From Bad to Worse.
I said goodbye and put down the phone. There was nothing they could do, she said. He was still alive when they got to the vet but my wife said he took one look at the little guy and his expression changed and she just knew. Apparently the woman in the car had been completely distraught. Her voice broke as she told me how she had been forced to comfort the woman who had killed her beloved pet.

Normally this would be the point where I got stuck into a drink but I had been worried about my intake lately. Too many too often, feeling like I "needed" it to cope. I felt like I was standing on a knife's edge.

Ah, fuck it. I walked down the street to the pub. I got as far as getting the pint in my hand. I stared at it for about a minute before handing it back. I didn't want this. I didn't want to go this way. Anyway, I still had that important meeting to go. Had I really sunk so low as to turn up half-cut to a meeting with the top brass? I turned to leave.

"Oi, are you going to pay for this or what?" I turned back around. "Oh, sorry, I... I forgot," I stammered as I produced a crumpled fiver. "Fucking muppet," muttered the barman as he made change that later turned out to be a whole pound short. I gritted my teeth and walked to the door. "You want to watch yourself, you snotty bastard. Attitude like that get you a proper kicking, like as not."

The meeting was already under-way when I got in, dizzy with grief and confusion. "12 minutes late, young man," said my manager with a smug look on his face. It only got worse from there. This was meant to be my big chance but that officious little turd had his hooks in them and he wasted no opportunity in undermining me at every turn, taking credit for all of my hard work, talking over me when I attempted to stick up for myself and generally making me look a complete useless tit in front of the big bosses. But I tried to man up, to maintain a professional veneer on top of the boiling storm of emotions.

The impressed looks on their faces as this preening twat told lie after lie was almost unbearable. I didn't know whether to cry or scream. Something caught my attention and I started listening again. I realised he was taking total credit for the web application project that had been my baby for the last eight months. I had designed and developed it all by myself; it would drastically increase productivity, it was the thing that was going to get me noticed, and here he was claiming all the glory and basically writing me out of history.

"For fuck's sake, Gerry, is there no low to which you will not sink? You malodorous cunt."

My cheeks burned with regret as I realised what I had done. Several of the bosses began to sigh and tut. Gerry prodded me viciously in the chest. "Young man, I think you and I need to step outside and discuss your future with this company."

The final straw broke. My lip trembled and the room began to blur. I began to cry, deep bubbling sobs. As the tears hit my cheeks I felt my bladder relax and felt the stream of hot wee begin its journey down my trousers. My eyes were crying and my penis was crying along with my eyes. "I want my mummy!" I blubbered as my liquid shame began to pool in my shoes. My sobbing continued, interrupted only by the occasional loud fart as I lost total control of my body. Suddenly a kindly voice cut across the pissy weep-show.

"It will be okay. You will be okay." The CEO got out of his chair and walked over to me. "Just remember that I love you," he told me before kissing me tenderly on the lips. "Who ARE you?" I asked him. "You know very well," he said.

I stared in disbelief as he pulled his face off, which turned out to be mask instead of a face and underneath it was another face, the face of a man who I knew's face. It was my old headmaster, Mr. Wilson! "I have wanted you from the moment I first laid eyes on you," he said. My wee of shame became a wee of joy. "Take me!" I wept, and we made sweet, sweet love, right there on top of Gerry's briefcase.

I woke up at that point, the hot humiliation of a wet dream burning a hole in my bicycle shorts. I looked around me, uncomfortably aware that I had almost certainly just yelled "NOB ME IN THE GOB!" at the top of my voice.

It took all my emotional strength to keep it together when the vicar informed me that I would not be welcome at next Sunday's service.
(Frank Snow, Mon 5 Aug 2013, 12:14, 10 replies)

Bus warrior
A few years back I caught the bus into Brighton ('insert' raging homo erotic quote here).

I sat upstairs and was drunkenly minding my own business listening to some music.

There were some rowdy teens, doing their best at proving just how far they'd push Chuck Norris and Bruce Lee in a game of who's the hardest bastard on this bus.

They'd invented there own swear words it seems and had even managed to reinvent the laws of gravity with their knee hugging belt line.

A few minutes after I'd got on, an old dear boarded the bus, clambered up the stairs with her weekly shopping haul of tinned goods and asked one of the unruly mob if she could sit down on one of the eight seats the three of them seemed to have acquired.

They duly informed her that these seats were 'd'er fuckin seets bitch' and 'you'd better go fuck yourself or I'll knock you out...

In my lubricated state my internal dialogue wrangled with whether I should intervene, but I was obviously too slow on the draw...

An old weathered chap who looked like Captain Birdseye on steroids stood up, shaking with rage. Knocked the ill fitting cap off the nearest scally and said:

"It's not fuckin', it's fucking. And this lady can sit down wherever she 'fucking' wants to. Now FUCK off!"

The effect was amazing. The little shits shut up in an instant and got off at the next stop. But not before the old chap had a round if applause from everyone else on the bus.
(Deskbound You insignificant speck of dust, Thu 1 Aug 2013, 22:35, 3 replies)

Shit Times.
In 2000, my Mrs and I at a routine ultrasound scan 38 weeks into pregnancy were told that our baby wasn't alive. (weeks later we found out that the acid reflux doctors had diagnosed her with during the pregnancy was actually pancreatitis, which was assumed to be the reason why we lost our little girl). she then had to give birth naturally, we had to bury the daughter we'd never got to meet.

Later in the year when her symptoms were worse and not masked by the pregnancy, the pancreatitis was diagnosed by an f1 AFTER being sent home from A and E a dozen times in as many days by consultants who weren't worried because the ecg she'd had every time she was there was within the norms. It seems every consultant that saw her had forgotten that chest pain isn't just down to heart problems, but a lowly f1, with fresher training, AND going against the opinions of her consultant tested for pancreatitis anyway. If she hadn't done the test, my Mrs would be dead. she spent a week in intensive care, had an operation to have her gall bladder removed, and went on to recover physically.

I spent nearly 8 months holding in tears, and I eventually broke down when my mum asked me if I was o.k.

Shit times. Just, really shit times.
( Sweeplovesfisting Take all your footballs home and burst them., Fri 2 Aug 2013, 8:58, 80 replies)

My folks live in that there countryside.
You know - full of farms and wildlife and such like. For a while they kept chickens for a bit of recreation, free eggs and the like.

As animals do from time to time, one of them got ill. The folks separated her from the rest of the flock so that nothing would spread - did all the right sorts of things, but it became apparent that this chook was on a downward slope.

Dad didn't have it in him to wring the chicken (to be fair I doubt I would have either). Resulting in:

A visit to the vet,

In a farming community,

With a chicken,

To have it put down.

I'm not sure that he ever fully felt he could hold his head up high in the town after that.

EDIT Bonus points for completely failing to read the question, anyone?
( barryheadwound Mul-ti-pass? Multipass!, Tue 6 Aug 2013, 13:11, 19 replies)

I wrote this as therapy
Lunch
I usually bring my own sparse lunch of salad and fruit and eat it in the atrium of the neighboring office building. It is a pleasant, airy space with glass walls on two sides, palm trees and a view over the lake. Normally, I walk over with some co-workers but sometimes I go on my own. On this day I came alone and joined some friends who were already eating. My friends had to leave just before 1:00 pm for meetings. I was expecting a phone call from the bank about a new mortgage. It took about 25 minutes for the broker to talk me through each of the 50 pages in the mortgage package. I ended the call, decided that nobody would notice if I took a few minutes longer than the allotted hour and started to read my newspaper.

No longer than 10 seconds
My reading was interrupted by an unfamiliar sound, a raised voice and then an explosion from behind me. I stood up and turned to see what was happening. The first thing to catch my eye was a cloud of dust and debris, illuminated by the sunlight coming into the atrium. Then, I saw a man lying on the ground about 15 feet away. There were at least 30 people in the atrium or the adjoining sandwich shop, panicked voices, screams and cries rose up. I heard some people saying, “call 911.” I turned to a group on my right pointed at them and shouted “Call 911! I know CPR” and ran towards the man. I gulped, I knew this was going to be very bad, but I also knew that somebody had to do something. As I approached the man on the ground, nothing about his body seemed to make sense, he wore grey pants and a blue shirt but I could not tell if he was on his front, back or side. I kneeled next to him putting my left hand on what might have been his shoulder. My first thought was to check for breathing. I looked for his mouth but saw only black hair, his open skull and one hemisphere of his brain which was still pulsating with blood. Instantly, I knew what the explosion had been, that he must have jumped from the balcony and that first aid was not going to help. I stood and turned back to the people in the atrium and said “He’s dead!” before repeating the euphemism “First Aid is not going to help him.”

“Not really but I’m going to keep going”
My concern now became to stop others from seeing what I had just seen and to minimize the panic and chaos. It took little effort to persuade most people to move back and leave the atrium although some people were frozen to the spot and just stared, others in the cafeteria didn’t know exactly what had happened and remained in line to pay for their sandwiches. I quickly saw that there was a more pressing problem; the man had landed directly in front of the elevators. A group had descended in the elevator and as the doors opened there was a wave of gasps and screams. I approached, told them to get back in the elevator and return to their offices. Another elevator arrived and I sent them back, too. By watching the floor indicator lights I could tell where the next elevator would arrive and attempt to shield the body from the elevator passengers’ view. This was not always successful but at least some people were spared the sight of the body. Interestingly, nobody argued with me.

Another man was attempting to control the stream of people trying to enter the atrium. He called out for a sheet to cover the body – nobody managed to find one - and for the security guard who remained at his post at the entrance to the building to shut down the elevators – he didn’t. I helped him to close the large double doors leading into the atrium from the building’s front lobby. This stopped the flow of people coming into the atrium. I stayed behind the doors with the body trying to intercept people as they came down in the elevators. One man who arrived on his own in an elevator calmly asked what was happening. I told him that a man had jumped from the balcony and that his body was behind me, he leaned over to look, I told him to go back upstairs, he asked if he could just go out of the front of the building and I let him go through. A group of women arrived; one woman was screaming, talking to somebody on her cellphone and demanded to see my ID badge. I don’t remember clearly but I either pushed her, or her friends pulled her, back into the elevator and she left.

The man who had closed the atrium doors put his head through them and asked if I was OK. I replied “No, not really but I’m going to keep going until the cops get here.” The stream of people arriving in the elevators had slowed and this gave me time to think. Perhaps I should take off my shirt to cover the man’s body? Perhaps I should jam the elevators to stop more people coming down? I began to wonder how much longer I would have to stay. I noticed one man standing immobile in the cafeteria staring through the window at the body. I gesticulated and shouted for him to leave through the back of the atrium but he stood mute and paralyzed. I knew he needed help but I dared not leave my post in front of the elevators.

Perhaps bizarrely, my thoughts also turned to how I was going to cope with the mental effect this was having on me. I remembered hearing that after witnessing something horrific it is important to expose yourself to something natural and beautiful. I really wanted the situation to come to an end.

Relief arrives
My best guess is that the first City Police officer came through the door about five minutes after the incident started. But, in truth, my perception of the passage of time can hardly have been accurate so it could have been a much shorter or much longer period of time. The officer was carrying yellow cordon tape. Another group descended in an elevator and I sent them back upstairs. I reported the facts I knew to the cop. One of the office park’s security guards arrived about 10-15 seconds after the police officer. His first words were to me, asking if he could leave. I was angry, wondering why he had not arrived sooner but I restricted myself to saying that it didn’t look like he could be much help and that he should go. Two paramedics arrived and it was only then that I realized that the policeman had encircled the area with yellow crime scene tape and that I was inside the crime scene. The paramedics had a body bag and a “DOA certificate.” The policeman told me to go and wait “over there.”
Return
I returned to my lunch table. My phone, newspaper, lunchbox, mortgage documents, pen and notepad were all still there. I wanted to cry. Instead, I started to write my name, address and phone number on the notepad. The pen did not write well; perhaps the sweat from my hands had moistened the paper. The police officer came over, asked for my name, I handed him the sheet of notepaper and showed him my driver’s license. He said I was free to go and I left.

Getting out of the office
I walked out of the back of the atrium around the lake, across the road, through the smokers at the back of my building, who were talking about the incident. I was trembling. I found my supervisor who was categorical that I should go home. I told him that I was in no state to drive and that I needed to go for a walk to calm my nerves.
(LangdaleBeck Langdale Beck, Sat 3 Aug 2013, 2:55, 25 replies)

This is not my story - it was told to me by a chaplain who'd worked at a private boys school
One of the boys in the school died from meningitis and the school decided to conduct a memorial service in their old and creaky chapel.

After singing some hymns chosen by the parents, he delivered a eulogy as solemnly as he could whilst catching the eye of the devastated couple in the front row. He then called for congregation to kneel and take a few moments silence in contemplation.

He reached under the lectern for his kneeler... and rammed a huge splinter from the decaying floor straight up under a fingernail. He managed to supress the girly scream, but tears of sheer pain rolled down his face. As he started to lead the Lord's Prayer, he caught the mother's eye and her face softened.

As they left, he then had lie to the mother that, yes, he too was overwhelmed with sadness at her son's death. Sadness that increased with every squeeze she gave his hand.

Apparently they don't teach these skills at priest-school.
( chthonic, Fri 2 Aug 2013, 9:50, 6 replies)

Damsel saves a gentleman in distress
At the moment I'm staying with my parents who have a hotel in the tropics.

The other night a man came up and asked me to please remove a couple of spiders from his room as they were too big and he couldn't handle them.

He was at least 2m tall and must have weighed around 120kg.

I am a 1m60 female and tip the scales at 48kg after a big dinner.

I gently ushered the (2 inch - which is tiny here) spiders out of his room with my hands while his girlfriend stared at him in disgust.

I don't think he got any that night.
(snakelady, Tue 6 Aug 2013, 15:38, 10 replies)

TV Adverts
Right - please think no less of me.

There is a advert on British TV, for Robinsons Squash I think, that has two kids running about, talking about girls, on the park, etc. Ends with a glass of squash each and the one of the carries the other upstairs, and its "g'night dad", "g'night son"

The first time I saw it, my 6 yr old said "that's like me and you, Dad". Since then, I have to leave the room. Too much.

I thought "Up" was bad. And "Bambi". But that sodding advert now, I have to leave the room.

Thank you all.
(Strump striving for imperfection since, Sat 3 Aug 2013, 1:30, 3 replies)

An unpleasant series of events.
I used to work for a charity project that worked with sex workers with addiction problems - i.e. most of them.

It's a pretty tough job. You can't do it from an office, and you spend a lot of your day out on the street, talking to them, listening to their life stories, and helping them with getting their lives back on track.

Anyhow, that's the background, but one day I was out there working when some kid I didn't like at school came roaring up in a Honda Accord and beat the crap out of me. I managed to hold the tears in at the time, but finally broke down a few days later when I saw him out on the town with a supermodel girlfriend.

Sorry.
( prince-igor si tacuisses, philosophus mansisses, Fri 2 Aug 2013, 16:07, 8 replies)

Just recently, I went for a hellish assessment day and naturally, nearly got a promotion. Which didn't suck as hard as it could have because no one else I work with got it either.

Fast forward a couple of weeks and after much deliberation we were allowed to reapply along with external applicants so I resubmitted my application and lo and behold, I didn't even make it to the interview stage. Imagine my humiliation when everyone else I work with did.

I spent the rest of the afternoon in a black mood, pretending to get on with work. That is until a colleague came over and asked if I was ok. Don't you just hate it when you are trying to hold it together and someone does that? When I said ‘I’m fine’ it sounded more like ‘Fuck. Off.’

About 10 minutes, later I flounced out like the great big loser that I am, and went home to get drunk and cry (Apparently my other half found me asleep on the sofa in my tights and shirt with a bottle of ginger grouse in my hand and eye makeup streaked all over my face and neck – what a treat).

Furthermore, I have, through gritted teeth, suffered the further humiliation of people commenting their surprise and outrage that I didn't get through when most other people did. I'd like to thank each and every one of them for their concern by punching them in the face and then crying whilst eating chocolate liqueurs. But instead I smile politely and echo their surprise.

More importantly, no one even noticed my flounce, that's how much of a dim-witted gonk I am; Failing on every level.
(GirlOfTheWorld, Fri 2 Aug 2013, 12:21, 8 replies)

This is one of those times where manning up was the only option available....
Every few weeks, myself and the neighbours, along with a few friends, elect a place to go for a day or night out and we all go and have a good time together doing whatever is suggested. There's normally about 12 of us that form the main group but there can be more, depending on the event/available funds. We've hired canal boats for the day, gone to some gigs, drank in strange towns - that sort of thing.

Anyway, it was the school holidays and, as some of us have kids, it was decided that a day out including them would be fun. We'd spend the day at a place called the Crocky Trail, near Chester in Cheshire. This is a place where all the activities are home made and a place where Health and Safety very rarely make an appearance. It's a lot safer now than it ever was, but it's not a place for the heavily pregnant or sufferers of Osteoporosis and the like.

The place has things to swing from, climb up, slide down - usual physical activity stuff - that is big enough for kids and adults to play on together, and we had been on a few things and survived. But that's not what this story is about.

On the way around the site, there are a few 'objects' that have been placed around for you to look at in wonder, rather than climb, and one such thing is Gulliver's Chair - it looks like a normal chair except that it's made of telegraph poles, so you can imagine the size of it. The seat, we reckoned afterwards, was about 5m up....a great place to get everybody up onto for a group photo. We happily ignored the "Do Not Climb" sign and set about spending a good half hour or so helping eachother, and the kids, aloft this monster piece of furniture. I know....responsible parenting was exchanged for the chance of adventure and a great photo!

Anyway, all went well and those that were able to make the climb did so, while those that couldn't took the photos. It was lovely up there, as long as you didn't rock about too much or go near the rotten poles...

We had got just about everybody down again safely and (as far as I can remember) I was the last (or nearly last) to come down. I don't really know what happened but I remember my foot not connecting with anything solid and then a very, VERY, rapid descent sideways onto the concrete below....

Now....I hit the ground from the bar below the seat, so it was only about 2m high but in that fall I knew I had landed hard as nothing in my body seemed to belong to me any more. There wasn't any pain but I was winded and breathing like a fat kid running to a buffet. I lay there for a minute or so and then looked around at the entire group looking at me as if I was dead. Ambulances were mentioned so at that point I felt I had to get up and show I was OK. I was told not to stand, of course, but I had to man up and get to my feet. As I did, I hit my head on the crossbar that I had slipped from and fell back down like a sack of shit,.

I had to laugh that one off - that was just a dumb thing that happened - so I rose again, more carefully this time, and gave myself a quick check over. I felt a little drunk and unsteady, but otherwise ok. My hand hurt a bit, my chest was sore, my leg was numb and I was a little dazed, but had to put on a brave face as the kids were starting to cry!

We hadn't actually been at the place for very long so I said I would walk off the pain for ten minutes and see how I go - if I need medical help, I promised I would let everybody know and then go to be checked. Of course, we'd been looking forward to this day for weeks and I wasn't going to let them down. I gritted my teeth, dragged my sorry ass around that place for the rest of the day, pretending everything was ok but just bruised or something. I even joked about how I'll "feel it in the morning!".

After the day out at the trail, it was planned that we'd go for a pub dinner - I'd driven to the trail so jumped straight into the driver's seat and set off. I used to own a VW Transporter and can honestly say that the clutch was easier to use in that than the Ford Escort I was driving. My left leg was agony to use! Of course, again, I had to keep a brave face, after all, I had promised to say if I felt the need for hospital....

So we arrived at the pub, managed to eat a meal despite finding it hard to breathe, swallow, hold anything in my right hand or even raise enough energy to join in the banter. I couldn't even face a drink. It was THE most miserable, painful pub meal I had ever had.

After any of our days out, we head home to the neighbour's house. I live next door of course so my kids were able to run around and I could get a beer. That beer, I think, got me through the next couple of hours as by now my body was hating me and wanting to curl up into a ball and die somewhere. I knew that in a few hours, once my wife was home from work and able to take over the looking after of the kids, I could go for help. The end was in sight....

So she duly arrived, the kids were placed into bed and kissed goodnight and, as they chattered between themselves about how great a day they had had, and how happy they were and how amazing we'd all been to them, I slid slowly down the stairs and into my friend's car, where I was taken to the nearest A&E.

Turned out I had done more than a little damage. I'd broken my right wrist in two places, broken one rib at both ends and two ribs at one end each. I had torn a muscle in my right thigh, severely bruised my left shoulder, damaged a tendon in my right foot and had some internal bruising in the kidney area (I won't tell you how difficult it was to piss for about 2 weeks after. Oh.....I just did...). They were amazed I'd lasted the 12 hours or so since the injury and thought I was an idiot not only for climbing that chair thing in the first place, for falling off it but for not getting an ambulance. I kinda agreed at that point....

So there it was.....to avoid upsetting the kids and ruining a day out with my best friends and neighbours, I carried on with a broken body around a kids play park, eaten a pub lunch, driven and partied, all while looking after the 4 kids I had taken. I can, hand on heart, say that I "Manned Up" on this occasion, right?
(INGSOC Room 101 will be awaiting you on, Sun 4 Aug 2013, 20:14, 6 replies)

Kids TV
Charlie Brooker's tribute to the late Oliver Postgate had my bottom lip quivering. Watch it here...
www.youtube.com/watch?v=uAftt3UnzoI
( sandettie light vessel automatic New Twitter - @bollocksreally, Sat 3 Aug 2013, 17:51, 2 replies)

I've had me share of broken bones, but nothing to write home about.
(though a herniated disc in my back put them all in the shade, pain-wise. Unremitting agony for 2 weeks solid). Anyway this one is about my brother, who has a job maintaining mountain bike trails in the mountains of British Columbia, his best girl by his side. One day he was out chainsawing a large fir that had fallen across the trail, partialy broken. As he severed it from the stump, the tension in the tree caused it to buck back up, in the blink of an eye ripping open his leg from his calf to his groin, pulling out muscles, making a mess of his knee joint, and severing his femoral artery. They say he lost almost two litres of blood in the first minute before he was able to take off his belt and tornique his thigh. Fighting to keep himself conscious, he then took out his cell and called help, and stayed on the line to guide them to his position, a very long couple of hours.
He was lucky in that the nearest hospital happened to have a visiting vascular surgeon, one of the best in Canada, and he was able to repair the arteries and save the leg from amputation. He still skis (my brother that is, I don't know about the surgeon) but has a limp and some impressive scars. there is a time in life for keeping your shit together
( cumquat may will not be commenting further on the allegations, Wed 7 Aug 2013, 1:33, 5 replies)

Catching mice
Capitan Fuckin' Positive's post reminded me, a while back I caught a mouse in my kitchen. It was just sitting on the worktop staring at me when I turned on the light, probably a bit too surprised to move and hoping I'd just go away.

Of course then what could I do with it? Throw it outside? Then it would just come back in. No, I needed a humane way to kill it. I could have just left it in the jar I'd dropped it into with the lid screwed down until it suffocated but that seemed a bit cruel. I know, car exhaust!

Right, let's start my car. Oh, it's been sitting parked for a couple of weeks and has run out of electricity. Bugger. Right, let's try my girlfriend's car. No, I can't find the keys and they're probably in the bedroom where she is asleep. Let's not wake her up with a mouse in a jar, eh? Okay, and the van is diesel which has non-toxic exhaust fumes.

So that is how I came to be standing in the back garden at 3am in my underwear trying to kick-start a recalcitrant motorbike, to provide some carbon monoxide to do away with a mouse that had probably already died of boredom.
(gordonjcp, Tue 6 Aug 2013, 17:59, 3 replies)

I want my Mummy!
I am a teacher; a tweed-clad, chalk-dusted wrangler of the tiny-humans. I teach science, which means that at occasional, brief intervals between cups of coffee, I have opportunity, means, and motive to set things on fire for the delight and betterment of the next generation of mankind.

Occasionally, however, there is the opportunity to string together several of these 'demonstrations' into something even more exciting. It was science week, and I had planned a lunchtime of explosions to entertain the masses and enthuse them if the joys of the subject. A dozen dutiful little nerdlings arrived, and I began light things on fire.

'Ooooh!' They say, as the first demo happens. 'That was a hot one!' I quip, hilariously.

'Aaaaaah!', they coo. As various miniature-sized delights spew steam across the desk. 'Nearly got me that time!', I yell, at a volume needlessly elevated for the small crowd.

And so we continue at this game for a little while. The room gradually fills with smoke, and my reputation grows as master of all things fiery and dangerous. So confident was I, that when I go to set off my last explosion of the session, I forget about the rather fragile and less-than-fire-retardant nature of my fingers. The explosion (a displacement reaction involving magnesium and copper oxide, for those interested in recreating my misery accurately) lights up the desk, and leaves me with second degree burns on my finger and thumb.

'Ow!' I shout, desperately fighting the urge to unload the most violently cuntitudinous and visceral swearing. 'Hahaha!', laugh the children. 'No, seriously!', I mutter, through gritted teeth, 'I think I might be actually hurt!'. 'Hahaha, good one, Sir!', they cry.

It takes nearly a full minute, before I convince one of them to go and fetch a proper, responsible adult. I spend the rest of the day cursing gently in front of vastly unsympathetic ranks of bored teenagers, and the rest of the week with my finger and thumb bandaged up like a poorly mummified lobster.

I love my job.
(Serotonicity was a naughty boy on..., Thu 1 Aug 2013, 20:52, 2 replies)

Dating the manager of a pub has its pros and cons
On the plus side, free beer. However, when customers get aggressive and violent, you're expected to step in. More than once I've had to eject some idiot who thinks threatening the barstaff is acceptable behaviour, though thankfully they're usually so pissed that their wobbly, telegraphed haymakers have about as much chance of landing as the Colombia space shuttle.
( emvee cruor deo cruoris, Thu 1 Aug 2013, 17:47, 19 replies)

One Hell of a Turd!
The time was 8AM, and my anus was starting to feel cramped. Maybe it was the chicken kebabs I had eaten- mayhaps it was the visit to 'Wok This Way' last night and all the sushi I'd sampled. Perhaps it was the 10 pints of Pale Ale I had guzzled the night before. Maybe it was merely the psychological noose that I'd be leaving soon, and if I didn't expel my bowels now, I could be waiting for hours. All I knew was I needed to shite. And fast.

'Riddle me dee, riddle me doo. There's nothing wrong with an early morning poo.' I chanted to myself. Walking into the toilet I felt as if it was just a necessity that'd all be over soon- wham, bam, thankyou ma'am. No big issue. Little did I know, I was dancing into the danger zone.

As I had a nice, solid shite, I thought to myself 'This one's looking like a straight 10 on the sphincter scale.' I finished up and wiped my ass. It's always been part of my morals to never leave the toilet until at least 3 sheets of toilet paper had been firmly rubbed over my ass and came out of it pure, solid white. I had reached that point, and it was time to flush. The flush led to a blockage. 'Not a problem,' I thought, grabbing the toilet brush, 'I'll push it down.' I grabbed the end of the toilet brush and thrusted the other end into the deepest bowels of the toilet bowl, making sure not to go too low and get my hands dirty. After a bit of grafting, I decided to go for another flush. Pushing down on the lever, I expected all my problems to go away. Imagine my horror as things took a turn for the worse.

The toilet bowl rose with water that was becoming a bilious tone of brown. Clumps of toilet roll were floating around in the swampy matter. Lumps of shite had even found their way onto the toilet brush. Absolutely abhorrible. Disgusting. I knew I couldn't risk another brushing, no one wants to see shite all over the family toilet brush. The only option was another flush, but I had to wait for the water to sink low enough so as not to overflow the bowl. It's times like these I start to think of inventing a toilet bowl with a point of reference for when it's safe to take another flush, it's moments like these it's really needed. But, alas, I was without any point of reference, and the water didn't seem to be moving an inch. I knew it was risky- but I took the final flush.

My heart pounded as the Ghanian Soup began to climb its way up the bowl, closer and closer to the tip. I felt like this was a life or death matter- I can't see myself maintaining any will to live if I happened to get flooded with brown, shitty water. Just as the offensive matter reached the last millimeter of the toilet bowl, I held my breath. I closed my eyes. I started to become nauseous and faint, in pure fright at the vision of what was about to happen. Just as soon as I was ready to pass out, I heard a sharp, galloping noise. I opened my eyes and watched as all my problems flushed away through the pipes, leaving the toilet as clean as an obsessive-compulsive volleyball coach's whistle. It was over. I had looked the devil in the eyes, and came out alive on the other side.
(SirStromming, Thu 8 Aug 2013, 6:49, 4 replies)

Disposable
As I sit here on the floor with the blinds closed, the deafening emptiness of the room washing over me and pinning my mouth shut, I often think of him. He always arrived at the most unexpected moments; sometimes in a rush, carelessly manhandling me and pushing me around; sometimes with the greatest delicacy (often late at night), sliding his soundless footfalls up to me and easing me open. It never really mattered that there was always that famous thin layer of plastic between us...he was so focused on keeping clean, after all. It was enough to feel his hands on me, sometimes the warmth of his feet, and I still tingle when I think of the feeling of fullness he left behind. On rare occasions he would come home with someone else; I always secretly looked forward to those times, especially when it was a woman, as there was a gentleness and respect with which she would coax me to open up.

In spite of all the cast-off emotions and detritus I had to take from him on a daily basis, I never rebelled, never complained, never expressed a wish for anything different.

Some of the memories of those times are fading now, like a scattering of hot sparks from a dying firework that wink off into the darkness of the past, but I will always know my true calling, no matter if every last person in the world stays about from me.
( .Yeti. El amor en los tiempos del cólera, Tue 6 Aug 2013, 9:59, 7 replies)

Drain clearance
Clearing the annual fat blockage of the kitchen sink drain is a manly enough activity, but today...

After scooping all the congealed ick into a bucket I look down to see an eyeball gently float to the surface. Barely suppressed girly scream later, I realise it's a googly-eye that the kids must have flushed down the sink.
( chthonic, Sun 4 Aug 2013, 15:20, 8 replies)

Bus from Ealing back to Greenford about 12 years ago.
Sat on the top deck at the front with my flatmate. Gang of about 6 guys sat next to and behind us and started demanding we give them money. I had my rent money on me so wasn't about to hand it over so said no. They started to make threats so I stood up they blocked my way so I pushed through with all the strength I could muster. Amazingly I ended up on the other side of them so I legged it to the stairs and started to descend. Unfortunately they had a 7th guy waiting as lookout at the bottom of the steps who ran up the stairs and delivered an uppercut to my chin. I went down like a sack of spuds and they all piled in and kicked the shit out of me. Bus driver pulled over and let them off the bus. He later told the police that he thought I had just fallen over. I had several people saying things like "Oh sorry mate I didn't want to get involved you know what its like" and I don't blame them really but everyone had mobile phones then and not one person called the police. I ended up with broken nose, black eyes, chipped teeth, cracked ribs and bruising covering my back. Only thing that I still have to show for it is a scar on my chin where the first punch landed. My flat mate, not a fucking scratch.

They didn't get my rent money though.
( Peej, Fri 2 Aug 2013, 8:13, 3 replies)

My daughter when she was 8 years old
She was out in the boat with us when we a pulling up some nets we'd left out over night. Unfortunately we'd managed to catch not one, but three young seals.

As we set about untangling their corpses from the nets I was concerned that she might find it all a bit too much an asked her if she was alright.

"Yeah" she replied before adding "Can I take their eyes out?"

Not sure if she was MTFU or psychoing TFU. She hasn't shown any other serial killer tendencies since.
(Brigadier an old boot sitting on a man's face - forever, Tue 6 Aug 2013, 20:07, 15 replies)

I killed a mouse once.
the cats had been at it and there was no way it would survive, so the quickest and most humane way I could find to end it's suffering was to hit it very hard with a brick. A small thing maybe but I am a complete wuss in these matters and it still makes me feel shitty to think about it.
( CQ Knows the truth, all of it., Tue 6 Aug 2013, 15:50, 10 replies)

You know of the film "Marley and me"?
You know the scene where the dog dies?

Yes?

Well, I was caught wanking to it.
( Muns, Tue 6 Aug 2013, 12:47, 3 replies)

On the phone at work
Contact lens fell out mid conversation to a Very Important Customer, no worries just pop it back in.

Forgot I'd been eating salt and vinegar crisps 5 minutes earlier.
( TGB checking Off Topic is still shit at, Mon 5 Aug 2013, 14:50, 4 replies)

Broke up with my ex
Face to face. She was crying and everything.

Ran out of free txt messages hadn't I?
(Frample Tromwibbler climbs an obstacle like old people fuck, Mon 5 Aug 2013, 9:36, 1 reply)

Went to work with a hangover.
Didn't pull a sickie.
( Je suis un vagabond is an unfunny, up your own arse middle class knob, Mon 5 Aug 2013, 9:01, 15 replies)

1) Due to having a lacrimal gland dysfunction I cannot weep like a blubber-titted bitch.
2) Due to having a BPD linked to depression I am without fear.
2) I lack concentration.
3) Even the deaths of relatives, my father included delivered not one negative emotional response.

In summary, I come across as a right callous bastard. Being well built, I come across as a massive, callous bastard and because I like fighting I drive a Honda Accord.

Truth is, I ran a pub in a really rough town. It was a rough pub but in five years it was a splendid safe pub and busy. I did however have to fight for the right to establish order and I still get abuse some 20 years later from the maggots who I barred or twatted. Trouble is the twatted ones are breeders and now have young sons to do their battles. So it fucking goes.

The other truth is, that before I got that pub I was barred from every pub in that town and this is before the days of Pubbed and Clubbed (that is, barred from one premises barred from them all). Why, because before the internet I was a pub troll (wind up merchant) and fights ensued, LOLS.

One other thing, I witnessed an horrendous car accident, back in the day when cars were just sheet metal and crumple zones were talked about). Within seconds I found myself doing the exact opposite of what I always imagined myself doing in that situation, I ran to help. And indeed did help.
( d.r._and_quinch when will you be famous?, Fri 2 Aug 2013, 19:39, 19 replies)

My sister in law died of lung cancer treatment recently.
I found my silk "funeral tie" (a sign of getting older that it has been declared that), dressed in my suit and best white shirt and arrived at the church with my mother, younger brother and his wife.
I have been to other funerals in recent years including that of my -3 month old nephew and my best friend's dad. So, I knew what to expect.
The vicar started with the usual Christian bullshit (appologies to believers but I have to be honest) and I started to get rwady to hear the tears. I was sitting away from my immediate family, including my widower brother and his son, and near my cousin's daughter -- a loverly young lass who, I think, thinks of me as some dull old stand-offish weirdo. I expected the girl to cry.
What happened, instead, was that my eyes started to tear up in a way that only the crappest drugs and the hottest chilli have done before.
I was alternately standing and sitting, as these CofE things do, between a kid I used to babysit for and a woman I'd never met and I was sniffing like a coke-head trying to stop my nose running with cry-flem.
I never did let go though, unortunately, and wish I had both taken tissues and been man enough to just cry.
In his speech my nephew told us that she didn't want tears apart from at her funeral. I wonder whether I shall ever mourn the wpman who took me to school when I insisted I didn't want to go and who taught me the manners which have both saved my skin and allowed me to have some good experiences.
TL;DR: Manning up means not being reluctant to cry when you need to.
(Me, I'm not... in any way intoxicated, Fri 2 Aug 2013, 19:26, 3 replies)

Body Horror
God was drunk when he made me. I have a nonmalignant brain tumour, IBS, fibromyalgia and two types of migraine along with gynae trouble that even other women get all squicky about... But the nastiest thing yet happened to me about two hours ago.

I am a jeweler and this morning I was setting a stone. I was putting rather a lot of pressure on a tool made of a sliver of steel, which unbeknownst, was flawed.

It snapped with enough force to rip my fake and real nail almost completely off. The very nice ambulance man gave me gas and air (which is goooood shit, believe you me, and a fine substance with which, due to my various ills, I am well acquainted) so that he could pull it off completely as leaving the mm or so left would just catch on everything and be a nuisance.

So today I got to watch some bloke rip my finger nail off.

Is my index finger on my right hand for extra inconvenience.

Since I take massive pain meds as due course due to being a lazy cripple, I didn't raise much of a fuss, so my colleagues think I'm well hard. On the phone to my better half in the loo, however, I was a blubbering mess.

Edit: the root of your nail, ie, the bit under the cuticle is surprisingly long, many mm, thus how dead folks' nails seem to grow as the skin rots and draws up.
(Odinsdottir wants to tell you about her cats, Fri 2 Aug 2013, 15:02, 8 replies)

I'm a lover, not a fighter
Coming back on the tube from a New Year's party with the missus a couple of years back, we found ourselves seated opposite four gangstas of indeterminate ethnicity; all puffa jackets, baseball caps and some sort of fighting dog on a chain. All was fine until one of the scrawnier guys decided that he was going to entertain his fellows and thought it would be hilarious to wave his arse, clearly visible above his low-slung jeans, in Mrs Emvee's face. Now I'd usually go out of my way to avoid a physical confrontation because I'm not especially big or intimidating or threatening, but there are certain times that you can't avoid getting into a situation and I was fucked if I was going to let this scrote mock my woman in front of me. So I stood up.

He was still laughing at his clever joke - "Hur hur, I just waved my arse in a girl's face!", you know, the sort of thing that would impress Monty with its sophistication - so I took a step closer into his personal space and asked in my deepest voice: "Is there something funny?"

All of a sudden the laughs stopped and he squared up to me, saying "Yeah, you and your girlfriend, monobrow*." So, burying every instinct I had that was screaming at me to run and get the fuck out of there, I suggested that he might like to apologise to her. Time stopped for a second and the tension in the carriage was palpable. I looked from him to the bigger guy who was sitting with the dog, and shrugged "Well?"

Thankfully that guy had a little more sense than the both of us and he put out a hand, guiding his buddy back into his seat with a "Leave it, bruv." One muttered apology later and I sat back down again, relief at not having been stabbed flowing through my every vein.

They got off at the next stop, after which an older guy from a little further down the carriage, who appeared to have been built out of brick shithouses, came up to me and said: "Well done for standing up to those pricks. I've been itching to smack the fuck out of them all journey, and if it had kicked off I'd have killed the cunts."

*My eyebrows don't meet in the middle. Again, this is the sort of humour that Monty would no doubt appreciate.
( emvee cruor deo cruoris, Fri 2 Aug 2013, 14:52, 26 replies)