Can we
have a new QOTW now?

Pretty please?

This one's shit, and too similar to previous ones.

I might even buy an icon if you change it.
(Son of Sam-i-am We're all as mad as hatters here, Thu 8 Jan 2009, 12:06, 2 replies)

Pearoast from 'Family Holidays'
**** The Director's Cut: edited a little bit, because I can, so there ****

When I turned four my parents decided it was time for our first family holiday. My younger brother was barely 18 months old, so a trip abroad would have been hell. Plus we couldn't afford it, so Butlins* was the natural second choice. By the end of an exhausting week (for my parents), all the kids in the camp were rounded up for a final magic show with a sensational prize: a HUGE bucket full of lollipops.

Believe me when I say I wanted those lollies more than anything before or since.

Dad was looking after my sleeping brother at the back of the room, so I pressed forwards into the pre-school mosh pit at the front, hoping it might increase my chances of winning the magical tub of sugarjoy.

Tension built as the magician rummaged around in a top hat full of our names. Finally, to a chorus of rapturous squeaks he produced a crumpled scrap of paper and announced... somebody else. I remember feeling gutted and sulking immediately. In the background I could hear my dad shouting something but I was too consumed with grief to care. Eventually, my attention re-focused on the stage as the magician was still waiting for someone to come forwards. He kept repeating the winner's name, and each time he did so, dad's calls to me drifted pointlessly over the sea of kiddynoise, into one ear, and straight out the other.

The magician grew bored and asked his pint-sized audience if he should draw another name. The reply was a resounding, fever-pitch “YAY!” from all of the mewling brats below. I shouted louder than anyone, struggling to believe that I’d been granted a second chance to win all those lollies.

By now, dad was wading through the swirling maelstrom of ankle-biters towards the front of the stage, which only made me more determined to win before he took me back home. Just as he got within grabbing distance, the magician announced a second name. The winner (a girl standing right next to me) bounced three feet onto the stage to claim her prize. I felt my eyes welling up with tears.

These were soon shaken away as I received a clip round the ear from my fuming father. The first name the magician announced had been my baby brother’s, so my dad had been shouting at me to put my hand up on his behalf. My lolly-induced tunnel vision and selective hearing, combined with exceptional 4-year old naivety meant I’d ignored my bro's name and missed out on a share in the ultimate prize.

When I realised the magnitude of my error five seconds later I cried for the rest of the week and had recurring nightmares about it for years afterwards. My dad and brother still remind me of what could have been every single time they see anything lollipop-related.

I’m 29.


* For those who haven't experienced Butlins, it's similar to Auschwitz but with more clowns.
( chart cat has an itch, Thu 8 Jan 2009, 4:02, 11 replies)

My bro's first hospital ride. Thanks to.... Me. :D
Oh where to begin... Let me start by saying that I do very much love my brother. We are (as adults) best friends. Growing up... Not so much. I have way to many horror stories to write them all down, so I'll start with the first of them. :)

I, being the oldest, always tried to help my parents with the taking care of my little brother. (I'm a whole 18 months older than he is. A lot of help I was...) On this fateful day (I don't remember when it was as I was maybe 3, but I've heard (and told) the story many a time. :)) My lovely family was napping and as fate sometimes works, somehow, I was the only one to hear my darling brother crying. Obviously I had watched my parents give him his bottle on numerous occasions, so me being the big helper I was, decided to get my beloved brother his bottle. Now everyone has seen Kool-aid. It comes in all sorts of bright pretty colors. Now what maybe not everyone is familiar with, Lamp oil, it also comes in all sorts of bright pretty colors... I'm sure you can all see where I'm going with this. I filled my brothers bottle with flamable lamp oil instead of the yummy, sweet, kool-aid. Luckily for my brother, lamp oil isn't as tasty as kool-aid and made him cry even louder, which did wake my folks up. And that, my friends, is how I scored my brother his first ride in an ambulance. As far as I know, that's the only time. Hmmmm. I'm such a nice sister!!

And that is also how the cherry pops! :D
(darling_nici, Wed 7 Jan 2009, 20:52, 7 replies)

lol, funny story....
...I almost did my sister! But it just didn't feel right.

/LukeSkywalkerblog
( Jeccius Steam Borderlands 2 junkie, Wed 7 Jan 2009, 19:40, 2 replies)

Scarpe just reminded me...
When I was naught but a little Empressette, about 18 months old, I had a favorite stuffed toy lamb called Aggy. I took Aggy everywhere with me, and even had to have her next to the tub when I was in the bath.

One day, my parents had taken my older brother (about 8 years old) and I to a lunch party with friends of theirs. We weren't allowed to the end of the garden as there was a big deep pond there, but were allowed to play on the verandah. Where there was a small ornamental fishpond.

I was toddling around, dragging Aggy by the ears, when I went and stared into the fishpond. And dropped Aggy into the water. My brother, seeing this, very kindly went to retrieve my toy. Which involved him kneeling on the edge of the pond and leaning forwards to fish Aggy out. So, naturally, as every toddler would do, I gave him a hearty shove in the arse, pitching him face-first into the water.

This was nearly 25 years ago, I don't even remember the incident, and he still hasn't quite forgiven me. Aggy, I'm happy to report, was fine after a spin in the washing machine.
(The Empress it seems you CAN polish a turd!, Wed 7 Jan 2009, 17:19, 4 replies)

Siblings?
We did it.










Sean and Amelie McCann




Bindun?
(kickstandrich last had sex with your mum/sister/wife/daughter on, Wed 7 Jan 2009, 17:02, 2 replies)

ooh, I remember one real one. I nearly drowned my brother.
I must have been about 9 and he about 6.

We were on holiday in, I think, Jersey. There was a beach with a big rocky tower thing sticking out of the sea.

My memory of this is hazy, but if I recall, you could walk out to it at low tide, but it was quite a long way to swim too when the tide was in. And neither of us could really swim that well anyway (I still can't to my shame).

We walked out to it to climb it.

We got a to a bit where we couldn't go any higher without a hand up, so I helped him up onto a ledge. Then realised I couldn't get up there.

We both panicked a bit, cos he couldn't get down and I couldn't get up.

So I did what any responsible older brother would do.

I went to play in the rock pools.

Then toddled off back to my parents when I saw the tide coming in.

Who asked where he was. I shrugged and said 'he was climbing those rocks' and pointed to where I'd left him.

Where the tide was already coming in.

And there was no sign of my brother on the ledge where I had abandoned him.

Cue: Blind panic. My mother crying, my dad legging it into the sea and clambering up the rocks.

Where he found my brother sitting, just out of sight, as the tide came further and further in, crying his eyes out while waiting to drown.

My Dad had to carry him back to water level and then swim him back.

I got bollocked.

Unsurprisingly.
( scarpe We Stole Bikes, Wed 7 Jan 2009, 16:49, 2 replies)

Misplaced trust...
"Wouldn't it be cool" I said to the younger sibling "if you put your coat over your head and I lead you along by the sleeve?"

"Yeah!" eagerly agreed the naive 10 year old.

"Wouldn't it be cool" thought my brain "if I accidentally walked him into that there wall?"

"Yeah" sneered the wall before opening up his head a bit.

He still has the scar, and he frequently reminds me of just how cool it wasn't.
( Moey, Wed 7 Jan 2009, 16:37, 2 replies)

My brother growing up wasn’t actually my brother, he was my cousin
His parents died in a car crash when we were little, so he lived with us most of my childhood. Since we were both just babies when it happened, neither of us really knew his parents. I guess I never really considered him a cousin at all, more of a brother, but he didn’t seem to think that kindly of me. I think that was because my parents tried to spoil me rotten and couldn’t care less for him – something about my Mum and his having a falling out when they were teenagers.

We never really got along that well when we were kids, sibling rivalry and all that. I was in all kinds of sports and he basically stayed inside reading all the time and didn’t try to make any friends. I will admit I was friends with some bullies, which I regret fully now; and my friends always picked on him because he was pale and scrawny. To his credit, he did win some fights and he was an amazingly fast runner, so I didn’t worry about defending him. I think it made him tougher, later in life he and I even got attacked one time in an alley in the bad part of town and he defended us both while I promptly pissed myself. Not my proudest moment, but it proves all the childhood bullying just helped him later in life! Or so I tell myself.

Anyway, when we were about 11, this old creepy guy started sending him things in the mail, feeding him bullshit about his parents. He had apparently known them and done all kinds of drugs with them back in the 70s. My Dad tried to keep the paedo away, but since my cousin was starving for friends, he ended up going to a different school where he could be closer to his “mentor.” His parents must have handed down their drug addiction, because every summer when he came back from school he had even more delusions of grandeur and crazy ideas in his head. I got a little scared of him for a few years there, even started trying to avoid him when he came home for breaks.

It just went downhill from there; he even helped an escaped convict evade the police and joined a group of violent vigilantes! He and his friends protested some politician they thought was evil, saying he drank unicorn blood and wild things like that. They eventually got the politician assassinated, and I've always secretly had my suspicions that my cousin may have had more to do with this than he claims.

He has since settled down and had some kids, and we still send the occasional Christmas card, and our kids get along much better than we ever did. I try to keep an ear out when our families spend time together in case he tries to poison the minds of my little ones with his talks of wizardry and saving the world from Voldemort, but so far he's stayed on the straight and narrow.

Love,
Dudley
(b3kaMN, Wed 7 Jan 2009, 16:18, 9 replies)

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!
( Peej, 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.
( chickenlady b3ta's very own Elizabeth Taylor, Wed 7 Jan 2009, 15:23, 1 reply)

My
Little Brother's just discovered rock and roll.






What? i got nothing else for this QOTW and it's been here two weeks.
( scarpe We Stole Bikes, 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.
(Half of Stephen Fry's right buttock pissed on your dog on, 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!
(Affero-Dolor made noodles using a cuppa soup on, 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.
(ELDAR, 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.
( Noeli overtheshoulderboulderholderthingstraplatchboobs, 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.
(apeloverage committed the vile act of onanism on, 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?
(apeloverage committed the vile act of onanism on, Wed 7 Jan 2009, 7:17, 9 replies)

Jesus Christ.
Enough of this fucking QOTW already.
(sorry., 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
(Techkitten, 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.
(The Archduke of South London I'm in your Girlfriend eating her organs, 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.
( flirting with badgers What? It sounded good at the time., 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.

Bastard.
(littlenipple hate's bad grammar, 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!'

Sorry,
(Andrelius67JHHVGC7 Han har stillet træskoene, Tue 6 Jan 2009, 22:34, 2 replies)

weirdness...
...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!
(Ceorl sings with the swimmy dolphins, 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.
(Thrillhouse will be prosecuted on, Tue 6 Jan 2009, 18:36, Reply)

Well I'm
an only child.

AND IT'S NOT FAIR BECAUSE THIS QUESTION ISN'T ALL ABOUT ME...

*sulks*
(Rakky (forgot her password) The muffin maverick, 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.

Ring...

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

Life is suddenly much less good.
( Moey, 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.


Genius.
(crayongirl, Tue 6 Jan 2009, 16:11, 12 replies)

Presents
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?
( hanabanana, Tue 6 Jan 2009, 15:57, 4 replies)