How do you dispose of a door?
Not like this...

Long story short, a mate of mine is a builder. He employed another mate (I say "mate", he and his wife couldn't be arsed to turn up to our wedding or even offer any congratulations, send a card or fuck all, so we've given up bothering) to do some labouring on the site.

One day, Brad was asked to get rid of some rubbish, old fixtures and fittings from the massive refurbishment job they're doing for the local millionaire. "Take that old door, and chuck it on the skip", he was asked. Brad duly hoisted the old, solid oak door above his head and marched towards the nearest skip. With a testosterone-fuelled, Hulk-like "Raaaaargh", he threw the door on top of the already piled-high-with-rubbish skip...

Only to watch as the door hit the top of the pile, see-sawed slightly, and slid back down again, connecting with his cro-magnon forehead and knocking him flat on his arse.

The stupid twat.
( Davros' Granddad a voice of calm reason in a world of spastics., Tue 26 Jan 2010, 22:50, 1 reply)

Walking along the street
I was jabbering away to friends and stood on something wet and squishy causing me to do the windmill and shreik a bit as I struggled to regain my balance.

At that moment my mate laughed like a loon and said:

"Hahahahahah....Hahhhaahahha.. You've stood in ... not poo"

It was a plum of all things. He was very disappointed, although not-poo soon entered the vocabulary.
( TheFinch is getting to grips with the complex plane on, Tue 26 Jan 2010, 22:44, Reply)

A Russian friend of mine...
Whom I have known for many a year now, attracts slapstick accidents.

We were cycling to a mate's house for a get together of some description, when we spotted a group of (fairly fit) lasses we knew from school, so we decided to stop and say Hi. Cue Russian friend slamming his brakes on in what I assume was supposed to be a skid-stop, but using his front brakes a little too enthusiastically, causing him to teeter up on his front wheel and hang there for what must have been a good few seconds before gravity caught up with him and he hit the deck face first, mere feet from aforementioned lasses.

On another occasion involving just the two of us we were wandering back from the swimming pool in our home town in freezing early January temperatures, through a nature reserve which served as a handy shortcut. The Russian spots something I can only describe as a hybrid between a small lake and a large pond which is completely frozen over, and decides to try breaking the ice. We're stood there stamping around for a bit, rapidly tiring of our pointless endeavour, when he takes a massive jump and slams both feet down, taking out a large circle of ice and plunging into the depths with it. The water came up to his shoulders and he was blue by the time I'd dragged his stupid arse out of the water, me giggling like a numpty the whole way home as soon as I realised he wasn't going to die.

To finish this trio of slapstickery, you must know that our friendship group indulges in the creatively titled sport of "glowstick frisbee" which involves drinking until the group as a whole is heavily refreshed, then taking a frisbee with glued on glowsticks down the park in the middle of the night and hurling it about. So there we are and after a mighty throw by yours truly the frisbee is sailing across the park with three pissed up young gentlemen in hot pursuit. Two of them gracefully avoided the park bench that lay in their path, the third, being the uncoordinated Russian that he is, spangs his shins and manages a full somersault before landing heavily on his arse. He laid there for a while before we stopped pissing ourselves laughing and picked him up.

I think he earned the playground nickname "The coordination station".
(AprilFool, Tue 26 Jan 2010, 21:05, Reply)

tits and arses
well, just arses, if i'm being wholly accurate...

it was the first week in my new job. the office, which was then along the embankment in london, was a funny place in that it was a modern building with one very old fashioned part that was listed, meaning the landlord could not upgrade it. this old fashioned part happened to be near my room, and it was very pretty, with thick cushioned carpets and wooden handrails. hardly anyone ever used it, but it was a nifty shortcut from my office to our insolvency department on the floor above.

so my new boss asked me to take a stack of files upstairs. he offered to come with me and help me carry them. thank feck i said no. as you do for a new job, i had gone out and bought a couple of new suits, and this particular trouser suit, despite being a very professional and stylish shade of charcoal grey, was too long for me, like a kid in a new school blazer. i was also wearing very high stacks. sure enough, like a total comedy clown, i caught one heel in the bottom of the trousers, and fell up the stairs. and landed on the files. and yanked my own trousers down, debagging myself in the process.

now the face plant hurt like hell despite the fancy carpet, but nobody else had been there to see my loss of dignity and my pants, so no harm done. i picked myself up, laughed a bit at my stupidity, and went to see my colleagues. a couple of hours later, i went out for lunch with my trainee, mary. she found the story hilarious. now, mary was quite a curvy individual, with an admittedly mahoosive bum (a bit like a parcel shelf).

at the time i was telling her, we were walking up one of those narrow chutes from the embankment to fleet street, past a basement restaurant window. with immaculate precision comedy timing, as mary was ripping the piss out of me for being a flasher, a gust of wind blew her skirt clean up, flashing her pasty bum and thighs to every diner in the window. and about 5 of our male colleagues who were walking behind us, as we shortly found out. i don't think it can have enhanced anyone's lunch hour pleasure.

mary didn't get kept on at the end of her training contract...
( rachelswipe with a fork, Tue 26 Jan 2010, 20:37, 3 replies)

Space-hoppers are weapons now?
Back when I was a youngster (about 7 or 8), all the kids in my street would play together during the summer, mainly involving water fights, sticky-weed fights (anyone else remember that?), and of course, fist fights.

One day, there were 4 or 5 of us atop a hill in my neighbours garden. Only about 10 feet tall (the hill, not me), we couldn't get into too much trouble running up and down it, or so I thought.

As it was my turn to peg it down the hill, my older neighbour bowled a Space-hopper after me. Catching my heel, it was hurled into the air as I continued to run. Upon approaching the bottom of the hill, gravity did what it does best, and brought said Space-hopper crashing down into the back of my head.

I landed on my face, and my momentum ensured that there was a small trench of sorts, about a meter long, created by my face as it helped me grind to a halt.

Took a while to pick all the grass and dirt out of the cuts...

Apologies for length. First post, please be gentle!
(TheJeeves, Tue 26 Jan 2010, 20:14, Reply)

mate falls down stairs he didn't see
happened to be filming as it happened!
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=fFROejcwv7Y
(ratthingbazzterd, Tue 26 Jan 2010, 19:42, 11 replies)

Riddle
Q: What's the difference between schadenfreude and slapstick?

A: 5 weeks.




bindun?
( sandettie light vessel automatic New Twitter - @bollocksreally, Tue 26 Jan 2010, 18:56, 3 replies)

Stairs and Mattresses
For some reason no matter how many toys me and my brothers had when we were younger we always ended up playing games on the stairs, like 'who can jump down the most stairs', 'who can slide down the stairs in the most dangerous way' or 'who can get down the stairs with only the use of the handrail.'
Anyway, I was 12 my other brother Nick was 10 and my youngest brother, Josh, was 5 and despite the age gap used to try and join in mine and Nick's big kid games as best he could, and bless our evil socks, we used this to our advantage all the time! Which probably explains why Josh is a bit of a nutter now! So this one time we were moving house and we were 'helping' take stuff out of our bedrooms to the moving van. Now myself and Nick came up with the ultimate version of the jumping down the stairs game, why not put one of our mattresses half way down and jump from the top, bounce, then land at the bottom. This kept us entertained for, oh, at least ten minutes and then the novelty wore off and we were told by our Mum to stop pratting about before one of us got hurt, so as I was at the bottom of the stairs, I pulled the mattress down to my level...just as Josh shouted "to infinity, and beyond" and leapt from the top...I honestly thought I'd killed him...To this day my mum still holds me responsible for having to take Josh to A&E in the middle of moving because they thought he had broke his back and Nick because he was having an asthma attack from laughing so much!
(becca4211, Tue 26 Jan 2010, 17:48, 1 reply)

Scarface and the jumping dog of doom
People that know me are aware that I’m a tiny bit accident prone. My fringe covers a multitude of retarded escapades and resembles the side of a learner drivers Vauxhall Corsa… it’s a tad banged up. Anyhoo… one of the worst scars in my possession is thankfully hidden behind one of my eyebrows and as we’re all telling tales of our fuckwittery, I’ll chuck mine down as well…

It was April the 10th, the day before my birthday. I was a merry soon-to-be 12 year old just sitting in the garden, enjoying a rare day of sunshine. My sister and brother were also in the garden, annoying our massive dog with one of his many toys. They were chucking a ball to one another while he excitedly danced around them attempting to intercept the ball. Watching from what I had initially considered to be a safe distance I laughed along with them as the dog was getting more and more excited. My sister, noticing the dogs increased excitement, decided to stop teasing him so she threw the ball nonchalantly in his direction. THWAK – the sound of the dogs teeth hitting the ball… BOING – the sound of the ball bouncing out of the dogs mouth and towards me… ARGAHHH – the sound of me realising what is about to occur… WHOOOSH DOOSH – the sound of a 9 stone german shepherd connecting with my face. Now I believe I blacked out for a moment or two because the next thing I remember was my ever-loving sister stomping over to me telling me to stop being a dramatic dickhead… and then I recall her screams as she turned me over and saw my bloodied face. Nice. Cue my sister crying, my mum crying, my granddad telling me I’m going to get lockjaw (gotta love optimistic old people) and my brother telling me I’m going to have one killer scar!

After being stitched back together again I spent my 12th birthday walking around a shopping centre, with two massive black eyes and a giant bandage on my head while everyone looked at me with sympathy and at my mother like she had beaten me up.
(Flim-Flam the Magnificent "You is talking loco and I like it!", Tue 26 Jan 2010, 17:22, 4 replies)

Snow fail.
At college I rather fancied a girl a bit, and when it was snowing I thought a rather fun way of flirting would be to throw a snowball at her, all innocent and playful like.

Except instead of that I ran past her, threw a snowball dead in her face and heard her scream as, in slow motion, I slipped quite nicely on the ice, legs flying up behind me and I resembled Superman as I planted my face directly into the ground.

What I feel everyone should know by now is that life never happens like slapstick, and this being the case instead of getting up and jaunting off I almost knocked myself out. Whilst she stood there crying because of the facial ice bomb (i got carried away mid-throw) I lifted my head up and spit blood all over her shoes.

We laughed


(There was no laughing)
(Scrumpy does not negotiate with terrorists,, Tue 26 Jan 2010, 16:58, Reply)

Kids and hosepipes
One day I was puttering around my old house and I took a look under the front porch. To a bit of surprise I found that the former owners had left a garden sprinkler under there, which had gotten half buried in the mud and forgotten. Being me, I decided to resurrect it.

I hooked it up to a hose and turned it on. It sputtered a bit and spat out mud, but didn't really work right. I shut off the hose by folding it in my hand, then took a piece of wire and started clearing out the holes on it. I stood back and let go of the hose and watched it spray, and noted that it was still not quite right. I folded the hose again and poked the wire into the holes again and stood back.

At this point my sons and one of their friends approached. "Hey Dad, what're you doing?"

"Fixing the sprinkler. Take a close look and tell me if I have it right."

They trooped over and peered closely at the little holes, just as I dropped the hose.

It took them a few minutes to see the humor in it.
( The Resident Loon Not a demographic. Do not measure., Tue 26 Jan 2010, 16:57, Reply)

When I was about 9 I was playing in a rugby match.
As we walked out onto the pitch there was a low railing, about waist height on us 9-year-olds. So we all decided to climb over the railing rather than go through the little gate. My shorts got caught on a bolt in the railing and I tripped and ended up hanging by my shorts shouting for help.

It was pretty shit actually, but I'm sure that if I saw it happen to someone else I'd find it hilarious.
(Seance Trumpet has got no beef with a man enjoying a croissant, Tue 26 Jan 2010, 16:46, Reply)

Face / Lamp post combination
Ah, the old classics never die... bacon & cheese... salt & vinegar... and a young boy's face and a lamp post. I should know, I was that boy.

The place was Glasgow in the late 80s, Cumbernauld Road in Dennistoun, to be precise. The time was about 15 minutes before I was due to be in school. I was on a bus - one of the old Routemasters that Kelvin had bought on the cheap from London and repainted in their best mouthwash blue and bile yellow paint job - and quite enjoying the day. I had a walkman, loaded with the latest Twix Trax compilation tape... ah yes, those were the days.

My stop was coming up and I was standing at the platform at the back of the bus waiting to get off - this newfangled (to Glaswegians, anyway) open door at the back was still great fun, especially for kids at the time. As the bus slowed for the stop, I noticed some girls... in particular THE girl of the school. Every school had one like her, the first one with built in airbags.

Seeing her there in the street, I knew she was waiting for someone to impress her and sweep her off her feet, and share the treasure of her chest (sorry) with them. That person would be me. I'd do it by hopping off the bus in a manly fashion, before it stopped. That would surely win her affection!

I checked to make sure she was watching as the bus neared a stop - still moving but slowing up - and made my hop off the bus. It was elegant, it was graceful, it was nonchalant... sadly, it was also timed perfectly to put me on a collision course with a lamp post. Also timed perfectly was me turning my head just in time to come face to face with said lamp post.

When I came round, I had made an impression. Granted, it was an impression of a lamp post in my skull, but still.

Didn't have to do PE that day, so not a total loss!
(ZeInno, Tue 26 Jan 2010, 16:16, Reply)

Pole Dancing
Another excellent excuse for an ‘African Bore’ story…

For those who don’t know, the two capital cities that are closest to each other are Brazzaville and Kinshasa, the capitals of the two Congos. They lie separated by the great river itself, and although the geographical distance is only about a mile the passage between the two is one of life’s harder journeys.

Apart from the sporadic wars that are generally taking place somewhere in both countries at any time, the ports are considered to be lucrative franchises which are controlled by the President’s closest cronies who milk traffic mercilessly. Men with guns are everywhere. And worst of all it’s impossible to get a cup of coffee which meant that when I arrived at the ‘Beach’ in Brazzaville I was in possibly the foulest mood ever. I’d been briefed on the likely shake-downs by the British pro-consul – a French bloke who spoke precious little English, but who gave me pertinent and direct advice (of the “go there and they will shoot you” type). After brushing off the demands for a Port entry fee I headed for the little know diplomatic jetty (who’s going to check?) where amazingly the ferry (a barge and a tug) was docked. Making the most of the opportunity I drove straight on and paid the ferryman. Once the car was on board I was almost home and dry – a few stamps in my passport and a little bit of ducking and diving to avoid the many ‘Chefs’ and I was almost home and free. It was only at the last moment that the harbour mafia realised I’d outsmarted them, but by this point the ferry was pushing off and I could only shrug at the half hearted attempts of some 14 year old with a rusty Kalashnikov to collect his bosses money.

The ferry crossing is short, which is jsut as well as the barge was little more than floating box with space for three vehicles and a few stanchions (poles) rising out of the deck for hand holds. As I wondered what surprises Kinshasa would throw at me a kindly Asian bloke in the white van next to me said “When we get across they will touch land to the West of the port and there will be many thieves coming on board”. He nodded to my roof which was stacked with jerricans and shiny kit, and I got his meaning. I locked my doors and positioned myself behind the Camel as, just as predicted, we touched the bank in order to let the current carry us into the port, and a dozen young men jumped agilely aboard.

A few ducked in amongst the foot passengers and I heard a rising squeals of indignation. Most of the guys, however were delighted at the rich pickings available on the barge. The tallest and brashest of them stepped forward smiling and made to push past me, knowing that my pockets would be full of treasures; his mates were cheering him forward. As he got within arms length I planted my hands on his chest and gave him a hard straight armed shove that should have send him into the Congo.

What happened next was pretty spectacular; as he went overboard he caught one of the stanchions and executed an amazing pole-dancing manoeuvre that sent him swinging almost horizontally around the stanchion before somehow finding his feet back on the deck. It was as graceful a piece of pole dancing as I’ve ever seen, and his mates broke into spontaneous applause and cheering. Now that the ice had been broken I shook him by the hand and complimented him on his style – he beamed back at me and from then on he and his team treated me with respectful caution and went about their pillaging elsewhere.

I still don’t know how he avoided ending up in the river, but then agility and thieving are part of the same skill set when you think about it.

Length? 18 months and 70,000km
(strongp, Tue 26 Jan 2010, 15:53, 2 replies)

As a boy, one Sunday..
.. my mother was walking my brother and I to church. It was very bright and sunny day, and must have been in the summer. I was about 8. As we walked, a bee, the size of a Hercules transporter in a stripey jumper, came very close to my mother. My mother did the panic arm waving thing, and spooked me. I ran in the opposite direction, looking back at my mother. As I ran, I sensed my running coming to an abrupt halt, my vision gone black, and the noise and pain of all Armageddon bouncing round my head.

I had ran into a lamppost hitting my head against steel side on. I was lay on the ground with the budgies circling above my head.

I was no stranger to concussion, having had a mishap with a barking canine and a playground roundabout the summer previous. My mother knew the signs were not immediate and although I had some protestations we continued to church and she sat me down in a pew, with my head on her lap.

The sign of concussion that I remembered most was being sick within about an hour of the event. And so it was... as I lay there with my mother tenderly stroking my barnet, I could feel the stomach contents rise. Instintively I sat up and blurted my biscuits all over the pew in front, and whoever it was in their Sunday finery. I would have liked to think that it was timed to coincide with "All Things Bright and Beautiful" but that would be too much.

I know my head hurt for a week. Since then I have a fear of organised religion and buzzing insects.
( Piper Alpha is being a grumpy northerm bastard on:, Tue 26 Jan 2010, 15:41, Reply)

.
Blast from the past arse.

I'm going to apoligise in advance, and suggest that if you're eating, skip this and come back later.

Ere we go.. are you sitting comfortably? good.

I live in Sweden...

... and have in the past mentioned Surströmming and the violent aroma. If you doubt my wisdom, go and play with youtube. You'll find all sorts of people being violated by putrid fish smells.

Now.. Midsummer in Sweden is one HELL of a party. I've been here for a good few years, and I can't remember a single Midsummer where people haven't got royally rat-arsed, or fallen over while dancing round the giant phallic symbol that we erect for the party: Rinsing your recently abused pallet of rotten fish with large quantities of Vodka and Akvavit can get you more drunk than you'd care to imagine.. but as for the frog-dance there is no excuse. To be honest I hardly remember a single midsummer. Full stop... I remember this one though.

Anyway... there's lots of rampant alcohol fuelled shagging that goes on. This night I was going to become another statistic.

6am, and the missus and I have swayed home in the lazy and meandering way that the drunks have perfected over an eternity of liver-abuse... We were determined to nail each other to the bed when we get home. Now.. to be fair to her she was awesome in bed, it's just that this night was about to go wrong. Terribly terribly wrong.

We'd both been drinking for nearly 12 hours straight. We were both obscenely drunk... and I was having difficulty getting hard. I could hardly keep my body erect, let alone Mr Winky. Missus Humpty decided that - as sitting on my face was always a dead-cert for trouser-snake charming - she'd hoik her dress up, and ride my tongue.. This she did. Rather hard. I'm not only used to this, but a great fan to boot. My tongue worked away at her feverishly, her cute puckered barking-spider a bare few millimeters from my nose. I was in heaven, and - riding my face like a drunken pro - so was she.

She was sat in the perfect position to tug away at any signs of life, and as she and I both neared the point of no return I - mouth full of mimsy - was forced to heave air through my nose at a colossal rate, much like a jet-fighter at full throttle just before take-off....

We both came.... and - as fate would have it - the orgasm ripping through her body caused her to grind down harder on my face.. and fart - forcefully injecting un-diluted rectal gasses into my air-hungry nose.

A FULLL force, and totally ripe, hot Surströmming fart (far worse than the initial burst of smell from the tin), CLEAN up my nostrils. The reaction was instant and uncompromising. Completely unaware of her crime and mistaking my convulsions for throws of ecstasy, Mrs Humpty ground down harder on my face as I gasped for air.. The enormity of my horror peaked as, in the full grip of natural bolidy rejection, I hoyed my stomach's content, including a large amount of undigested, rotten fish, straight up her pink mitten.

While the fetid and vomited herring now deeply stuck in my nostrils caused the start of a gagging fit that would go on to last an apparent eternity, She ran screaming to the bathroom trailing a torrent of rotten fish, stomach acid, bile and alcohol from her burning fish-mitten.
( Humpty Dumpty was Pushed Is unaware of having any limits., Tue 26 Jan 2010, 15:02, 8 replies)

more tales of courtroom hilarity...
Luckily this didn't happen to me or I may have left the profession forever.

I was in Magistrate's Motion court - basically all the articled clerks get sent there to adjourn stuff, take default judgments etc. You do not wear gowns. We all sit on wooden pew like things and then approach the bench when the matter gets called. This one girl went up - she was wearing the height of fashion at the time - tightfitting lycra type suit. She dropped a piece of paper and bent over to pick it up. As she did so her ENTIRE ARSE popped up over the top of her trousers! As she stood up it popped back down again.

cue intense stifled laughter.
(MostlySunny, Tue 26 Jan 2010, 15:00, Reply)

Squatters.
First Contact.
Location: Normandy

Squatter-toilets - for those who have somehow managed to remain ignorant thus far - were designed by someone who enjoyed shitty heels. They resemble a shower-tray with two foot-platforms. The platforms allow you to evade the inevitable flow of shit and piss, while offering a shockingly small variety of stance-options: the favoured being the knee-trembling crouch of the struggling weight-lifter...

Being small kids, (10/12) my brother and I were still supple and amused by this concept until a series of accidents prevailed.

This is just the first...

The first night of our budget "travel the length of France in a Ford Escort holiday" was spent in coastal Normandy. We fed on shrimps that we had netted in the sea. Half way though the next day's journeying, we desperately required a shit-stop. Hmm. Squatters. We'd been informed about them, but so far hadn't set foot (or hand) in one.

Carefully placing trollies and shorts around our knees (the highest placement available when "assuming the position") we squatted while giggling in adjacent cubicles.
Laughing is not conducive to accurate sphincter control.
Good sphincter control is recommended if you're dancing the sour-apple quick-step.
Listening to your sibling's building laughter get accompanied by louder and louder splattering noises causes *yet more* laughter... and resultant shit-torrents.

The more we laughed, the worse our anal control. The worse our anal control, the more we laughed. 2 minutes later we were howling with laughter desperately trying to maintain balance on the raised areas: I would later realise that this was the first of my disasterous shit-induced positive feedback loops.

Mirth and merriment were short-lived as - bawling like a mong and trying to hoik his trollies up - My brother literally skidded in shit and lost footing. The *THUD* represented the moment that both of his feet hit at waist height on opposite cubicle sides as he fell flat on his back in a pile of bog-roll and Shrimp-splatter, and was also the moment where *facepalm* I jumped.

Being caused to jump while laughing and trying to wipe one's arse and heels (I have a blast radius that makes Hiroshima and Nagasaki look lame) had the obvious and highly predictable effect of making me fall over. I instinctively put a hand out behind me to stop the fall.. it went straight down the large diameter shit-hole in the back of the pan. If I'd have known about break-dancing back then, I'd have been proud of my momentary pose. Before the thought "oooh squishy" had even formed in my mind, my feet then kicked out from under me as the coefficient of friction failed to be big enough, and I too - in accordance with a theme that would establish itself in my life - became a walking shit-monster.

**************

Looking back, Maybe this was the point at which my father became de-sensitized to shit-covered children.
( Humpty Dumpty was Pushed Is unaware of having any limits., Tue 26 Jan 2010, 14:44, 3 replies)

Rent-a-Ninja
'Twas the dead of night in a large creaky farmhouse, somewhere in the depths of middle Earth or Wales as it's now called.

My friends and I had driven from Essex that morning, and after a hearty meal, we'd all collapsed with our partners into our respective rooms, dotted around the corridors of the uneven upstairs floor.

I awoke with the urge to piss for England. With the usual boner mother nature supplies in these circumstances, both to prevent you from letting go when you're asleep and also when you're awake in front of the crapper.

Using all my Ninja skills, I quietly got out of bed, not waking my girlfriend, and crept towards the door, feeling my way as I went. Every footstep was accompanied with a load groan or squeak from the misshapen floorboards.

Once out of the bedroom, I faintly remembered the way to the bathroom, down a long corridor. I had to walk either on the extreme edges, or on the skirting board, bracing myself against the opposite wall, in order to be as silent as possible.

I knew I was getting close, as I could faintly see the bathroom door ahead. Encouraged by the sight of my goal, I pressed on...

One thing I hadn't thought of though, was exactly where all the other doors were. With only 2 steps to go, feet braced on one wall, I moved my hands for a final push and fell through the unlocked door of my friends room, performing an almost perfect roll-and-stand manoeuvre.

Their bedside light was on.
They were having "Special cuddles"
I'd burst in completely without warning, standing in my trollies, sporting a rather magnificent semi.

No-one laughed. It wasn't exactly Harold Lloyd slapstick.
(Kliper Filllets Getting noticed by twats on the internet since, Tue 26 Jan 2010, 14:39, 1 reply)

I was walking once...
I was walking along the road once when suddenly my foot rocketed out in front of me. I nearly fell, and only saved myself by doing crazy windmill arms. I look up expecting to see some gropup of people laughing (as there always seems to be when one does this type of thing) but no, no one.

Full of smug taht I had gotten away with it, I turn to look at what I had slipped on and it...was....actually...a.....BANANA!!

I couldn't believe it! i thought it was all an urban myth, and that only cartoon characters slip on them, but no!

I was so happy to have slipped ona banana skin but then realised, to my horror: No one saw! Suddenly I wanted to share this funny (if a little bit embarrassing) incident. Oh well.
(ab1kenobe, Tue 26 Jan 2010, 13:21, 1 reply)

Short
A level economics. Group of 11 people including teacher (Sixth form school). Gandalf was a retired bullied type. Gandalf then leant back, let out a massive sneeze and due to the force emitted a small parp-like trump. The only thing said amongst the laughter was "oops - both ends at once" by our teacher.
( bazza van der trance , ooh baby baby, baby baby. Get up on this., Tue 26 Jan 2010, 12:46, Reply)

Dog prang
I used to have an Airedale Terrier, later killed by latent cat evil - he had a heart attack and died while barking at one of our feline friends.

As you might imagine, any dog that could bark himself to death wasn't your smooooshy and docile type of pet. PTony - the dog - was no exception. He was a dog jacked on crack, a perfect case for doggie Ritalin, huge and hyperactive in equal measures; the best I could hope for on any day was that he didn't decide to climb up the chimney...again.

He had a favourite game which involved mindlessly running around in circles for hours on end. Occasionally I'd require an adrenalin rush and step into this game with a tennis ball. I'd run, he'd run, he'd lob the tennis ball through something made of Expensive - much fun was had. On this day, I became distracted by something superpretty and shiny in the distance and stopped to drop jaw in awe. PTony, with a head of 8 parts concrete and 2 parts thick-o, kept moving like a perpetual motion idiot machine and PRANG! ran into my knee. My knee bore the brunt of such force that I was thrown across the room, tumbling until I hit the wall. And then the pain hit.

Being the big strong girl that I am, I lay screaming and crying on the floor, clawing at my flesh in abject agony. PTony, in a show of canine sympathy, wandered over to me to find out what I might taste like when I inevitably perished from my knee injury. He sniffed me for a second, then stood on top of me.

My husband came home an hour later to find the dog holding me down with two paws on my shoulders and the others on my stomach, trying to shove a tennis ball in my mouth.
(TheSnark oh, c'mon, like you didn't see me coming, Tue 26 Jan 2010, 11:19, 6 replies)

Wha-Wha-Wha-Whaaaaaaa!
An old chum of mine was renowned for being a bit clusy but one day at work really took the first prize...

Whilst standing on a kick-stool, a customer asked her a question. Unfortunately that customer wasn't to know that ****** is scared of her own shadow...

She started, wobbled, over balanced...
Fell with her foot landing in a shopping basket..
Which slid 2 feet across the shop floor..
Depositing her, arse first, into an open fridge!

Forever more i referred to it as "The Kick-stool/Basket/Fridge" incident!
(By George I Think He's Got It! It's not fucking Sheep is it?!, Tue 26 Jan 2010, 11:05, Reply)

Walking the dogs last night with the mrs..
The footstep everyone dreads.. soft and slippy. "I think I've stood in dog shit" I say, utterly appauled. Cue the Mrs revert back to being a child "URRRRRGHH" !! Then bursts into fits of laughter.

"We'd better go over to the light so I can get a better look". So off we trundle to the nearest light, and I use my mrs as a prop while I remove the shit with a stick, then wipe my foot in the long grass. "I'd better check mine too" she said. So I propped her up, and sure enough..she had stepped in some shit too. But what she did next had me in fits of laughter..She wiped her feet in more dog shit..LOL..of all the grass to wipe your feet with, she chose the clump that had even more dog shit in it.

Needless to say, I won't be walking over that field again, and neither will the mrs.
(TheRiddler Hmmmmm... I concur., Tue 26 Jan 2010, 10:24, 2 replies)

Traffic cones are evil.
My first night at uni and being the naive little thing I was, I decided to celebrate the occasion by drinking prodigious amounts of alcohol (including, if my memory serves me correctly, marmite and marshmallow flavoured shots)and generaly act like an utter twat. As you do. I have a vague recollection of walking home in the early hours and spying the ultimate student item; the solitary traffic cone. I remember it being a lot heavier than expected, its was the kind used on motorways, weighted down enough to prevent cars knocking them over and twattedly drunk students from stealing them. But steal it I did and after a good half an hour of lugging the bastard thing about, I managed to get it home.

I was so jubilant that I had completed such a task that I decided to throw the cone on the sofa so I could do a little celebratory dance. I never did do my dance, the traffic cone bounced off the sofa pointy end first, straight in to my eye and knocked me clean out.

I'm told it was hilarious, but sadly I wouldn't know.
(Jad, Tue 26 Jan 2010, 10:01, Reply)

Pinball.
"I bet you won't"
"Really? I bet I will!"

*****************************

Two friends and I were in the woods as usual, shooting bunnies for the local farmer. It was a cold winter's day, we were togged up far too warm, and our stomachs turned against us (as can happen in that Hot-inside / cold-outside kind of way.)

The other two had already relieved themselves, reporting dangerous bowel-escape velocity... and I was furiously waddling on the spot - buttocks clenched - trying to pretend that my arse wasn't about to explode.

Where to crap? Our eyes rose skywards.

In our woods there were various funky trees, but one was known as "the climbing tree". This name was well-earned as it had regular and sturdy branches that any 11 year-old can climb with his/her eyes closed. One side of the trunk was bare, giving a fantastic view from a great height.

"I bet you won't climb that and poo from the top"

5 minutes later, trousers round my ankles and a good 40-something feet off the ground, I was ready to let the pressure go... My mates had retired to a "safe distance" and by Christ I let rip.

The quiet winter's morning was shattered with a sound of tearing sail-cloth mixed with a baked-bean splatter-noise. Birds flew up in alarm as bowels were viloently evacuated. After the final sputtering squits were squeeezed out, my friends and I were in fits of giggles - leaving me fighting for balance. The overwhelming sense of rectal relief was marred only by 2 things:

I had negated to take any bog-roll with me.. and as I stood on the branch below begrudgingly hoiking my trollies up, I realised that my footing was worryingly slippery.. and then the final point dawned: my climb down was now dripping in steamy semi-liquid shit.
40 feet of crap-encrusted branches.

I had painted myself into the corner in the worst way imaginable.

Half way down the climb amid shrieks of laughter from my companions - tears of frustration streaming down my face - (And shit dripping on my head from the branches above), I finally slipped; tumbling from branch to branch like a sodden shit-drenched pinball.

The walk home was thankfully short, with no encounters.

I still salute my father who greeted me in the garden. He'd seen me - bloody-lipped with a limp making my way across the lawn - and worried, he ran out. The look on his face asked it all, but he kept his lip buttoned.

"I had an accident dad"

He gave me a look that any father would give his shit-encrusted air-rifle-toting 13 year-old and went into the house, emerging 2 seconds later with a bucket or warm soapy water and a massive'n fluffy Dad-sized dressing gown.

"C'mon.. lets get you cleaned up... *sponge - dab - sponge*.... So, did you get any Rabbits?"

***************************************

I hope that when I'm a dad, I too know when *not* to ask the questions that I *really* want to ask.
( Humpty Dumpty was Pushed Is unaware of having any limits., Tue 26 Jan 2010, 9:21, 6 replies)

"Oh yeah? I'll give YOU a wedgie!"
My middle child has always been known for having a bit of a temperament.

I've always been known for having a somewhat offbeat sense of humor.

My ex wife is known for not having much of a sense of humor at all.

One night we were sitting around the kitchen table having dinner when my son was being more grumpy than usual. His mother, having seen me defuse many a tense situation with humor, tried it on him: "If you don't smile I'm gonna give you a wedgie!"

"Oh yeah? I'll give YOU a wedgie!" And with that he leapt up onto the bench next to her, grabbed the back of her pants and yanked upward as hard as he could.

His mother was startled by the sudden motion and leaned away as he grabbed her pants, and he leaned into her as he yanked upward. The result was that she flew off of her seat and landed on the dog, who was sleeping peacefully by her feet.

There was a frozen moment where Nurse Ratched was on her ass on the floor, the dog was barking and snapping in her face, and my son was standing on the seat looking down at her with an expression of "Oh fuck I'm dead..."

Priceless, I tell ya.
( The Resident Loon Not a demographic. Do not measure., Tue 26 Jan 2010, 4:00, Reply)

Remember kids, smoking's bad for you
A friend's grandad (or great-grandad - some branch on the family tree, anyroad) worked on road repairs for the council. To be precise, he drove the steamroller. Once the boiler was lit and the steam was up to pressure, he'd release the nurdler valve and trundle out of the depot gates to wherever he was needed. There was a cornershop on the road from the depot. Our man's daily routine was to put a bit of left-hand-lock on the steering and step nimbly off the footplate, in through the side door of the shop, slap down his one-and-six for the box of matches and twenty Woodbine that would be ready waiting on the counter, pick them up, and walk smartly out of the other door and swing up back on to the steamroller as it came round the corner and, with as much elan as you can muster on a slow-moving steam-powered piece of heavy plant, away.

Except one day he missed his footing and fell flat on his face. Literally: the back wheel went over him. The steam roller carried on turning and demolished the cornershop.
(Mr Apollo Follow me!, Tue 26 Jan 2010, 2:04, 4 replies)

The divine Miss N
Most gentlemen will allow that the physical attributes of some young ladies are more attractive than the average. Despite the horsey proclivities of Miss N, she was one of the more attractive set. Very much so. Miss N also had the advantage of a generous nature.

I had recently acquired a rather good camera and she had just acquired a mare. So her proposal was that I should photograph her in her best riding clothing with the horse. So the following Saturday I carefully dressed in my best casual outfit, polished the camera lenses, loaded a roll of Mr. Eastman's finest and set off merrily with the thought of a few photograpsh and perhaps something more.

She looked rather fetching in cap and jodphurs, but the mare carried no saddle. This mare, dear reader, was no pony. Doubtless there were taller horses but not too many. Her plan was to have the photographs taken at the far end of the field, well away from house and stables. This was some ten minutes walk so she suggested I get up behind her on the horse.

So I slung the camera around my neck and managed to get my right leg over the horse. Unfortunately the camera jammed between hip and thigh, I could go no further and began to go back the way I had come.

The result was inevitable. Luckily it had been raining and the ground was slightly yielding. The camera landed on top of me, so it was fine.

I believe the mare laughed.
(Redemption blamed it on the Bossa Nova since, Tue 26 Jan 2010, 1:34, Reply)

Should've gone to Specsavers.
My dad went to the opticians for a new pair of glasses, and walked into a lamp-post on his way home.

Twice.
(Mr Apollo Follow me!, Tue 26 Jan 2010, 1:19, Reply)