Mince
I used to work with a guy. Lenny. I’m not saying he was tight but . . . duck’s posterior doesn’t do him justice. Single, never married, as rich as Croesus. Pathologically tight.

His speciality was the reduced price shelves at the local Co-op. Use-by or sell-by dates meant nothing to our Lenny. The cheaper the better. One day he fell lucky. An enormous box of mince. Probably not much better than pet mince when fresh. Buys the knocked-down mince. Envisions week’s worth of lasagne, chill, spaghetti bolognese.

Gets home. Puts all of the mince in a pan, on a low light. Nips out for a pint.

Upon his return, front door is open. Burglars! Trashed the joint. Pinched all sorts. But left him a present. A gently steaming present. In the pan of mince.

Regaled us with his tale the day after at work.

Sympathising at his loss. The invasion of his privacy. The violation of his mince.

“So Lenny” I said, “what did you do?”
“Well” he sighs, “I had to throw nearly a quarter of it away . . . . ”


Length? Hard to tell when it's curled like a Mister Whippy ice-cream.
(SalRossi Laughter the best medicine? Nurse, penicillin....., Thu 1 Mar 2007, 14:27, Reply)

The Pickiest Hobo
A long time ago, in a call centre far far away...

Back in my heyday I used to be a high-rolling, go-getting, world-is-my-oyster type of bloke, and as was befitting of a lad with my insatiable appetite for success, I had scaled the woozy heights of the corporate ladder and commanded a position in the “Contact Centre” of a household insurance company.

There isn’t space on the entire internet for me to fully vent spleen on the enduring fuckwittery of call centre employment, so I’ll stick to the point, which is that like every call centre on God’s green Earth, we were required to turn up in business attire in order to foster the illusion that we had real jobs, and yet were paid about a fifth as much as the bloke who cleaned the toilets after our allotted (and carefully monitored) 15 minutes of daily “bathroom time”.

‘Picky’ wasn’t an option. On good days, a plate of chips from the cafeteria would cost 50p. On really good days, and if they liked you, the lunch ladies would chuck a bit of gravy on there for free (never underestimate the maternal instincts of a forty-something dinner lady when faced with a starving and lost-looking 21-year-old boy in a cheap suit). On bad days, the coffee machine also dispensed powdered soup.

Only on pay day did we truly feel like kings, because we got to venture to the netherworld outside of the call centre, mix with the Outside Folk, and buy lunch at the McD*n*lds in the prefab 60’s mess of a shopping centre next door. It was also the only time of the month that the transient gentleman who slept in their doorway would bother to pester us for loose change. I suppose he figured (correctly) that any other week he’d be wasting his time because, despite the suits, his dog ate better than we did.

Then one month a miracle occurred. The stars aligned, and For A Limited Time Only, McD*n*lds were offering two B*g M*cs for the price of one. And lo, call centre staff from all the tribes of the Earth did rejoice, and great was their joy. For not only could we afford a meat-style, mostly non-toxic lunch for the first time in four weeks, but we got another one thrown in absolutely gratis.

Obviously the jubilation lasted about 24 hours. I mean, have you ever actually tried to eat two B*g M*cs? It’s impossible. Even the most impoverished phone gibbon can only really make it about half way through the second before realising just how fucking awful they are. Which leads me at long last to the point…

Upon approaching the aforementioned imitation-beef franchise, and upon being approached in turn by aforementioned gentleman of the road, I hit upon an idea. I'd politely refused his request for surplus coinage, partly because I didn’t have any, and partly because the concept of ‘spare money’ seemed so alien as to be faintly ludicrous, but instead I offered him my spare B*g M*c, which, to my stunned incredulity, he declined.

I have nothing but sympathy for the homeless, and if he’d said something along the lines of “Actually mate, I’ve had all the spare B*g M*cs I can comfortably handle in one day, and now I’m trying to scrape together a couple of quid to get me drunk enough to forget, just for a few hours, that I live under a flyover and keep all my worldly possessions in carrier bags”, I’d have perhaps understood. But no…

The reason my attempted charity was so unceremoniously snubbed? He fixed me with an expression that normal people reserve for Conservative politicians, and that, coincidentally, Conservative politicians usually reserve for the homeless, and sneered the immortal response:

“I’m a vegetarian”.

Jesus H. tap-dancing Christ , a vegetarian tramp. Fuck me, that’s picky.
(Monkey Tennis isn't Spartacus, Fri 2 Mar 2007, 13:45, Reply)

Hardcore Prawn
After a 17 year foray into vegetarianism, I was finally seduced by a pork chop. I’ll now eat anything that isn’t nailed down. Apart from anything involving hot milk, because Andrea Wood sicked up a rice pudding on me in RE class when I was 7 and I still haven’t got over it.

However, there are two food things make me want to run away and cry. Sharing food and eating complicated food in public; I’m a bit fat-handed and it usually ends up looking like I’ve skinned a puppy at the table. And sharing? I’m an only child; the word isn’t in my vocabulary.

So imagine my delight when a boy asked me out for dinner. A date! That never happens! Oooh, yes please, I’d love to…

We went for tapas. “It’s okay, I’ll get over the sharing thing,” I thought, “I’ll just order extra. Problem solved.” And I did, it was fine, I coped admirably, brave little Rakky that I am. One of the dishes was those big shell-on prawns. “They’re a bit tricky,” I panicked, “and I’m not hugely keen on eating with my hands either. No matter, I’ll just have to get on with it.” So I picked up a prawn and was trying to work out to get into the little fucker, whilst trying to look coy and girly and coquettish (I’m aware, by the way, that there is nothing remotely sexy about trying to peel a prawn, but I was a bit piddly and let’s just add it to the long list of reasons that I’m still single, okay?). I finally managed to snap its head off and was duly sprayed in the face with the green sludge that had been its last prawny meal.

“That’s the first time I’ve been the recipient of a prawn money shot,” were the next words out of my mouth.

My date looked at me, horrified. The couple on the next table choked on their patatas bravas. I called for the bill. I've never been near the buisness end of a prawn since.

Length? Good god, even I wouldn’t sleep with me after that.
(Rakky (forgot her password) The muffin maverick, Fri 2 Mar 2007, 14:10, Reply)

I was at a restaurant
and asked for the Asian steamed vegetables, but with no boiled celery.

They brought celery. I left the celery.

Next time I ate out, I ordered tomato soup. It came with a stick of celery. Celery on the side of tomato soup might make sense I suppose.

But this celery had been cooked - as if it was the same celery from the boiled vegetables!

Again, I left the celery.

Later that week, I was making myself a sandwich. Idly, I looked out the window. Someone had left the very same celery on my lawn.

It was then that I realised: I was being stalked.
(apeloverage committed the vile act of onanism on, Thu 1 Mar 2007, 16:36, Reply)

sausages
I know this isn't exactly on topic but I've been suppressing my feelings for long enough on this matter and this QOTW is close enough for me to let rip.
Now must of us love a good honest pork sausage. As part of a fried breakfast or nuzzled between two pieces of bread with a bit of sauce or served with mash and gravy, it's a good food. Now at what point did some sh!t think it would be a good idea to start putting crappy herbs in them. I hate it, really really hate it. It constantly drives me mad. One minute your sat in a boozer, sipping a pint at lunch time when your sausage and mash arrives over. Of course, it's covered in gravy so you can't see the little green cancerous lumps below the skin. Oh no, not until you bite into it do you realise you've been had. This really gets up my nose. I mean, if you want a herby sausage you can simply get a cumberland. They're shaped different so there shouldn't be any error (actually, the fact that they are shaped like a curled dog turd is rather appropriate). I've nothing against the cumberland because it doesn't pretend to be a normal sausage. no no, it's the so called 'normal' sausages that have herbs hidden in them that really p!ss me off.

Last summer, having spent the day at London Zoo with my daughter and girlfriend, we were walking back through Regents park when I happened upon an establishment called 'The Honest Sausage'. I excitedly told gf that this is great, someone else obviously feels the same as me about herby sausages and has gone a stage further and opened a shop purveyor good honest sausages. I told gf to keep walking ahead while I popped in and got a takeaway sausage in a roll. I went in and all seemed fine. I purchased my food, left the establishment and ran to catch up with my family. Once we were all together I showed my gf the lovely sausage in a roll, hell I even waxed lyrical about the texture of gravy and onion on it. Then I bit into it and all hell broke lose. The bugger was full of herbs. I was outraged. I started a kind of insane grumble that grew to a shout, it went 'the honest sausage? the honest sausage? THE HONEST SAUSAGE??? I then proceeded to hold the herby horror in front of me shaking it (imagine John Cleese losing his temper in fawlty Towers). I finally lost it, dropped kicked the herby bunch a horror and then stamped on it (anyone reading this who happened to be in Regents Park and saw it take place...I apologise).
Anyway, now I only eat sausage that I buy myself in a clear wrapper and normally I cut one in half raw to check for herbs before cooking.

Ok, I'll leave it now. sorry but I had to get it off me chest
( sneep used to date Freddie Starr's hamster, Thu 1 Mar 2007, 14:26, Reply)

my exotic feature...
I was a plump and swarthy child with eyes of a somewhat oriental nature.

This did not go unnoticed by my peers at secondary school. By the end of my first term I had grown accustomed to hearing them warn one another to ‘mind the slope’ and I knew that should the teacher try to coax me into speaking before the class then my voice would be drowned out by merciless cries of ‘ah-so’ and ‘one cuppa cha’. However, during the course of one particularly abusive period of C.S., I found myself frustrated to the point of no return. I stood up, looked at the most insistent of the wags and thundered, “you shouldn’t say that!” Met by the silent glare of numerous eyes I felt my cheeks flush with embarrassment and my chubby fingers itch with sweat. How could I return to my seat having tried and failed so pathetically? I swallowed hard, cleared my mind and fixed my gaze on some far-off place in the distance. Then I told a lie which changed my life forever: “I am half-Chinese!”

The weeks that followed were without question the best that I would ever experience during full-time education. Not only had I seized some sort of moral victory, but I became something of a cultural phenomenon at my rather white and middle-class school. Aided by nights of research rather than homework, I became a leading local authority on all things kung-fu related – even guaranteeing some of my former tormenters that an uncle in Hong Kong would send over some nunchukas and ninja-stars, or as I sagely referred to them, ‘nunchaku’ and ‘hira shuriken’.

The term rolled by until it was time for parent’s evening. This was to be no problem for me – or so I thought, as I had already explained that my father was English, hence my surname, and my mother – my real mother that is – had been a Chinese revolutionary exiled to the UK in the 1970s. She had, I said, been imprisoned by the Chinese government after returning home to visit family and had subsequently died in a squalid jail in the Shandong region. “My father’s stupid new wife doesn’t know her shaobing from her xiao long bao,” I would often mournfully lament.

Alas, too many evenings spent memorizing dishes from the Chinese takeaway menu and scrutinizing the martial-arts equipment advertised in the back-pages of CVG lead my grades to plummet. Mr. Fothergill, a concerned geography/PE teacher, leaned across the desk to deal the deadly blow. “I just wonder if this could be related to grief,” he delicately speculated. “Grief?” asked my perplexed parents in unison. At this point I fled the scene, electing instead to wait outside and pray for Mr. Fothergill to be suddenly rendered speechless by some crippling disease or for the whole sorry mess to be overshadowed by nuclear annihilation. Needless to say, I was not to be so lucky. My mother sped from the school weeping uncontrollably, followed by my quietly furious father. I had never felt so ashamed.

From that day to this, I have no stomach for Chinese food. Each and every bite will for me always be as bitter as a loving mother’s tears.

Sorry Mummy, wherever you are...
(akzidenz grotesk, Sat 3 Mar 2007, 10:52, Reply)

ginger
my mums last next door neighbour wouldn't eat food that had visibly come out of the ground, so despite living in a rural farming community she drove 20 miles to tescos to buy her veg washed, peeled and cut up for about a 500% mark up and a loss of flavour and nutritional value. She was mental tho, and had to colour sort sweets, then eat them in a specific order. At a pantomime last year, I took a green wine gum and pretended to eat it, then when I was offered one again a little later, I put back the green winegum. She had eaten all the greens, and was now a colour or two down the list, and this errant winegum caused enough upset for her to miss the second half. Her husband got smashed on guinness so she had to drive as well. she was a twunt. Actually, now I think about it, she wouldn't let food touch on her plate, and couldn't eat gravy, custard or cream because they interfered with separate food portions. Im glad my mum doesn't live next door to her anymore.
(kaptinkurtz, Thu 1 Mar 2007, 13:23, Reply)

back when i was travelling
through the Oz outback, I came across a restaurant in some small country town with a sign proclaiming "order anything from the menu - if we don't have it we’ll give you $100".
Always up for a challenge I sat down and smirked as I asked the waiter for elephant's balls on toast.

The waiter goes out the back, and for a good 5 minutes I hear a clattering of pots and pans and the chef cursing from the kitchen. A now very red faced waiter then emerges from the kitchen, hands me a $100 bill and says:


"We've run out of bread"
(Handel blah blah blah, Thu 1 Mar 2007, 15:05, Reply)

Blokes who don't drink tea or coffee
I may be judging people by my own standards here, but I really dont understand blokes that dont drink tea or coffee, tea especially. I can understand it with women as a steaming mug of tea is quite a manly thing.

The reason I dont understand it is because I CAN'T LIVE WITHOUT CUPS OF TEA, I cant wake up properly and leave the house in the morning without a cup of tea, my bowels dont work before the first cup of tea, I would be dangerous without my tea. I have at least 2 cups of coffee at work throughout the morning, 2 cups of tea at lunchtime, more coffee in the afternoon and the first thing I do when I get home from work is put the kettle on. I wish pubs sold cups of tea. I LOVE tea.

So when I meet people and they tell me they dont drink tea I have to fight the urge to grab them and shout "How do you do it? How do you get through the day? HOW DO YOU SURVIVE?"


Edit - Reading what I have just written, I realise I sound like a smack addict.
( Colonel Dracula Two manky hookers and a racist dwarf, Thu 1 Mar 2007, 15:05, Reply)

not food, but eating
Click "I like this" if you believe people who scrape cutlery across their teeth while they're eating should be shot?

*shudders*

EDIT: Maybe there should be some fork-related torture prior to death
(Jugular, Fri 2 Mar 2007, 14:52, Reply)

Vegetarians are so picky
A friend from college loved annoying vegetarians. His roomate's girlfriend was a vegetarian. Let the games begin.

Once, within her earshot, he ordered a meat-lovers pizza with extra animal and told them if they hit an animal on the way over to just plop it on top. He did this because she ordered a cheese pizza. She almost cried.

He firmly agrees with the principle of "for every animal you don't eat, I'll eat three." He has a bumper sticker that states "So many cats, so few recipies."

His culinary masterpiece was a burger called "The Ark" which contained ground beef, ground pork, ground lamb, ground turkey, ground chicken, and any other ground animal he could get his hands on. This was then put in a blender for maximum compactness. It was shaped into a patty, wrapped in bacon, and fried. Just looking at it could give you a heart attack.

She said it was cruel to eat meat because the animals were killed horribly... so he bought a goat. The goat was humanely barbequed. She refused to eat any.

As for me, I can't eat oysters. Had to disect one once and they just disgust me. I'm not picky though. I've eaten chicken feet and other dubious parts before. My sister was tricked into eating cow tongue by a friend's mom. She said it was good but seeing the tongue afterwards made her ill.

Edit: Just remembered. He also loved to eat ribs and turkey legs in front of vegetarians. He would make growling noises to piss them off even more.
(evil_penguin_17 Robots of Doom... Attack!, Thu 1 Mar 2007, 19:55, Reply)

The Evil C's....
.
I don't eat carrots, cucumber or celery.

With cucumber and celery it's because I don't like the taste and/or texture. With carrots, it's because I was psychologically scarred when I was kid.

I went to infant’s school in the 60's and, in those days, school dinners were fucking dreadful. They were hygienic as they boiled the buggery out of everything they cooked. Sprouts? Boil the bugger for three hours. Cabbage? They're not mushy enough - look, they've still got some shape to them. Boil the buggers for another three hours. Same with carrots.

And I *really* didn't like stuff that had been boiled to death for days. So this one day we had an evil teacher overseeing the school dinners. And this one had it in for me. While being served, she noticed that I asked for *really* small portions of the boiled shit and then she had her eye on me. Up until this point in my school career, I'd managed to either palm off the stuff I really couldn't eat to some of the human dustbins or I'd somehow make it to the slops bucket without being stopped and dispose of the offending food in there. But this day I was knackered.

I finished what food I could and then tried to make it to the slop bucket while teacher was distracted. No chance. She was waiting for me to make my move. She whipped around and grabbed me before I'd gone three steps.

"Back to your seat" she snarled. "And don't get up again until you've eaten everything on your plate"

I was fucked. I sat there, unmoving while around me everyone finished their slop and went outside to play. Eventually there was just me and this teacher.

"Eat those carrots!!"

"I can't" I sniffed "I'll be sick"

"EAT THEM NOW OR IT'S THE STRAP FOR YOU!!!"

So I tried. I got a couple of cold, gravy-congealed carrots on a fork and tried to swallow them. And was sick. Everything I'd managed to eat at lunchtime came out all over my plate and lay there in a steaming pile.

Teacher went spastic. She grabbed me by the hair and slapped my face a few times.

"You did that on purpose!!!" she shrieked "You're going to sit there all afternoon and not move until you've eaten everything on that plate!!"

She was red-faced and spitting as she yelled now. She looked terrifying.

Anyway, to cut a long story short I sat there all afternoon while this demented harpy tried to make me eat a plate of vomit. Eventually school was over and I was sent home with a note to my mother where I got another belting. No idea what was in the note but it couldn't have been good.

And that, my friends is why I can't stand carrots.

Cheers


P.S. I was 5.
( Legless Mister Stabby - shanks for the memory, Thu 1 Mar 2007, 15:43, Reply)

for those who aren't yet bored ...
I came home from work one day to find my girlfriend lying on the dining table dressed in nothing but foodstuffs. Her sumptuous breasts were daubed with custard, a trail of M&Ms trailed down to her bikini line and her nethers were coated in slight 'panties' of whipped cream.

Moving straight to dessert, I set about slurping the custard from perky nipples and worked my way down to the cream, which proved tricky to lick from the folds and crevices of her freshly waxed ardour. Still, I persevered and mamaged to extract all the cream as she wriggled and moaned. When she was food-free. I unleashed my now quivering tool and positioned myself between her splayed legs to enter her wet hotness.

"Not so fast" said she. "I'm hungry." And she whipped out a jar of chocolate spread, with which she proceeded to grease up my shaft, paying particular attention to the engorged tip. Before could say 'chocolate cock' she had swallowed my length and was working it with a busy tongue.

I was just about ready to shoot my own cream when she whipped out a courgette from her hidden cache of foodstuffs and inserted into her burning hole ... right at the moment my molten jizz gushed forth across her electric tongue. She was coming as it pulsed down her throat.

"Hold on a sec," I said. "Aren't you allergic to nuts?"
"Shit! Call the ambulance - I'm going into anaphylactic shock!"
(frankspencer, Wed 7 Mar 2007, 13:08, Reply)

foodsex
i wont eat it, but i will rub chick-peas and garlic all over my naked body.

Im a hummousexual.
(UnstableDan Bah, Humbug! ooooh, humbugs, nyom!, Mon 5 Mar 2007, 11:19, Reply)

Fucking leftie vegetarians....
The men amongst us may have noticed that if you eat bacon fries from a corner shop - and it has to be the really cheap ones laced with colouring and preservatives - your urine has a distinctly strong smell of bacon in the morning.

I once dated a hippie, just for the hell of it, who refused to swallow. After months of persuasion she finally agreed to try.

I ate two bags of these crisps a few hours before the act and made sure she broke several taboos at once. Swallowing, and eating pork. Not only was she veggie but Jewish as well.

Mazel Tov! I never saw her again.
(Mong The Merciless Older not wiser, Sun 4 Mar 2007, 10:32, Reply)

In the 80s, me and my girlfriend
lived entirely on fruit, pills, and occasionally ghosts.

Signed, Pac-Man.
(apeloverage committed the vile act of onanism on, Fri 2 Mar 2007, 14:13, Reply)

wee
I was once stood at a urinal in club. Was a guy stood next to me, off his face, who was looking intently into the bottom of the urinal I was pissing into. I was a little too freaked out to make comment on his wierd behaviour so finished up and headed over to wash my hands, keeping an eye on him in the mirror as I did so I saw him lean over and fish out what could only have been the small nub of a well eroded toilet bleach cube. He stuck it straight into his gurning gob and pulled a face as the foul piss reeking bleachy taste hit his tongue and announced with some considerable jubilation that it tasted so rank that must be of the highest quality, and spaz danced his way back into the throng.
.
(Darth Vegas Poke It With A Stick, Wed 7 Mar 2007, 21:45, Reply)

Fussy Felines
The feline penchants for eccentricity and strangeness never cease to amuse when it comes to food.

Okay, having opened a few cans of cat food and been rewarded with a stench which rivals that of a Grimsby prostitute's week-old knickers, I can wholly understand your average kitty's aversion to tinned food and the desire to try something new.

My much missed moggy Leonard took this to extremes. He'd at some point cultivated a taste for curry, so much so that if I was making one I had to set some aside for him. He also loved munching onion bhajees too which were a firm favorite. The surreal sight of a small serving of chicken jalfrezi, a chunk of naan bread and a bhajee presented in a bowl clearly labeled "CAT" had him licking his chops in anticipation. Indeed, he was one highly motivated cat, happily sitting and begging on command (I swear this is true, I have witnesses) provided he was rewarded with something spicy and tasty.

Spiciness did not deter him one bit, although I quite disappointed that I could never get him interested in beer, despite frequent experimentation with several types of lager/bitter. I can only assume that he was more into spirits, but there was no way I was going to waste ten year old Ardbeg on him.

This was all quite endearing to a point, except that spicy food had a horrific effect on his innards, making him guff like a donkey. Not at all nice when he's curled up in your lap.

Still, I've dated worse. Meh.
(Bicycle Repairman "you're also a bit of a wanker", Mon 5 Mar 2007, 22:45, Reply)

Is it me? Yes.
From babyhood until the age of nineteen, I would only eat:

- branflakes
- bread
- milk
- lancashire cheese
- fishfingers
- Granny Smiths
- chips
- Seabrook's Salt and Vinegar Crisps
- Sausages, and (a revelation when I was 15)
- Margherita pizza.

Now, there's been plenty of nonsense spouted on here along the lines of "parents shouldn't put up with this shit...yargh skiffle blah."

Well. My poor parents tried EVERYTHING to get me to eat normally - cajoles, threats, not letting me have anything else (redundant after I grew tall enough to reach the cereal cupboard) social embarrasment, wailing and nashing of teeth etc. And nothing worked. Because every time I tried to eat something not on above menu, I would be physically unable to swallow it, and just keep chewing and chewing until I eventually wretched.
Psychosomatic? Yes, but that doesn't make it any less real. Believe me, by the time I was a teenager no-one was more keen than me on the idea of eating normally.

Worse than anything else was the unsympathetic-bordering-on-offensive attitude of a few other people's parents, who would treat it - bearing in mind I would always warn them in advance - like a personal insult and make the whole unfortunate situation into a big issue and make me even more anxious about food than I already was. So, words of advice -

Parents - if you come across a kid with funny eating habits, for God's sake don't be offended or make a fuss. Just tolerate it. The whole thing is far worse for them than it is for you. And if it's your sprog who refuses to eat anything but jam sandwiches well beyond the fussy stage, relax - the affliction vanished almostly instantly (and inexplicably) when I went to uni. I'm 21 now and I will eat almost anything and like it.

Apart from tuna. Fucking hate tuna.

Miaow.

/rant
(jennymnemonic, Mon 5 Mar 2007, 21:33, Reply)

my friend from Nigeria

offered to cook me a traditional Nigerian meal.

But it turned out to be just spam.
(apeloverage committed the vile act of onanism on, Mon 5 Mar 2007, 12:00, Reply)

Picky eater...
My girlfriend refuses to swallow cum unless I smack her in the face first. And then she pretends not to like it!
( Furness, Mon 5 Mar 2007, 9:06, Reply)

actually true story

there was a local newspaper where I lived, which had an advice column. Since this was the trendy inner city, the problems were often of a sexual nature, perhaps a bit similar to the online column 'Savage Love'.

Anyway, someone wrote in saying that their girlfriend was vegan, and had refused to swallow his manly essence on these grounds. He wanted to know if this was right.

There's no real punchline, it just makes me laugh thinking of the conversation

she: oh no, I...can't you see, because I'm vegan.
he: oh OK.

(later)

he: hang on...
(apeloverage committed the vile act of onanism on, Fri 2 Mar 2007, 13:36, Reply)

My Younger Sister
Would never eat baked beans. When she started at primary school two or three years after me I told her that if she didn't eat the baked beans in her school dinners she would be expelled and Mummy and Daddy would be very cross. She sat in the playground crying. Now I have no idea why, but there was a reporter from the local paper in the school while she was blubbing who asked her what the matter was. She explained that she was to be expelled for not eating beans and consequently appeared on the front page of the local rag under the headline Beanz Meanz Tearz.

I seem to remember receiving a right bollocking for that one.
( TriedItOnceAndDidn'tLikeIt made you lose the game on, Thu 1 Mar 2007, 16:06, Reply)

Vegetarians
.
I know a really dumb veggie. So dumb, in fact, that I convinced him that *I* was a committed veggie even though I ate beef.

Me :"Look mate. What do cows eat?"

Doc:"Err - grass?"

Me:"Yup. So when I have a steak, I'm really eating concentrated grass then aren't I?"

Doc:"I suppose so. I've just never thought of it that way..."

Cheers
( Legless Mister Stabby - shanks for the memory, Thu 1 Mar 2007, 13:40, Reply)

"picky", eh?
An ex GF - a vegetarian - had been given a kitten. She was determined that it, too, would be a veggie, despite my protestations.

Strangely, it didn't go much for beans, rice, fruit etc., and she decided that it was a 'picky eater' and would 'have to learn'.

FACT: cats need a diet consisting mainly of meat or they die.

It was easier to sneakily feed the cat dried cat food and chuck most of the rotting veg over the fence than argue.

Of course, Tiddles (not his real name) and I got caught red-handed one day. The GF went bananas. Much shouting ensued. Eventually I got the idea across that a vegetarian cat is a dead cat, and she calmed down. Tiddles got a massive feast of that stinky canned stuff, and the GF and I had to have several bouts of make-up sex.

Two happy pussies. Result!
( MisterPunch did it that way on, Tue 6 Mar 2007, 10:48, Reply)

it's a gas....
I think I may have to become a picky eater. Events of the last few days are forcing my hand, as I am overcome with shame in a myriad of ways, and must avoid them recurring.

A few weeks ago, me and the better half decided that we would bulk buy tinned goods to save buying them every week (or prepare for the Nuclear winter...). To save a bit of cash on this exercise, we thought we should get 'em from a well known retailer, sounds like T to tha m*thaf*ckin esco.

Anyway, a weekend activity that has gained popularity recently is to eat a lot of tinned sweet corn and then serenade each other with impressive emissions from our prosteriors. Nice, eh? We've been together six years now, and gas ain't gonna come between us now(just strain things slightly).

However, upon feeding this weekend, I forgot the consequences of excessive sweet corn consumption and merrily chowed away while conversing with the visiting mother in law to be.

Cue half an hour later to when we are watching a tense psychological thriller on DVD. I am rapidly inflating with fetid gas as I struggle to hold in what would normally be proudly expelled (and danced and sung about).

When the pain becomes unbearable, I excuse myself to the kitchen. Upon entering I shut the door, open the window, and hang my arse out while expelling the kind of flatulence that would have uni students the world over applauding. I am prone to exaggeration, but on this occasion I swear to you I am not. My expulsions lasted for well over a minute.

Finally the performance ends, and I remember there is a lunar eclipse tonight, so promptly hang my head out the window to have a look.

Yup, there were a couple of dozen people from my block of flats standing outside my kitchen window. All rugged up with telescopes and duvets.

And it gets worse. Thoroughly ashamed (but strangely proud) I return to the living room to watch the rest of the film. By and by the mother in law leaves to make use of the facilities, and I turn to the wonderful love of my life to relate the above story to her, to which she replies, "I know, we heard it. Mum was well impressed. But very well done dear!".

And it gets even worse. Today I am at work and the rumblings have not ceased. So I sti uncomfortably at my desk making frequent trips to the toilets to let out some truly impressive trumpets. Only problem being, I forgot my security pass, and now, when I complete a performance, I have to wait around in the fuggy, foul smelling stairwell, until someone with their pass comes along and opens the door I need.

Short version? I won't be eating that brand of sweetcorn anymore. Well, at least not until mother in law goes home.

Length? It brought about a temporary Lunar eclipse.
(lessmiserable, Mon 5 Mar 2007, 14:17, Reply)

God damn it people.
wretch, n.:

1. One who is sunk in deep distress, sorrow, misfortune, or poverty; a miserable, unhappy, or unfortunate person; a poor or hapless being.

2. A vile, sorry, or despicable person; one of opprobrious or reprehensible character; a mean or contemptible creature.

retch, v:

1. To hawk, bring up phlegm.

2. To make efforts to vomit.

To make it relevant: celery makes me retch, and if I find it in my food I feel wretched.
(SusK, Sat 3 Mar 2007, 18:00, Reply)

Veggies
I simply wont allow any vegetables in my house, not since the time I caught Stephen Hawkings going through my diary.
(Fatima Whitbread's hardon drugs and the causes of drugs, Thu 1 Mar 2007, 22:50, Reply)

dustbinmen
as a student: i took a job one summer as a bin man, one of the binmen aka slim, used to eat his sarrnies every day at 10 despite the half full shimmering with stink garbage truck he was next to...so, one day as he chatted away whilst sitting on his upturned orange plastic 'carrier' (which incidentally had many pairs of ladies knickers tied on to the handles-it might not be wise to think too carefully of the many reasons why these might have been abandoned) he casually reached into his tupperware box and equally casually bit into the maggot ridden bird that 'Bob' had thoughfully put there. Slim almost filled the other half of the truck up.
we were all dragged into the office on our return to the depot and standing there like naughty boys in the headmasters study were admonished for the prank.
'Why?' asked the boss and threatened to dock pay until someone coughed up-'it were me' said Bob.
'In gods name why' said the manager
'it were going cheep' sed Bob and we were then thrown out of the office.

been very careful with sarnies ever after.

length? from mouth to back of truck? about 1.5 metres, olympic standards that is.
(mickturate if i could be arsed i'd be bored, Thu 1 Mar 2007, 14:36, Reply)

Curry
I can't eat Lebanese curry as it gives me the Shi‘ites.
( abefroman skating on the thin life of modern life on, Tue 6 Mar 2007, 14:43, Reply)