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This is a question Siblings

Brothers and sisters - can't live with 'em, can't stove 'em to death with the coal scuttle and bury 'em behind the local industrial estate. Tell us about yours.

Thanks to suboftheday for the suggestion -we're keeping the question open for another week for the New Year

(, Thu 25 Dec 2008, 17:20)
Pages: Latest, 12, 11, 10, 9, 8, ... 1

This question is now closed.

Zoey had a sister, and I could not resist her
I tried one time to kiss her but I missed her
And that's how I met Zoey, ho!
(, Wed 7 Jan 2009, 16:06, 1 reply)
I have a sister
But I'm not telling you anything about her.

Instead you can all imagine what she might be like.

All I will tell you is that she's older than me and she once bit me on the foot.

This is Chickenlady doing her bit for parsimony and the credit crunch - no lavish overblown story from me this week.
(, Wed 7 Jan 2009, 15:23, 1 reply)
Little Brother's just discovered rock and roll.

What? i got nothing else for this QOTW and it's been here two weeks.
(, Wed 7 Jan 2009, 14:51, 2 replies)
I have a half-sister...
who lives in Reykjavik.

I've never met her, and never will. She was brought up by another guy (who she believes is her dad) and my dad hasn't had any contact with her for 20-odd years.

That's my sibling story. Sorry it's not more interesting.
(, Wed 7 Jan 2009, 14:08, 1 reply)
Little bro
My cousin and I once convinced him that corks were animals that people hunted and shoved into the top of wine bottles while they were still alive.

When he asked about plastic corks, we then explained that real corks were dying out and that people had to start synthesising them.
That was a fun christmas, my brother running around telling all the wine-drinking adults that they were murderers!
(, Wed 7 Jan 2009, 14:01, 2 replies)
Dont force it....
Be gentle with me it's my first post.

My brother (looks somewhat like the milkman) is a great bloke, as kids we were horrid to each other, broken bones were the norm in our house. One evening going back maybe 25 years now, our parents left us for an hour leaving us with a nice big bag of chips to eat. My delightful brother in his young wisdom desides with parents out he would provide entertainment with a "check this out moment". Dropping his trousers and proclaiming check this fart out he strained and squeezed providing not the comedy sound and smell but instead shooting a small brown torpedo from said ass and launching it under the sofa. Histerical laughter then begins, my brother looses his balence and does a perfect front roll right into the chips. So to summerise we have a brown projectile to find under the sofa and a brother smothered in chips with red sause. Took a while before this story was retold to parents as everytime we start to tell it I spend most of the telling crying with laughter at the thought.

Length about 2 inch and it took about 10 mins to find under the sofa.
(, Wed 7 Jan 2009, 11:23, 3 replies)
My brother
was dragged to Amsterdam for his 28th birthday. He really didn't like the place, but he does relay one story I liked.

At the end of a day trawling around the city, sampling the local pot, almost eating mouldy cakes and checking out the wonders of the red light district, they came across a nice-looking bar at the end of a street filled with whorehouses. They sat at the tables by the windows and started celebrating his birthday the way young English men like to do... They got ragingly pissed.

So, this bar was in a row of five whorehouses, complete with gyrating hookers in the windows. Imagine the sight, then, of eight strapping chaps, spurred-on by my brother, with their t-shirts off, dancing provocatively in the bar window for all the passers-by for three full hours.
(, Wed 7 Jan 2009, 10:32, 4 replies)
Wernher von Braun was my grandfather.
He was in good physical and mental health for his whole life, yet claimed to be completely unable to perform the simplest everyday tasks. His excuse was that they were hardly rocket science.
(, Wed 7 Jan 2009, 9:54, 3 replies)
A question for swingers.
If some of your relatives are also swingers, how do you make sure that you don't turn up at the same event?
(, Wed 7 Jan 2009, 7:17, 9 replies)
Jesus Christ.
Enough of this fucking QOTW already.
(, Wed 7 Jan 2009, 4:00, 14 replies)
my big bro: This is but one text he sends me while wasted:
'Marsupial neon bush octopus custard refinerys inc use casio electron udder custardbilge (r) pressure silos to store flatulent octocustard (r) safely and is refined into bombergopter (r) and spacehopper(r) glopcells (r) for export to belgiums cavernous subterrainean sproutmining facilities to fuel the buttercurd propaganda waffleator (r) ovens which stop Belgians driving themselves into the sea! Support the marsuprial neon bush octopuss custard refineries inc and save children from eating sprouts thank you!
Yours loathingly Dr Snorke company ceo'
whats more worrying is he can explain this in a way that makes sense when sober. love my brothers! a bombergopter is supposedly a minimoto with spacehoppers for wheels. I don't understand the Belgian bit, why would they drive themselves into the sea....maybe it's eating sprouts...Sorry!! if Belgians are offended I am just writing what was texted!! One last note, stop and think what a marsuprial octopus would look like o.0
(, Wed 7 Jan 2009, 0:18, 4 replies)
My Brother
This is a retoast cos I'm being lazy...

So lets set the scene. I was about 10 yrs old & my brother was 12. It was day two of our marathon summer holidays. You know the ones that seem to last forever and every day takes an eternity to finish. I grew up in South Africa so the days were always hot and balmy and we'd spend endless hours swimming, skateboarding and generally running around like headless chickens. A lot of our time was also spent defeating our evil overlords (our grumpy neighbour up the road) and evading capture by cretinous villians who would hold us captive (mum & dad trying to make us go to bed).

The day in question was particularly hot with a perfect sky and a lazy wind from the east. Only the slightest whisper of white cloud was visible which made it feel like you were looking at the worlds best and biggest impressionist painting. Following our morning swim and customary spat with my younger sister we decided to burn up some calories by going skateboarding. We had no particular skills in this area other that going as fast as we possibly could down the hill on which we lived. A friend of ours was over that weekend and after a short debate it was decided that he would go tandem with my brother on the skateboard. Well, I say debate, but it was more like they just pushed me into a bush and went off down the hill together laughing. Anyway I digress...

Skateboarding continued for much of the afternoon with occasional stops for sweets and more goading of my younger sister. We climbed the hill once again and my brother and Michael set off as usual, my brother sitting while Michael stood on the back holding his shoulders. We lived in a complex of about 150 houses and the road twisted and turned for a good few hundred yards downwards. They carved their way round corners with consummate ease - until the very last corner that is. They went round the corner on the wrong side of the road and just as they rounded it a car was coming full on at them. Michael managed to escape and landed in some bushed, but my brother wasn't so lucky.

His face connected the bumper with enough combined velocity to rip it clean off. Now a bumper is not the easiest thing to remove at the best of times, but my brother had managed to do so with his head in 0.5 seconds. The car continued in its trajectory as the brakes were called into action and the car screeched to a halt. By this time my brother was lying under the car and had been dragged a number of yards up the road on his back. As you can imagine this obviously didn't do much for the skin on his back.

I think it's fair to say that he suffered a fair bit from his accident. He fractured his skull, burst an ear drum, scrapped a hell of a lot skin off his back, broke an ankle and sprained the other one. While he was in the recovery phase we were sharing a room at home and it was quite upsetting to have to wake up
next to someone who's ear just leached a load of blood onto his pillow. Even worse than that was the skin taken off his back which meant that every morning for about 2 weeks my mom would come in and quite literally peel the sheet off his back which had stuck to his open wound. Then she would put some antiseptic liquid that would make him howl like a man possessed. I don't think I'll ever forget him screaming.

Still, there was a positive side to this all. We got shit hot at popping wheelies in his wheelchair and the timed obstacle course we set up for it in the garden. It's also rather important to note that my mom was driving the car that almost killed him. She said she only realised it was him after she had reversed the car off him. That must have been a shock.

Length: about 1 min 35s which included a wheelie across the course finish line.
(, Tue 6 Jan 2009, 23:14, 7 replies)
My brother's scars.
Those that run from his fingers down past his wrist, to be more specific, are a result from a time my sister thought it would be a grand idea to lock him outside the house and stationed me at the back door to make sure he couldn't come in. The poor kid was only 5.....he punched through the glass door in his frustration to get inside the house and got his first stitches.

You see, my sister was a bully whom no one dared to cross for fear of further punishment. Which is exactly why I was thrilled when their mother moved them to another state shortly after my mother married their father. They visited for a few brief summers then I was free.

As a result, there has been a total of less than a years worth of time when I wasn't raised as an only child. As much as I would have liked to grow up with good siblings and have a close relationship to them still, I'd rather be an only child then to have had to grow up with her around. My brother on the other hand seems to get along with everyone....but I don't know if that is down to his personality or something he learned as a defense from growing up in the same house as her. He seems nice enough, but I don't really know him.

And so, having been a family for more than 25 years, I have absolutely nothing in common with them. My sister and I have a tenuous superficial email-only relationship, while I haven't spoken to my brother in several years.

This is why I am amazed on a daily basis that my 2 girls are the best of friends. I am often in awe when I see or hear of siblings who actually like each other. I can't imagine what it would be like to have a close bond like that.
(, Tue 6 Jan 2009, 22:59, 4 replies)
I've just remembered this. Slightly too late, probably.
My brother is two years older than me and we usually get along pretty well. Occasionally we're absolute cunts to each other, but what siblings aren't?

Anyway, when I was about 6 or 7 he called me in to the dining room. He was sat under the table and beckoned for me to join him. Being young and naive, I did so. He then points at a dark patch on the floor and tells me to sniff it.

Remember when I said we could be absolute cunts to each other sometimes? Well, this was one of those times. For he had a put a line of FUCKING PEPPER on the floor. Not even a table. Just straight on the carpet.

And I snorted it. Pepper and Carpety-shit went right up my nose. I spent the next hour having my nose cotton-budded, whilst he spent the next hour giggling.

(, Tue 6 Jan 2009, 22:41, 2 replies)
Curtains for the wall
I only just told my parents that it was me that had pulled the curtains and curtain rail from the living room wall in 1987. I was 6, she was 4.
I was swinging on the curtains on a Sunday morning - why not?
When the rail pulled out two huge chunks out of the wall and spat plaster and curtain everywhere I immediately ran upstairs to the slumbering folks, and told them 'LOOK WHAT SHE'S DONE!'

(, Tue 6 Jan 2009, 22:34, 2 replies)
...did find it a bit odd when I was 10, when my half-brother and half-sister started going out with each other. Bizarro! Different parents, but still...Didn't half p**s parents off all round!
(, Tue 6 Jan 2009, 20:13, 4 replies)
The closest thing
From my mother, I am her only child. I would have been her second son, but her first died in '79 of SIDS (no, not simian aids; but sudden infant death syndrome). My father couldn't keep his pants up from the southern-most tip of Mexico to the beginnings of New England. Thus, he romanced and breached panties all over the Western Hemisphere. It's the same story with every woman that fell for him: Swept of feet, knocked-up, and then he was gone. His only son I met drank himself to death at 20 odd years. Though I'm in the same gene pool with my dead bros. and the possible dozen bastards littered throughout the Americas, they are not my siblings. No my fellow b3tards, this story is not about them.

Gabriel. It is he who I call brother. In sum, he is a brunet brick-shit-house version of Garth from Wayne's World. He is Ted, he is Hutch, he is Stimpy, he is Rodan, Rick Parfitt, and Milhouse Mussolini Van Houten. I am one-week his senior, and he will always be my brother before he's my best-friend. I consider myself being level-headed, rational, and calm under pressure. However, this bastard is the only one who can drive me to panic through wind-ups and embarrassing the sheer fuck out of me.

Exhibit A: Having stayed in the hospital because of stomach complications (read: constipation for a week), he was the one who picked me up from the hospital. Before being discharged from said hospital and before we went to White-Castle for a dozen burgers each, he noticed the African-American fellow who was lying in the other bed in the room. Around me, he tends to become prejudice for the sake of embarrassing me. I was packing my clothes and belongings into a small rucksack I had. Like the "AreWeThereYet?," he would ask and ask if we could take the coon with us. Out loud. Loud enough for the fellow to hear. Repeatedly. Then he began walking around the room like a pigeon cooing coon as a racist pigeon would.

He once told me about seizures. He said most seizure victims smell an absent familiar smell like roses or perfume. And that some seizures are as simple as a repeated motion that isn't necessarily flailing like a mad-man. Since then he would randomly pause, claim to smell roses, and begin to slowly scratch his chest with one hand while absently looking at me. His other hand would be on the steering wheel. It was either that, or he'd do the ape shit flailing in the car after having smelt roses.

On drives to places, we would debate about nothing. When things got loud and he was loosing, he'd pretend to sleep while on the highways and accelerate. Fucking terrifying when you see the driver "pass-out" at high speeds.

When I moved out, I rented a small one bedroom. The door to the room was at the rear of the building, and was the only room that didn't require one to go through the front door of the building. At the front of my door, I had a tree in a pot. In it, I left a spare key. Every now and then, Gabe would go into my apartment because of the spare key and plant gay-community newspapers in it. On my couch, in the toilet, the shower, the bedroom, the refrigerator, etc. Other times, he'd let himself in while I was showering. With a towel curled up in his hand, he would pound the shower door and yell "American History X." After putting up with this sort of thing, I no longer kept the spare key. That should solve the problem, thought I. I didn't count on Gabe making a copy of the spare keys.

Other things included beat boxing on my answering machine for twenty some minutes. Threatening my then girlfriends with rape, where I would be the one being raped. While balling his hand into a fist and pointing his left arm skyward akin to a relaxed Black-Power fist, with his right hand he would type in the air and would make keypad noises with his mouth, he then would make a "woooosh" sound and his left hand became a SCUD missile launching into the air with my nuts being the intentional target (it was the WTF? mode of thought that let him reach and punch my balls).

Yes, there were times when we were there for one another because of family, money, women, and other human drama. But still I'll never forget things like strong-guy charades, making fun of fatties, threatening people with fruit, rooftop cook-outs, crashing cars on purpose, arguments about Adult Swim, pretending to be Mortal Kombat characters in a Buddhist park complete with shrine, and so much more.

He moved in with his girlfriend of four years. We had a bit of a falling out after that. One day I moved to another city without telling him I was moving. Last I heard, he had a row with his woman and joined the US Navy. No matter, he's still my bro.

That is all.
(, Tue 6 Jan 2009, 18:36, Reply)
Well I'm
an only child.


(, Tue 6 Jan 2009, 16:53, 5 replies)
Thank you. Thank you very, very much.
It's the summer of '93 and the 17 year old Moey is released into the raucous Reading festival crowds for a weekend of loud music, fast drugs and piss weak lager. Life is good.

My long hair flops about to the sounds of Rage Against the Machine & Ned's Atomic Dustbin. I nervously throw acid down my throat for the first time, lay back and let the curious warblings of Ozric Tentacles run riot about my brain. Life is still good, if a little wobbly and weirdly coloured.

Then my older brother turns up. That's no bad thing, he brings new and exciting drugs with him, as well as having lovely cash that I can scrounge under the pretence of not having eaten for several days. But he is also the bearer of bad wickedness that would taint my whole experience.

You see, he'd been having a full and frank discussion with my mum. She knew all about his ways, he was off at Uni and had long ago boasted openly of his weed smoking and of how she couldn't do anything about it. She'd accepted with surprisingly good grace ("but not under my fucking roof...") and no more had been said. But this recent exchange had nothing to do with him. This recent exchange was all about his younger siblings, all about our narcotic past times.

I'm greeted by his smug face and the words "Mum wants you to call her". Fine, thinks I and I throw some change into a payphone before bashing the number into the keypad.

Ring ring

"Oh yeah" says the sibling.

Ring ring

"What's that?" I ask.

Ring ring

"I told Mum about you smoking weed last night" he pouts.


"You fucking what, you fucking cunt, I can't belie... oh, um, hi mum."

Life is suddenly much less good.
(, Tue 6 Jan 2009, 16:50, Reply)
My baby sister
She made up her first ever joke when she was 4 (she's now 24 and won't thank me for repeating it):

What do you call a lion with no eyes?
A no-eye-lion.

(, Tue 6 Jan 2009, 16:11, 12 replies)
My brother is fantastic in many ways, but present buying is not one of them.

He is no longer allowed to buy my mum presents after the 'plastic bag dispenser in the shape of a cow' fiasco of three Christmases past. The sad thing is he thought long and hard about what to get - this wasn't just a last minute panic buy - he reasoned that she liked the countryside and had lots of empty carrier bags, so therefore this would be the perfect gift.

As I now take responsibility for all family related gift giving, he hadn't managed to get himself into too much trouble of late - that is until this Christmas when picking out a romantic gift for his girlfriend of two years. He felt that the perfect present to express his love for her would be 1. some car polish and 2. a brush for cleaning her wheels. He reasoned that her car was very dirty, so she obviously needed the polish, and the brush was apparently a top of the line one and she should be grateful.

They have both gone on a mini break to a remote destination in Scotland. Will he make it back OK or will his lifeless body be found on some remote Highland moor, beaten to death with a wheel cleaning brush of the highest quality?
(, Tue 6 Jan 2009, 15:57, 4 replies)
Not techincally my sister, but...
I used to have this friend when I was little called Deborah. We were born within hours of each other, and ours mums always used to say we were like brother and sister. And they'd always go on about how we'd get married when we were older.

Anyway, we never did - although I often thought about it. She was the popular one at school, and I wasn't. I used to walk her home and stuff like that, but we were just friends.

And that would have been it. Until... the other day a friend was talking about her. Apparently, she was married, and has got a kid now. This got me thinking about her again, and, well, long story short - I'm meeting her this Sunday byt the fountain in town. I even said she could bring her baby.

(, Tue 6 Jan 2009, 15:52, 8 replies)
The Three Ss
Ah, how I love my older brother (by six years) and sister (by five years). I have many tales of the three of us getting into all kinds of scrapes. Naturally a few of them stand out in my mind, and I shall tell you of them. Now, it’s no good me using initials to refer to them, as handily our parents named us all common names beginning with S. Nice. So instead, I shall refer to them as my brother and my sister. Job done!

Now, a quickie. My sister has a delightful scar lengthways down the inside of one of her wrists. No, we didn’t drive her to it, instead in a pique of fury during one of our many scraps, I scratched her with my bare fingernails. I am adorable!

One of my earliest memories involves my siblings. We had a red and white tricycle when we were very young, which had a little boot on the back of it (classy or what?!). Being the youngest, the best idea my elders could think of was to bundle little me into this boot, shut the lid then have my brother go off peddling as fast as he could up and down the path outside our house. Said path takes a sharp turn right to go alongside the side of the terrace, so he shot round it on two wheels, the lid of the boot pops open and I roll out in the opposite direction. Oh, how we laughed!

Another time the three of us were spending a rainy evening playing with a bunch of other children on the swings etc. at the large recreation ground in the village when my brother comes up with a most spiffing idea.
“Everyone get on the big roundabout and hold tight!”
“Okay” bellow the rest of us, myself and my sister included.
My brother and one of his friends then proceeded to push the roundabout very fast indeed. Subsequently my little fingers got tired of clutching on so they let go. Cue me hurtling off the playground instrument of torture (as I now view them), through the air before coming to rest on the ground several feet away. Of course the laws of physics got their way and I continued to travel along the ground on one side of my face. Do you know what upset me the most, and kept me in tears all the way home? My brand new Mickey Mouse t-shirt had got ripped a little bit! What a git.

Many a time was we would play hide and seek, I would hide (splendidly, I thought) but my dear siblings would then give up, start playing another game and leave me in my hiding place for what seemed like hours.

My sister, being five years my senior had make up and nail polish before I did. Not fair, especially considering the more creative flair I have! So, one bored summer afternoon saw me paint my name using her new scarlet nail polish on our shared chest of drawers in our shared bedroom. How on earth did they find it out it was me?! I also remember when we were bought a new bedside lamp by our loving parents and I adorned the shade with the name ‘Gary’ (no, I don’t know why either) using one of her lipsticks. The shade was grey, by the way. I don’t know how they saw it!

Oh yes, I just remember another early memory. I sat on my sister’s head and farted. She never got me back for that one, despite her swearing she would.

At one point, our back garden was filled with rubbish (my parents were having a massive clear out) so we were playing war – my sister and me against my brother. Part way through the game we swapped sides of the garden so we could have different weapons to use but my sister and I wanted our shield ironing board back so my brother threw it to us across the garden. It arrived. And smacked me square in the mouth. And knocked out my two top front milk teeth. And I promptly swallowed them in shock. Then let the whole neighbourhood know about it. Loudly.

One time I got cross with my brother so I tested out a word I had heard used somewhere. I called him a bastard! I wasn’t even in double digits at the time, and I did it in front of my parents and sister too! I found myself soon being told off loudly for that one. (I should add here that I’ve heard swearing for as long as I can remember, and as soon as I hit senior school my potty mouth was unstoppable. It’s terrible at my current place of work too – the two guys I sit with spend the majority of each day calling each other some of the worst names possible: we’d make a sailor blush.)

Back to the subject. A good one was our father was strict when we were little, and from time to time it would be time for the group bollocking. My sister suffered from inner ear problems when she was a child, and also occasional fainting episodes. So one time our father was merrily blaring away at the three of us and next thing I know he’s gently pushed my sister onto the sofa and my brother has run screaming and crying from the room. Shortly it transpires that my brother has thought our father has just killed my sister and lost it big time with him, when actually our father saw my sister was about to have a fainting bout so pushed her to the sofa so she wouldn’t smack her head on the floor. Isn’t it amazing how things look to a child?

I’m running out of decent tales now, so I’ll tell you how things have panned out for the three of us.

My brother clearly developed a taste for older women: the smallest age gap between his partners and him was about five years, and that was his wife. He had a son at age 21, my parents’ first grandchild and whom they dote on (my father adores him). As I was only 14 when my nephew came into the world, I didn’t want to be called Auntie. However I know he does behind my back because his half-sister told me he does. And also one time he accidently called me auntie when I was talking to him, the git! Bless. He also doesn’t like that I take after my father in the height department and although he’s nearly taller than my sister (and is, at last, taller than my mother) he’s still got a good half a foot or so to get to my height though. Hah! Back to my brother. He’s now divorced from his wife (and his son’s mother) and had a couple of relationships but is now happily engaged (long term) and doing his original job of a postman.

My sister knew exactly what she wanted to do with her life – she got a City & Guilds in caring, had a succession of jobs working with teenagers and young adults with autism and/or severe learning difficulties. She left home when she was 24 and is successful on the property ladder. She had a semi-serious relationship at around that age, even getting engaged but he was a berk and she finally finished with him. She didn’t really have anything serious until about 2-3 years ago when she met her now live-in partner. Happily they started trying for a family in autumn 2007 and she got pregnant almost immediately – with twins! (Twins don’t run in either our or his family but I suppose they’ve got to start somewhere.) She gave birth to two little girls in May last year who are turning out to be two very different personalities and are utterly adorable. And if you’re wondering: I shan’t mind them calling me Auntie – I’m going to be 30 this year! *shudder*

Edit: [insert your own witty length pun here]
(, Tue 6 Jan 2009, 15:33, 2 replies)
Dog sandwich
As revenge for something minor, I let our dog partially nibble a warm Dalepak grill steak and gave it to my brother to eat in a bun. After he ate it, I told him what I did and forced myself to laugh hysterically like a klaxon.

He had the last laugh however, as he deliberately fudged up the back of my favourite white shirt before I went on a date with my first girlfriend. He then called the bowling alley where I was going and told me on the phone.

Ahh, I wouldn’t swap him for the world.
(, Tue 6 Jan 2009, 15:16, 1 reply)
My brother is a douche
It was a cold night and tension was running high, so i'm told. The girl was misbehaving, and he'd had enough. There was only one thing for it: oral rape.

He grabbed her head, and lunged his mouth onto her face. From here the parasite sucked untill blood was drawn. And a purple bruise replaced her nose.

This is a story of my brother.
(, Tue 6 Jan 2009, 14:30, Reply)
He grew out of it.
"...and then we jumped from the shed roof onto the house, did a gert wheelie and done like a skid and stuff before we speeded off through the woods where there was like a bear that we had to kill before we could find the secret house what no one knows about 'cept us..."

Sounds like utter gibberish, doesn't it?

Yet this is just a brief sample of the 'real' stories that my younger brother would regale us with of a Saturday evening, as we ate our tea.

The breadth of wild adventures he and his friend enjoyed was truly flabbergasting, yet, as far as he tried to convince us, every one of them was entirely true.

It's encouraging that a youngster would have so vivid an imagination. Looking back on it, it is almost impressive that he dreamt up such incredible adventures, such unlikely and implausible stories.

What concerned the rest of the family, however, was his determination that these stories were real. That somewhere in his mind, fiction merged seamlessly with fact and a new reality was crafted that replaced the world in which everyone else existed.

He did grow out of it eventually, and the rest of the family now believes most of what he tells us. But I suspect that even now, somewhere in the murkiest depths of his mind, he believes he really did jump a four wheel motorbike from shed to house, do battle with a fierce bear and hide out in a secret house, located somewhere in the ancient, mystic woods.
(, Tue 6 Jan 2009, 13:54, Reply)
I hate my sister
She's such a bitch.

I don't really have a sister. I just want to see if anyone gets the reference, and hopefully to give them an earworm if they do.
(, Tue 6 Jan 2009, 13:43, 6 replies)
I just thought of a real one!
My brother, when he was very little, filled a plastic bag with grass clippings and said it was "Richard Grass". My Mum thought that someone must've said "wretched grass".

Hm...even my real stories are puns.
(, Tue 6 Jan 2009, 13:37, Reply)
...Late entry alert...
My sister came back from the gym at the weekend and announced:

"I love Virgins! All the bits are newer so they don't smell so bad".
(, Tue 6 Jan 2009, 13:29, 5 replies)
I meticulously cut one sisters entire collection of My Little Pony magazines
in two, for some slight which I now can't remember. She probably deserved it though.

When I used to babysit my youngest sister (I was 15, she was 9) I used to take her down the road to the sandwich shop to spend my small amount of pocket money (50p) on a couple of rolls and butter, and some crisps, and then go home and make crisp sandwiches, before putting on the stereo as loud as possible and dancing round the living room with her; all the things we'd have been told off for doing when folks were home. Huzzah!
(, Tue 6 Jan 2009, 12:42, Reply)

This question is now closed.

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