The end of The Devil's Rejects
Sure, they murdered, mutilated and sexually abused hundred, maybe thousands of innocent people - pre AND post mortem - but they were still a family, damn it. A family that loved each other. They shouldn't have died like that. It's not right. Oh great, now it's starting me off again.
( Two Hats 🎩🎩, Sun 4 Aug 2013, 12:12, Reply)

The first time I read this, and knew that nothing would ever, EVER top it. Stop the internet, Jacob won it.
my name is jacob dyer and i live in bristol. it is fantastic. i sound like barnaby bear. i like barnaby bear. one time he went to france. i went to france. but some kid burnt my neck. i didnt like it.

Oh the humanity.
( stuj (^(^;;^)^) GO TEAM SPIDERS!(^(^;;^)^), Sun 4 Aug 2013, 8:22, 2 replies)

Showing off to a rather attractive lady who was following me in her car...
I stacked my bike, it in a rather spectacular fashion flew off down the road in a shower of sparks and flames, I myself apparently managed some quite big air before landing in the road. The car pulled up aforementioned lady and other passengers leapt out of car thinking i was dead. At which point I jumped up shouting 'Did you fucking see that!!!'

Laughed hysterically and then passed out because I was jumping about on a broken foot. Off to hospital got put in a cast and demanded we still go to the rave we were originally heading for.

Discovered halfway through rave the very attractive lady had done a runner as she thought I was mental.

Met new girlfriend at rave.
(Captain_lambkin adifferent.me, Sat 3 Aug 2013, 19:49, Reply)

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)

learning that i can't fly
trying to be like one of the boys to, well, impress one of the boys. climbed the same tree they all climbed, only they didn't fall out of said tree, get the wind knocked out of them and have their arsecheek impaled by a sharp twig.
it hurt like fuck, but did i cry? did i bollocks.
sadly, boy was unimpressed, so i snogged his mate.
( Smash Monkey lowering the tone of the whole internet, Sat 3 Aug 2013, 14:36, 1 reply)

Interesting to nobody: (EDITED EDITION; IGNORE THE MAIDEN ANGST)
Had a row with the boyfriend on Monday night - nothing earth shattering. He then went to visit his parents oop norf on Tuesday but forgot his phone, so he's been out of contact. Never mind...he bought Iron Maiden tickets for my birthday present, so we can sort things out & make up tomorrow!

Wait. Briefly reopened my facebook account to look for a photo I thought I'd left on there. Didn't find the photo...but did find the boyfriend's relationship status set to "single"...

Tl/dr: just found out I've been dumped...and worse, I'm not seeing Maiden on Sunday...

You may now take the piss.

EDIT OF GLEE:

...the tickets were in the "speckle" section (ie you need a cripple to get you in) and he couldn't find another one in time...I got to go after all!

WOOT!
( Proboscisface wrong sounding muppet, Sat 3 Aug 2013, 13:37, 17 replies)

When he crawls through the sewer pipe and escapes and Star Wars.

( Je suis un vagabond is an unfunny, up your own arse middle class knob, Sat 3 Aug 2013, 12:15, 1 reply)

Pearoast
Not funny
My late father died of "A left occiputal astrocytoma" according to his death certificate.
It may be alleged that he actually died of a Diamorphine sulphate and Haloperidol overdose, administeredby person or persons unknown, at his written request.
The only people who, in the course of a hypothetical conversation, would (and have) condemned the aforementioned "person or persons unknown" for the alleged administering of said overdose have been Christians.
It would have been illegal to allow a dog to carry on in such unrelenting agony, yet it's right to allow it to happen to a human?

Whoever "person or persons unknown" are, they're going to Hell. I'd give them a pat on the back while shaking their hand.*


*If it wasn't anatomically impossible.
(Captain Placid 24/7 ball gags, brownie mix and clown porn, Sat 3 Aug 2013, 8:33, 12 replies)

When my wifes grandmother died we were all in a lot of shock but the family needed someone strong to make the arrangements, so I became that man
Nah, what am I saying? I hated the poisonous old cow and faked sympathy for weeks to disguise my delight
( cumquat may will not be commenting further on the allegations, Sat 3 Aug 2013, 4:07, 5 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)

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)

Rat race
There's no truly ideal time to realise that there's a rat in the house, but 4am isn't in the top ten of great times. Attracted by the clatter of bottles from the bathroom, I walked in to see a large male rat - roughly the size of a Yorkshire terrier - raising hell on the windowsill.

We eyeballed one another in complete silence for about three quarters of a second, and then it squeaked at me. Well, I say "squeaked". Only in Disney films do rats squeak. This one opened its evil purple gob and screamed at me, producing a sound that Ridley Scott would have immediately laid down on tape for his next Alien saga.

I wanted to run. In the face of that demonic sound, every instinct compelled my feet. Instead (and to this day I don't know where I found the required personal reserves) I chased the little bastard around the room half a dozen times while it did a gravity-defying Wall of Death on the tiles, then grabbed it. And self-preservation cut in at that point: when you're holding a large and angry rat, it is vitally important not to slacken your grip, unless you want to find out what skin grafts are for. So I dispatched it.

No, you don't want the details. You genuinely don't.
(Leda74, Sat 3 Aug 2013, 1:04, 3 replies)

WWWIIILLLSSSOOONNN
Watching Castaway while on a date, and trying to stay dry eyed through one of the saddest movies scenes out there...
( zulu eh?, Fri 2 Aug 2013, 22:24, 7 replies)

Cursing Helps You Focus
I mentioned before that moment when, sliding down the slippery snow on Mt. Hood in Oregon with just a bamboo pole to arrest myself, I realized I was out-of-control and would certainly fall to my death:
b3ta.com/questions/ignoredadvice/post1785120

We were hurtling straight towards a crevasse (technically a bergschrund), which sported a 30-to-50 meter tall cliff, depending where you sailed off.

Panicking, I aimed my descent and plummeted straight into my friend, who was able to arrest both our descents with his ice axe. I started cursing him with the foulest language imaginable, even though he had just saved my life. Completely inappropriate, I know, and a source of embarrassment in the retelling, but the alternative was crying like a little girl.

The sun was setting. We had to figure out something fast. FOCUS to avoid death! Further panic will not be helpful.

After scary sliding experiments brought us closer to the brink, I discovered I could roll over, hug the snow, and stop on my own. And I could take tiny baby steps downhill. And that seemingly-minor knowledge was just what I needed to escape.
(Perv With A Dog had his eyes pecked out by scrub jays on, Fri 2 Aug 2013, 20:20, 1 reply)

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)

I read the last book in His Dark Materials on the train
When I got to the bit near the end where two characters, well... I won't spoil it, but it's emotional.

When I got to that bit, I had to stagger, bleary eyed, to the toilet and shut myself in a good while. Nooooooooooooooooo!
(IHateSprouts is baking a huge pie shaped like an enormous pie, Fri 2 Aug 2013, 18:55, 6 replies)

Very relevant QOTW
First time round about 4 years ago dad got cancer diagnosis. Took him 18 months to get sliced, diced, radiated, and poisoned enough to get the all clear. The next time round was 4 months after the all clear, another close family member. It was just me & the OH at the time. No one else available to do the physical work and mental work of dealing with hospices and funerals this time round. 2 weeks ago it's mums turn. And it's quick, and I'm the only one available to do the physical making sure she's ok stuff. She gets out of hospital and I return to the real world, only to discover on Monday that not only am I interviewing a number of people all day Tuesday, but on Tuesday, mum gets her prognosis, on top of that, the Bad Cop to my Good Cop has pulled out of interviews, and I have nowhere to interview people.

Tuesday evening, when it turned out ok - I found rooms where none apparently existed, I found oppos to interview people with, the prognosis was not terrible for mum, and on top of that mum's family members had swung into action, whereas previously it had been left to me & my bonkersly unreliable brother or somewhat deranged ex, I nearly cried like a girl (I am a girl).
( Whodathunkit, Fri 2 Aug 2013, 18:52, Reply)

That bit in ET where they think he's dead
and then the flower starts to revive....

*bottom lip quivers*

('pols for spoiler)
(CADmonkey rollllllllled another one, just like the other one, Fri 2 Aug 2013, 18:49, 5 replies)

Good Old Albert...he always manned the fuck up.
b3ta.com/questions/ihurtmyrudebits2/post1891053
(Queen of the Harpies, a dedicated Marshmallow puppet, Fri 2 Aug 2013, 16:46, 2 replies)

Tax time.
(EffinNitWit asks his tobacco where his whisky is, Fri 2 Aug 2013, 16:23, 1 reply)

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)

It's a shoe-in
Well over a decade of summers ago I used to have a part-time job in a kids’ shoe shop. This place was a sweaty little dungeon at the best of times but during the summer in question the temperature was soaring. Shirts were sticking to backs, armpits were leaking like Ed Snowden with a bladder infection and the smell…let’s just say it could singe your nasal hairs at ten paces!

I used to have the unenviable job of measuring up the plates of meat on these little toe rags day in-day out. You could be talking about 40+ pairs of sweaty feet in a day which really wasn’t the way I imagined my summer progressing just after I’d finished my GCSE’s. While the rest of my mates were out and about variously smoking themselves into an early grave or terrorising local golfers, I was alone in my shoe shop purgatory. But hey, I was learning how to be self-sufficient and at least it earned me a bit of extra beer money.

Occasionally there were the good days though. It could be a rewarding job to those who are lucky enough to be serving a mother with their 4 year old itching to get their very first pair of school shoes. The proud look on their face soon turning to horror as little Billy proudly proclaims that he really likes the shiny (patent leather) ones. There’s nothing you can do but let the little fella get on with it or failing that, start a screaming match which would likely set off the umpteen other little’uns impatiently waiting to stick their feet into the foot measuring machine of doom.

On this particular occasion (the one that relates to QOTW) I was serving a young family with their two children aged around 4 and 6. I’d fitted the 4 year olds’ shoes without fuss and now it was onto the 6 year old cheeky chappy who’d patiently waited his turn. It was at this point his mother quietly beckoned me to one side to inform me that her eldest was autistic and could sometimes be a little “difficult”. “That’s no problem at all, madam” I said confidently, easing her nerves which in turn appeared to calm the lad as well.

The whole foot measuring, shoe fitting exercise went like a dream. The 6 year old was now the proud owner of some brand new Bootleg school shoes (it was a brand, honestly). Anyone that remembers them would know that these things were generally quite bulky shoes, built for the sturdier sole/soul. Anyone paying attention earlier will also remember me mentioning the autism factor which hitherto had not been a problem.

It was now in his moment of glory, new shoes boxed up and with a smile on his face as wide as your mam that he decided to strike. I’d just bent over to pick up the unwanted boxes of shoes to return them to the stock room. With the boxes neatly stacked and ready to pick up, the next thing I realised is that the boxes were strewn across the shop floor. As was I!

Now apparently I’d not been knocked completely cold although I definitely hadn’t seen the blow coming. Nor could I really remember it happening. What I did know is that I’d just been walloped across the bonce by a 6 year old with the superhuman strength that only autism can seem to give. As a profusely apologising mother assisted me to my feet, another drop of sweat (probably a tear) rolled down my face and dropped pathetically to the floor.

As far as I can remember afterwards, I finished the sale then went to the stock room for a cup of tea and a lie down. Such a damn shame that the pretty shop girls that I worked with didn’t seem to think it raised me up in the manliness rankings!
(Band of Rain, Fri 2 Aug 2013, 16:03, Reply)

The girlfriend dragged me along to the cinema
to watch Sex in the City 2.

The horror.... the horror.
(ParaSitius is an Optimistic Pessimist, Fri 2 Aug 2013, 15:30, 6 replies)

So anyway I'm totally the pacifist I don't go out looking for trouble or anything but I'll stand my ground if I need to and if someone's acting the prick I'll give 'em a slap if they need it.

( Je suis un vagabond is an unfunny, up your own arse middle class knob, Fri 2 Aug 2013, 15:25, 10 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)

Films
before the birth of my daughter I never cried at films. I could watch any emotionally charged film and although I'd recognise it was supposed to be making me cry I'd be rock solid & stoic

Since the birth of my daughter I have cried at children's films (toy story 3, Up) and films that Mrs Duck has selected that I grudgingly watch then get caught up in then end up sobbing like a big girl (Grave of the Fireflies, the Impossible) and even TV programs (can't remember any off hand but I expect that's defence mechanism to prevent merciless piss taking) I'd probably well up at an advert if they did the right combination of music and pathos.

Don't know what's happened apart from I seem to have turned in to a gert big softy
(sittingduck Attention seeking, bullshitting fuck-knuckle, Fri 2 Aug 2013, 14:57, 16 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)