. Put mouth over the gas tap. Turn on\off for a second to get a mouthful of gas. Now blow out a match. Great fun blowing flames around. (Just don't breathe in)

Now, this trick worked well. And obviously done when teacher was not in the room, or looking the other way.

Then one day Lumpy (for that was his name) went to do this trick. But just after he took the mouthful of gas, the teacher walked back in. If he had not have panicked, he would have put the match out first and just blow the gas into the air after the match was out.

But he didn't. He tried to hide the match under the table. And then he blew downwards onto that match to blow it out. Yes... down... which obviously meant the gas hit the match... and the flames then came back upwards towards him.

He turned a little white for some reason. This was a big tough rugby player... but he went rather pale. Also was missing his eyebrows and this smell of burning hair in the air for some reason.
( Batter Pudding Hurler is a figment of your imagination, Fri 23 Jan 2015, 20:04, Reply)

Grandad
My grandad was a real character - a farmer all his life, from a family that had been farming for generations, he had little time for anything other than his farm and kept working almost until the day he died, 80 years old.

He liked to smoke a pipe and always had it clamped between his teeth, no matter what he was doing, unless it was something serious like helping a cow to calve or going to church. On one famous Sunday morning we'd all gone to church. Part way through the service we started to smell smoke. Everyone looked around, but couldn't see anything obvious, until Grandad's jacket started to smoke. He'd put his pipe in his pocket as he entered the church, without realising it was still smouldering. I'd like to say that he ran screaming up and down the aisle, the flames growing larger and larger until the vicar threw water from the font over him to put it out, but in fact he just calmly removed the pipe, took his jacket off, put it on the floor and stamped out the flames and went outside to knock the pipe out properly.
(Smale is stuffed, Fri 23 Jan 2015, 16:13, 1 reply)

One time I was stewarding at a local bonfire, making sure no-one got too near the fire etc.
I was a Scout and we'd been asked to help out by the local community group. At the end of the night, when the bonfire was a big fuck off pile of embers, some drunken idiot tried to run through it. The embers were still about a foot deep and he sank down into them, which made him fall forwards, hands first. An ambulance took the silly bastard to hospital.

Next year, they got some proper security in.
(McChinaman banned, Fri 23 Jan 2015, 12:41, 1 reply)

( BraynDedd Natasha Kaplinsky's labia majora, Fri 23 Jan 2015, 11:41, 4 replies)

Wasp Nest Disposal
Back in the 1970s childhood.... Wasp nest was located in the garden. Actually in the ground. Mum came up with a clever idea for disposing of it. This involved a can of petrol tipped down into the nest.

Well, they say you learn a lot from your parents. I learnt that day how not to dispose of a wasp nest as I watched her throw a match onto the nest and then saw the flames chase back towards her.

She was fine, few less eyebrows, looking a little pale.

The main lesson being - if you are going to tip petrol onto something to dispose of it, make sure you let someone else light it...
( Batter Pudding Hurler is a figment of your imagination, Thu 22 Jan 2015, 19:05, 4 replies)

Some friends of mine own a farm
and will host massive parties. Generally speaking it's a gathering of rednecks eating great food and drinking whatever is at hand- they usually switch from beer to whiskey at about 10pm- and everyone finds a corner to sleep in until somewhere around noon. Great fun.

Their son is about the biggest redneck I've ever met, all about going out driving his truck through the mud and blasting around on motorboats and whatnot. So they leave the making of the bonfire to him, and he goes out and clears a chunk of land and piles the brush into one huge heap.

Two years ago he built his bonfire next to the creek at the edge of their property. At some point he decided that the wood was too wet and needed some help getting going, so he soaked it with kerosene. Then he felt that that wasn't enough so he added about a gallon of petrol. He thought he would let that soak in for a bit, so he went and got a beer. He came back and used the last of the petrol to lay a trail away from the heap of brush, then lit the match.

The vapors from the petrol are heavier than air, of course, and had flooded the area downhill from the heap. So when they flashed it went twenty yards upstream and twenty yards downstream and set the other side of the creek on fire as well.

They don't let him build the bonfires anymore.
( Wanderer, Thu 22 Jan 2015, 6:03, Reply)

Some kid burnt my neck.

( drimble he'd been white, he'd been black, Tue 20 Jan 2015, 22:15, 1 reply)

I was seven and I wanted to make a bomb
can't really remember why but had decided that the best way to go about it was to the wrap a nine volt battery (the square ones that make your tongue tingle) in string soaked in petrol then light and throw , hey presto bomb.

So checklist

Battery yes
String yes
can of petrol yes
Cigarette lighter yes
Out of the way place to do the deed Yes

Having soaked the string in the petrol , mmm nice smell , I wrap it careful round the battery till it's completely covered then light the string and throw .

Problems

Other end of string still in petrol can .
Have therefore just learnt the concept of 'fuse'
Hot flames all over but mainly round the can.
Kicking the can made it fall over and spread firey water everywhere but not go out.
Out of way place to do the deed is in fact a wooden frame garage that my dad and uncle built a few years before .

Luckily the river of fire is away from the door and I am able to run and run and run to the top of the hill near the house where I can watch the garage burn down , four fire engines turning up , and my Dad's yellow car driving round and round looking for me .

I went home when it got dark and my mum put some stuff on my burned hand , and my Dad was drunk but not mad angry like I expected .

Rubbish bomb top fire .
(happyjoy last changed sig on, Thu 29 Jan 2015, 12:38, Reply)

Some crazy prick grassed me up at work about things I said on a comedy website and I got fired.

(McChinaman banned, Wed 28 Jan 2015, 12:52, 1 reply)

Electrical fault
When I was just a wee young lad an unfortunate electrical fault on an electric blanket caused my bed to combust with me in it. Naturally I did what any sensible person would do and got out of the slowly burning slumber pit, went for a wee and then got back in.

I got burnt toes, mother got a bit annoyed, my dad doused the flames with water (clever!), and we all lived happily ever after.
( SpikeyPickle wishes he was mabazaritchie, Wed 28 Jan 2015, 11:42, 5 replies)

( drimble he'd been white, he'd been black, Mon 26 Jan 2015, 7:42, 1 reply)

Sitting around the campfire at Glastonbury
I was regaling everyone with the story of how, the previous year, one of our friends had got so wasted that after sitting around with us she'd got up and pitched face-down into the fire. If I hadn't jumped up and pulled her out she would have been very badly burnt. Anyway, as I finished talking and took a drag on some massive drugs my friend got to his feet, bottle of Jack Daniels in hand, and pitched face-down into the fire.

I would have pulled him out of the fire as well, but I was laughing too hard to get up.
( emvee cruor deo cruoris, Fri 23 Jan 2015, 16:38, 1 reply)

idiot v sodium (spoiler - sodium wins)
This lad in my school was a bit of an unpleasant lad, and also a fuckwit. He shall henceforth be knows as fuckwit.

We had that chemistry leson that's not allowed anymore, where you put a blob of sodium in a big dish of water and watch it whizz about. Fuckwit sees a chance and nicks a bit while clearing up at the end of the lesson. Fuckwit puts it in his pocket. As we leave, Fuckwit's pocket is getting rather warm, funnily enough (the oil was soaking off it into his pocket lining) so he legs it to the bathroom, puts it in the sink and turns the tap on to cool it down.

oops.

I don't remember if he was damaged but I snuck into the cordoned off bathroom afterwards. Several sinks in a row were totalled. I don't remember much else because I'm old.
(teasus likes tea, Thu 22 Jan 2015, 20:57, 17 replies)

My name is monster munch and i don't live in Bristol.
For all I know, Bristol is a complete shit-hole. I don't sound like Barnaby bear. I like Barnaby bear. I don't know if he's ever been to a chemistry lesson. I went to a chemistry lesson, but some kid set fire to my hair. I didn't like it.
( monster munch person, man, woman... camera... TV?, Wed 21 Jan 2015, 20:28, 4 replies)

My year 7 art teacher was a bit odd.
At the front of the room he kept this old record player which had supposedly been geared down, and he often used it to show a sculpture slowly turning so people could see it from all angles. One week he set us this bizarre homework: "Right class, next lesson I want you to bring in an unwanted item from home, and we'll make each one into a character for the animation module."

I searched all over the house for a worthless object and eventually settled on an ancient hair grooming tool belonging to my dad - over the years he'd gone bald so didn't have much use for it. Come the following lesson the teacher tipped out this massive box of accessories and parts that had been pulled off old toys, and we got stuck in. Most of the good pieces had gone by the time I got to the front of the queue, all the eyes and noses got swiped first. I had to settle with the ears from a Mister Potato Head and a miniature pair of plastic breasts, fuck knows what they were off. I guess that someone had taken a hacksaw to their Barbie.

After sticking this together it looked a bit odd, as the ears were bright pink, the breasts flesh colour and the comb beige, so I decided to give the Potato Head pieces a few coats of light brown poster paint so they didn't stand out as much. It looked pretty good afterwards (i.e. marginally less shit than other kids' works), and at the end the teacher collected the three best models from the class to show to everyone else on the turntable. This time however he must have put it on at the wrong speed and the models went whizzing round, too fast for anyone to see, before eventually flying off and hitting someone in the face. And that was my spun tan ears comb busty 'un.
( drimble he'd been white, he'd been black, Wed 21 Jan 2015, 20:24, 6 replies)