I was walking down the street with my significant other
whilst texting a friend of mine. CLANG! Walked straight into a lampost, and my glasses fell off.

According to my missus it was a very impressive collision sound. I think she's lying to make me feel better :(
( Finite "Aardvark sorted out my shit!" on, Mon 25 Jan 2010, 14:06, Reply)

On the way to work one fine summers morning after a night out
Possibly still a little drunk from the night before, as I groggily attempted to negotiate the complex task of walking in a straight line, I saw an extremely pretty friend on the other side of the road who had also been out the night before, walking the other way.

It was only as I called out to her that I realised my fatal mistake- that I didn't in fact know her- in fact I had never seen her before- and in fact, momentarily distracted I managed to walk straight into a bollard. A bollard in fact that seemed to have been made to be the precise height to cause GBH to my balls, leaving me in a crumpled heap.

All the pretty girl on the other side of the street saw was some drunk looking bloke call out to her and then stagger into a bollard for no reason whatsoever. Ass.
(xerophytic has no idea, Mon 25 Jan 2010, 14:04, Reply)

Many a year ago
I was walking to my office at the end of the corridor first thing in the morning and the plumber who I'd had a crush on for yonks was standing in the doorway of one of the offices as I went past. He leaned out and said hello as I walked past and in what I think with hindsight was a subconscious effort to be cool, I did that thing where you turn around and start walking backwards so you don't break your pace. I managed to get out a casual "hey" and what I hope was a winning smile before I dropped my MP3 player, the wires tangled themselves around their legs and I fell backwards through the door to my office, which swung shut gently behind me.
( Kitty v1.0 desperately naive, Mon 25 Jan 2010, 13:34, Reply)

Mirrors
My mate Pete was walking upstairs. At the turn of the stairs was a large mirror. As Pete approached it he saw himself in the mirror, assumed it was someone else and sidestepped. The 'other person' sidestepped as well. Peter sidestepped again, so did the other one. This carries on for a while then Pete gets bored and decides to just push ahead. He barges forwards, bounces off the mirror and rolls backwards downstairs. Ho ho.
(Smale is stuffed, Mon 25 Jan 2010, 12:59, 2 replies)

Just 4 days ago...
Not very exciting, I accidently kicked my guitar amp and broke my toe.

Fact!
(sirhiss, Mon 25 Jan 2010, 12:45, 2 replies)

New Year's Day 2004
I wake up with a bit of a hangover - nothing unusual in that - and reach over to the bedside table to put my glasses on. In my stumbling, oafish way, as soon as I touch them I manage to break off one of the arms. Right at the bastard hinge, so there's about 2 square millimetres of metal that could possibly be joined together. I'm in need of superglue, and there's none in the house.

"Bugger," thinks I. "I'll have to go and get some." So it was that I found myself in Woolworths on New Year's Day, trying not to look too green and bilious. I grab a bottle of superglue and pay for it, then retreat to a corner of the store to sort myself out. I burst the seal on the glue and it squirts all over my fingers. Instinctively I put my finger to my mouth. Dammit, I now have superglue on my lip. Never mind, my mouth isn't stuck together and I can chew it off once it's dry. But I still have superglue all over my fingers and I'm in woolies - there's nowhere to wipe my hand, so thinking quickly, I lift my foot and wipe it on the sole of my trainer.

Then carefully (without the aid of my glasses) I apply a little glue to the arm and hold it in place until the glue has set. It's a bit fiddly and requires all my hungover concentration. I'm sure there's something I should be thinking about but for now I can't quite remember what it should be - fixing my glasses is the number one priority. Aw bugger, it didn't quite stick properly. Never mind, try again. After about 20 minutes of this, the security guard is giving the young man with a glazed expression (almost totally blind without my specs) who is fiddling with an open bottle of superglue more than his fair share of attention and the missus is tugging at my arm to leave, but wait! I've done it - I've successfully glued my glasses back together! Never mind that I have dried glue all over my fingers and mouth, I can see again! Triumphantly (but carefully, I don't want to end up gluing the bloody things to my head) I put my glasses back on, put the cap back on the glue and make to leave the store.

At which point I realised I'd glued my trainers to the floor.
( emvee cruor deo cruoris, Mon 25 Jan 2010, 12:27, 2 replies)

Flour
I recently got myself an electric hand-mixer and decided to try it out on Saturday night (my life is so terribly exciting). Great, thinks I, I'll make apple crumble.

I read the instructions carefully before clipping all the bits together and then pressed the on button. All went well. Then my hand slipped and, like a character in a cartoon, every inch of me became coated in flour. Over my clothes. Under my clothes. All over the kitchen floor. I even found some in my bra.

I'd accidentally pressed the "turbo" button.
( cakelady, Mon 25 Jan 2010, 12:27, 8 replies)

Cycling
Out cycling with a youth group I was in when I was younger. We went upto Dunkeld in Perthshire for some cycling round the hills and the forests etc. When we left the cycle hire place, we were cycling down the road towards the start of our ride. I was busy concentrating putting my feet in the the cycle toe clips without actually looking where I was going. This was pretty stupid in the first place. Suddenly, there was a bang and I felt myself flying over the handlebars. In my vision, I could just make out the very well known little badge that are in the front of rather famous brand of German car, and bang...I landed on the bonnet of the very expensive Mercedes car, the bike heavily dented the grill at the front of the car, left a nice big dent in the bonnet and snapped off the badge on the front of the car and I ended up with a several bruises and a very hurt pride. Mr Mercedes owner...I'm sorry if you found your car in worse shape than you left it...but you see...I was a young clumsy teenager who should have never been allowed out on a bike on my own :)

Oh yeah...nearly forgot...I didn't hang around to see how the owner would react to see the nice new dents in his car....oh no...I picked up my bike...hopped on the saddle...and cycled down the road as fast as I could.
(scotsbloke, Mon 25 Jan 2010, 11:43, Reply)

Chickenlady cocks it up
Some years back I lived on a farm and kept a few birds for their eggs in the garden. There were eight chickens and two geese all in the same enclosure, most of the time they all got on tolerably well - the geese had to be let out in the morning before the chickens otherwise all their food would be scoffed by the stars of Chicken Run and poor old George and Mildred (the geese, even though they were both female) would go hungry despite being four or five times larger than the chooks. The geese kept to themselves and the chickens got on with doing what chickens do.
Six of my chickens were pretty hens who behaved like middle aged matrons with handbags as they clucked and scratched around their patch. I had two cockerels - Hector and Samson - both very attractive fellows but both were bantams so they suffered with the same problem that a great many vertically challenged people have - often known as Little Man's Disease or Short Arse Syndrome which tends to reveal itself in a huge amount of arrogance, chippyness and general pig-headedness. Hector and Samson had been nest mates; hatched at the same time and reared by the same adopted mother. The had done everything together; eaten their first worm, had their first cock-a-doodle, feathered their first hen...but these were the bad boys of the poultry world for they had both taken turns at hopping on Ethel their adopted mother. Each morning these two hard cocks would make their rounds of their feathered harem and sometimes twice - mothers, sisters, they didn't care, any vent was a goal.

All was reasonably peaceful apart from the poultry domestic violence and occasional theft of goose grain until Samson decided he was going to be in charge - to Hell with Hector and his house - this was going to be Samson's fowl temple.

The day they fell out was Easter Sunday - rather fitting I suppose. It was the wettest Easter we'd had for a long time. I opened up the geese as usual at about 6.00am and the chickens at about 6.10. Round one began with some flapping of feathers and a smattering of foot stamping from both cockerels and from me as they attempted to gain some ground. Then within moments they were at each other - cock fighting is of course illegal in the UK but these two bad boys wouldn't listen to the voice of reason, good god, they wouldn't even listen to the geese. Hector got Samson's comb in his beak and attempted to mount him like a hen, Samson twisted and turned until he could grasp Hector's wattles in his beak. Then they broke free and began to fly up at one another like multi-coloured feathered ninjas wielding inch long spurs like...like ninja swords and those throwing star things but their spurs didn't come off their ankles because these were normal bantam chickens and not superhero ones, although Hector and Samson seemed not to know this. The hens soon formed a large circle around the two young cocks and the ladies began to cheer and flash their vents as they performed chicken cheerleading dances (okay, that didn't happen - the hens carried on about their chickeny business and ignored them but that's not a gripping). All the while the rain was coming down and Hector and Samson were becoming more bedraggled, bruised and bloodied. This was Raging Bull with birds. Raging Chicken. Raging Cock (actually, isn't there a film called that?).

After about an hour of this fighting I could stand by no longer so I climbed over the fence and went towards the duelling pair. I knew this was a dangerous move - I could easily have been caught up in the battle and ended up going postal on the in-laws (why oh why was I so mild mannered back then? What a missed opportunity). I edged along the muddy path towards the birds, put on my thick gardening gloves for protection and lunged at Samson and missed, fortunately I managed to keep my footing despite slipping about a bit. The chickens didn't run off away from me instead they carried on their fight and I knew this was going to be to the death unless I stepped in with my green welly. I wiped the rain out of my eyes and crouched down, prepared for another shot at grabbing Samson. By now the rain was beginning to rain up - you know when it falls really heavily and splashes back up? My lovely bucolic idyll of a garden had turned into the Somme for chickens and the geese were slapping their big orange webbed feet around like giant flat footed French peasants full of fois gras.

So, there I am drenched to the skin in my wellies and lovely floral Easter Sunday dress, hair plastered to my head and mud splattered up my legs, hands encased in thick grey suede gardening gloves and my face red as a well smacked arse. I was ready to get him - Hector, Samson, I didn't care, I just had to stop the violence - enough was enough. I crept up slowly; the beating rain hiding the sound of my rubber footslaps on the mud. I paused, held my breath and waited for the spurs and feathers to stop flying up in the sodden air. One, two, three, GRAB! I had him! I had Samson by the tail feathers - not the correct way to hold a chicken, but I had him! But he didn't want to be had....when you pick up any bird you ought to hold them gently around the body with their wings tucked in - that way they feel safe and they can't flap their wings or hurt themselves.

Holding an angry cock by its tail is never to be advised.

He began to flap his wings and struggle for freedom to fight again and as he flapped so he began to turn clockwise faster and faster. I was mesmerised (to be fair, I didn't get out much those days). Soon he was just a blur of soggy feathers and squawking. And suddenly like the eye of a storm, the calm in the centre of a tornado, he stopped and in the stillness one blackened beady eye caught mine - he knew he was beaten. I had won - even if the circulation at the tip of my fingers was being cut off by the twisted feathers. Then just like that scene from The Exorcist as Samson began to unravel and turn faster and faster anti-clockwise like an Antichrist cock. I had to get him away from me....so (and I still feel bad about this even now after all these years and poor old Samson has since met a unfortunate end with the local Monsieur Reynard (I live south of London - we're part of the Nord pas de Calais according to the EU, so I can call him Monsieur Reynard)) I lifted my arm and hurled the twirling bird away from me. And in the rain his feathers glinted purple as they arced up over the fence, caught a green sheen as they descended until they became a shitty brown as he plopped into the mud outside the enclosure. And all the hens cheered for they were free of his evil reign. (Actually they carried on scratching about and clucking to themselves, but in my head they cheered).
I had won. I had saved the hens from the battling birds. I knew that Samson would return - he could easily fly back over the fence when the time was ready, but this would have taught him his place in the pecking order. It was Hector's House and Samson needed to know he couldn't get the better of me. I knew that when I opened them up the following morning both cockerels would be temporarily blinded by their fight and they'd look as if they'd had a punch up with Mike Tyson. Beady eyed Samson however knew that he would have the last laugh....

I climbed over the fence and missed my footing. I ended up on my backside, floral dress ruined in the mud and my knickers on show to the passing annual Christian Evangelical pilgrimage.
( chickenlady b3ta's very own Elizabeth Taylor, Mon 25 Jan 2010, 11:15, 4 replies)

The Perfect Wedding...
Picture a touching wedding scene - The groom standing at the altar, watching his bride gliding regally up the aisle in her beautiful dress, the long train being held aloft by the Groom's daughter (from a previous marriage, about 7 years old and, as she has spina bifida, she's being pushed along in her wheelchair)

Beautiful...

Except the person pushing the wheelchair is going ever so slightly faster than the bride so, just as she passes me, the train starts to become slack, then touches the floor... and gets caught in the wheels.

Bride's head flys back as she's yanked violently backwards to the floor. It was as if she'd been hit by that straight arm WWE move (clothesline? Men in spandex isn't my thing...)

No one else seemed to find this at all funny, but I was laughing uncontrollably all the way through the service, getting evil looks from the rest of the congregation.

To make it worse, I had foreseen what was going to happen several seconds before it actually did, and should probably have tried to prevent it... Ah well - it was probably worth not speaking to the couple ever again for the LOLs
(jugglinbob Not giving a damn since:, Mon 25 Jan 2010, 11:04, Reply)

Drum podium
Our recently-formed band was to perform for the very first time in a real venue, with a real stage, and best of all a drum podium *gasp*.

The singer decided to use this to improve our stage show so for the opening number he stood on the podium in front of the drums. The MC announced us, the crowd went wild, the guitarist hammered out the first power-chord and our singer leapt off the podium with a huge yell, knocked all the drums over, crashed into the mike stand, stumbled over the foldback speakers and disappeared off-stage into the darkness. As if by magic the collapsing drum kit went "ba-dum tsh".
(Smale is stuffed, Mon 25 Jan 2010, 10:51, 5 replies)

Cats and shats
For 3 wonderful weeks a couple of years ago I house- and cat-sat for some friends of my boss in sunny San Diego. Just me, an amazing house, the sun, California, and a cat. A cat that hated me to begin with, shitting and coughing up furballs all over the place. Furballs are not as cute as they sound. The house-owners had told me a few ground rules before leaving - never let the cat out the front of the house as he's crazy and would get lost, and always make sure to take my keys when I went out as the door was likely to shut and lock behind me. So as dusk fell, I closed all the windows and, dressed only in shorts, went out front for a cigarette.

It's worth noting at this point that the cat, Gally, had not yet warmed to me, taking to attacking me at every opportunity. I lit up, inhaled deeply, and watched in despair as the front door locked shut, leaving me outside, phoneless, keyless and half-naked. I panicked briefly and heartily before remembering the bathroom skylight - an 18 inch square hole dropping around 3 metres on to a concrete floor.

The front gate was my first obstacle - a gate which it seemed was chosen due to its difficulty in clambering over. No footholds, and topped with lethal iron spikes. Being barefoot didn't help, but I managed to scramble over suffering only minor lacerations to my naked legs and torso. Next, the drainpipe leading to the roof, but passing between two overhead livewires. Do I wander around the street in the hope of finding help, or do I risk death but save face?

Looking back at the pipe afterwards, I have no idea how I scaled that thing, but scale it I did, dropping through the skylight to safety. Gally must have been expecting me, as he'd left the stinkiest pile of shit on the floor by my landing point. When I'd done grimacing, he promptly attacked me.

Now, this is where the story ended originally, but a couple of months after I'd returned to England, I was informed that the house had been broken into and all the valuables stolen. Unfortunate, I thought, but then it dawned on me...

I'd been keeping a journal during my time there, writing up everything and everyone I saw and did, including the above story, and the address I was staying at. It had reached over 100 pages when I got shitfaced on my final night, ending up drinking at the house of a couple of shifty guys. I woke up on a neighbour's lawn the following morning, and had regrettably lost my journal. From what the police could tell, the burglars had broken into the house by scaling the front gate, shimmying the drainpipe, and dropping in through the always open skylight.

Coincedence, or did I unwittingly plot out their crime?
(I'm afraid of wet bread, Mon 25 Jan 2010, 10:45, Reply)

Not in the slightest bit funny and I regretted laughing me tits off when it happened
Last August about ten friends and myself went to a "chinese-all-you-can-eat-type-buffet" in Manchester to celebrate Andy's birthday (City Buffet- its called if you know it).

We'd been out most of the day and whilst not drunk none of us planned to operate any heavy machinery in the near future.

We were probably on our second or third helping of chinese scoff when Andy gets up to refill his platter. Now- somehow (and I for one believe it was a geniune accident) left a emtpy plate and wine glass on Andys vacant chair. Andy returns, doesnt notice the glass and plate and sits down. (the sort of heavy sit down you do when you are a bit drunk)

SNAP. CRUNCH.

for a second Andy's face doesnt change- then he smiles- thinking someones played a joke, then he stands up.

and we all laugh, because sticking out of his arse through his jeans is the jagged remains of a wine glass stem.

then the blood started- FUCK! bums bleed a lot. The quicker thinkers of us, get Andy stomach first on the table, and call for an ambulance.

long story short- the glass punctured his colon and Andy was very very ill for months with septoceamia.

He can just about see the funny side 5 months down the line
(bugboybeast, Mon 25 Jan 2010, 10:32, 1 reply)

Hot rock pain.
I was sitting at my computer the other evening, enjoying a post self-handshake herbal rolly when I noticed a burning sensation in my nether regions, the pain of the burning feeling escalated at an alarming rate and so did my reaction to the situation.

I stood up so quickly I knocked my chair over and scattered the contents of my ashtray over my desk and keyboard. I proceeded to do my best to smother the burning with my hands, a bit too violently for the aforementioned area I might add. Then I panicly "peguined" it over to the sink in an attempt to cool things down, almost but not quite tripping over my trousers that where kindly warming my ankels several times.

I finaly managed to douse all sources of external heat from my body, leaving me with burn hair smell in my nostrils and a small burn down the side of my firemans pole. Of course, the injury being where it is, it's hard to form scabs so this will probably take a bit of time to heal.

My gf found it quite amusing when I explained how I recieved this injury.

Length? 1 cm burn on the side of me old todger.
( Crap Little Monkey Deathstar, so good they built it twice, Mon 25 Jan 2010, 10:28, Reply)

So a few friends and I were getting very stoned in the middle of a field in the middle of nowhere in Somerset one warm summer night
And due to our rather intoxicated state, we kind of ... managed to get through three lighters. Not through smoking heroic amounts of gear, you understand, just through being drug-addled uncoordinated muppets.

The upshot of this is that someone needs to go and get a new lighter, and it is decided that someone should accompany that someone in case he loses his shit and can't get it together again to find his way back.

Rob offered to go for the lighter, and I offered to accompany him, and off we went.

Considering how fucked up we were, the decision to start jogging, which turned into running, was quite extraordinary, but it turned out we were training for the SAS anyway, so it was probably good practice.

"Mission? Check."

"Buying a lighter or matches. Check"

"Then being able to find our way back. Check"

"Looking out for prominent landmarks? Check one - large bunch of trees over there, and church spire behind us."

"Really quite mashed? Check."

Suddenly we were FLYING - in all honesty a good couple of meters. I hit the floor - pretty well face first. We'd managed to discover the one ankle-high fence in the whole of England, and run into it full-tilt.

Picking myself up out of the mud and grass, I looked over to where my mate was, and on seeing him had a horrible, horrible vision - my arse nearly fell out of my arse he was lying there twitching and convulsing and had clearly had a significant spinal injury oh my god how the fuck what the fuck oh shit this is fucking shit oh my god fuck fuck fuck shit fuck shit fuck I went over to him ...

"Mate?! Rob?!"

He was gasping for breath shit shit shit this isn't good oh fuck

"Rob?!" I panicked "Rob SPEAK TO ME!"

"MATE IF ONLY YOU'D HAD A VIDEO CAMERA WE'D BE 250 QUID UP BY NOW OFF YOU'VE BEEN FRAMED FOR THAT ONE!" he cried.
( Je suis un vagabond is an unfunny, up your own arse middle class knob, Mon 25 Jan 2010, 9:19, Reply)

So I get off the train at Southampton
in a world of my own, I bounce up the step into the shop outside the station, only to smack my stupid face into a window... still got the scar on my eyebrow where I bust it open.
Bad times.
( Captain Tripps is your taxloss lover from Liverpool, Mon 25 Jan 2010, 3:43, 1 reply)

Stevie Wonder
My mate sent me a jpeg on email at work. It was of a smiling Stevie Wonder wearing a t-shirt, emblazoned with the words "I am a cunt". I thought it was quite funny - but being fairly new at work I din't want to get into any sort of bother by forwarding it on. So I printed it out instead and showed my workmates down the pub that night. They, like me, also found much mirth in the said picture of old Stevie.

Fast forward a couple of weeks. I was walking down the street with my wife and rummaging around in my pockets for god knows what. I come across this piece of paper, open it up and realise it's only the picture of Stevie Wonder that I must have stuffed into my jeans and completely forgotten about. I took another look and started to giggle. Yup - still as funny as before.

My wife leans over and asks me what I'm laughing at.

"You won't like it," I tell her, guffawing away. Quick as a flash she grabs it off me and looks at the picture of our hero, Mr Wonder. She doesn't smile - not once. She just tuts, shakes her head and hands it back to me.

"I'm just really disappointed you find things like that funny, you know. You shouldn't laugh at the blind," she tells me very seriously.

This makes me start laughing even more. So much in fact, that I sort of double-over laughing as I'm walking along, and continue to "ha ha" my way down the street. It's only after about 5 yards of more hee-heeing that I straighten up and ***SMASH** walk fully into a lamppost, knocking myself over and out for a few seconds.

As I come to, the picture of Stevie is flapping about in the wind like a mysterious omen, my wife is now doubled-over laughing herself, and some strangers are pointing at me from the other side of the street with tears running down their faces.

Stevie had it wrong. Clearly, I was the cunt that day. And I haven't laughed at him since*


*may not be entirely true
(IckleWickleStickleIckle, Mon 25 Jan 2010, 3:34, 2 replies)

Diesel
Took a job looking for oil in the Sahara desert. Filled my Land Rover with diesel from a tanker. Noticed one of the tanker's valves was not shut off properly. Can't have diesel dripping back into the desert where it came from. Thought to myself 'is it clockwise or anti-clockwise to shut this thing off?' Gingerly turned it the wrong way. Whoosh! An enormous jet of diesel covered me from head to toe. Later, in the camp beer tent, I had to put up with all the jokers in the crew brandishing their cigarette lighters and asking what that smell was.
(lazyman, Mon 25 Jan 2010, 1:49, Reply)

Oil
Long, long ago when I was young, I had a spare sunny summer to fill, and a Triumph Dolomite Sprint whose engine had seen better days. So I set about tearing the engine apart and replacing all it's bearings and pistons. Before removing the engine I took out the dashboard and left the speedo, oil pressure gauge and rev counter hanging. The job went well, and within a month I had got it back together again. A bit like Lego, car engines are really. My brother helped me lift the engine back into place, and I was feeling pretty confident as I removed my overalls, sat in the driver's seat and put the key in the ignition, despite the small pile of nuts and bolts that I could not find a home for. A small crowd of neighbours gathered round to observe the grand firing up ceremony.
I turned the key. The solenoid engaged sending a rush of amps into the starter motor. The engine started turning. And just then I noticed the funny pipe pointing at me. A pipe that pumped half a pint of oil all over my face. I'd forgotten to connect the oil gauge, much to the amusement of all the bystanders. I would have laughed myself, but I had a face full of oil!
(lazyman, Mon 25 Jan 2010, 1:38, Reply)

Iron Surfing
Evangeline (not her real name) was a rather hefty young lady who lived in my halls of residence during my undergrad time. When I say hefty, I mean she must've been 6' 2" and looked like the muscular love child of Jonah Lomu and Sandi Toskvig. She was a nightmare to deal with when she got drunk, and get drunk she did regularly.

One night a bunch of us had traipsed down to the Union to go to one of the club nights there, Evangeline and my then girlfriend (her of the puking in the mouth story - see the vomit question of the week) were with us. Evangeline had rather a crush on one of my friend and spent the night trying to back him into a corner so that she could have her wicked way with him. Crunch time came at the end of the night and my friend, with the sort of expression I imagine a hare has when, after having been chased over 4 or 5 fields by a pack of baying hounds, now discovers a brick wall blocking its escape, was near panic. With difficulty we managed to corral Evangeline and cajole her into going back to the halls.

It was a bad walk, she kept on singing and shouting, especially about how she wanted to go surfing. When we finally managed to get her home we had to manhandle her up 4 flights of stairs as by this point she couldn't walk. My then girlfriend looked on pityingly as we manoeuvered her into her bedroom, then generously stepped in to strip her down to her underwear.

A minute later, as we stood talking in the stairwell, Evangeline bounded out, now only wearing her underwear, clutching an ironing board to her chest, and loudly declared she was going surfing. After another 10 minutes of persuasion we got her back into her room and all seemed quite. My girlfriend disappeared to her room and came back a few mins later with a joint, and we elected to go outside on to the grass, and to smoke and watch the stars.

Just opposite where we lay was the entrance to the building, with a fairly large glass window in front of the long flight of stairs to the first floor. We lay in dreamy happiness, arms around each other, appreciating the stars, each other, the pot, when we heard a bang and a crash, followed by another bang and a crash, then another...

Filled with wonder, we sat up, just in time to see, through the window, Evangeline (now dishevelled and minus her bra) balancing an ironing board at the top of the flight of stairs. She stood like an Olympic ski jumper for a second and then, before we could react, launched herself down the stairs, surfing on the ironing board. She actually made it to the bottom, but the edge of the ironing board caught on the floor and she flew a few feet forward, spread eagled, into the window.

There was a resounding *thunk*... the glass shuddered under her impact... she was pressed up hard against it, tits squashed flat, her face pressed hard... and then she slowly slid down, making a sort of *squueeeeeedge* noise, leaving a small trail of blood from her nose. Trying to control our mounting hysteria we checked she was ok and put her to bed again. She couldn't remember anything in the morning.

For about a week afterwards there was a faint imprint of a human body on the window.
(Zapiola zip-zap-zop, Mon 25 Jan 2010, 0:27, 2 replies)

Squirrels are always good for a laugh.
Back in the 80s I lived in a small town and had a house on the edge of a lake. As it was all farm fields across the road and rather swampy land on either side of me, I had loads of wildlife all around, especially birds.

I got a bird feeder and put it up at the shore. And, of course, the squirrels drove off all the birds and gulped down expensive seed like Roseanne going after caviar.

One day I got annoyed and moved the feeder about three feet out into the lake. Did it stop them? Of course not, they merely leaped at the pole and shinnied right up.

So I coated the pole with a thick layer of Vaseline.

Picture a normally acrobatic and agile squirrel flying through the air to deftly land on a pole and climb it as he has done before, only now he's spinning around like a spastic pole dancer before landing nose first in the lake.

Hens be damned- there's nothing in the world madder than a wet squirrel.

Made for a great Saturday morning comedy show.
( The Resident Loon Not a demographic. Do not measure., Sun 24 Jan 2010, 23:18, 10 replies)

the 'ardest souh westener i ever did see..
I almost saw a friend of mine die in front of my eyes for a piece of chicken and a bottle of white cider. Pissed up and outside Slix chicken bristol my mate drops his drumstick can of cider in hand, makes a leap of faith into the road to follow a piece of chicken that slipped out of his hand and into the road, bellyflops into the middle of the road grabbing said drumstick cider without a drop spilled turns to see a car skidding which stops centemteres from mates head. Mate ompletely downplays stroy everytime, anyone in bristol knows slix chicken ain't to die for.
(Blundetto, Sun 24 Jan 2010, 22:59, Reply)

Parking meter
Sat in my car this afternoon, at the seafront, with my Mrs. We were watching the world go by when suddenly a chav family roll in to view, kids with plastic swords, scooters, everything tearing up the pavement. We were right next to a parking meter with a cover over it. Chav dad screams out, 'mind that parking meter' to chav son number 1. Inevitably he smashed right in to it with a sickening thud, it was all I could do not to piss myself right there!

After a few seconds flat on his back he staggers to his feet, Chav dad asks 'Are you ok?' He replies, 'Yes' and promptly bursts in to tears. Later that day we saw them again and chav son 1 was still being carried with a bump on his forehead
(Dr Zoidberg is going for a scuttle, Sun 24 Jan 2010, 22:32, 1 reply)

Timberrrrrrrrr
One summer's evening back in the mists of time... no, that's a crap way to start any story that doesn't involve dragons and stuff, I'll start that again.

So, after a nice evening out in a very nice pub, I found myself standing in a station waiting for the last train of the night to take me home for a kebab. Standing around waiting for the train, minding my own business, I noticed a rather well-refreshed gentleman a little way down the platform. Well, I say "well-refreshed", it was more like... catatonic. He staggered around a bit and then realised that he'd be better off not bothering with all that movement lark, finding a wall to lean on instead. All well and good.

...no.

A couple of minutes later, I glanced down the platform to see this chap, still leaning against the wall but falling over forwards in a rigid standing posture, in the manner of a tree being felled, until he hit the floor with his face taking the entire impact. Cue tears of laughter from everyone on the platform we were on, and the one opposite.

I felt quite bad for laughing. He was alright though, apart from probably a bit of a sore face to go with the hangover the next day. He didn't even drop his bottle in the fall - priorities!
( Dave McF wrote some words on, Sun 24 Jan 2010, 22:25, 1 reply)

Snails
When my dauhter was three, she, my wife and I were heading out of the house to walk into town for some reason.

In the front garden I spotted a snail. Not out of the ordinary, we get quite a lot; I normally just chuck them into the hedge on the other side of the road.

I picked it up and, as its only 10 meters or so across to the hedge, executed a forceful under-arm throw of said snail.

Mid-way thru the throw, I could tell something was up. Inexplicably, my arm didn't complete the move. it was as if paralysis had suddenly set in. I couldn't for a moment understand as to why.

It was only when I saw my daughter sprawled across the pavement that I realised what happened; she had inadvertantly walked into the path of my throwing arm, and had been knocked clean off her feet by her very own father.

Wife saw it all happen and after the inconsolable tears of shock and mild pain from daughter, the inconsolable tears of laughter set in.

The snail, if your interested, only halfway made it across the road.
Can't say I didn't try.
(FUXTIX Not my words, Carol, Sun 24 Jan 2010, 21:51, Reply)

My elder son, when aged about 8, tried on some roller boots
and made the mistake of coming into the house in them for a snack.

He approached the fridge, then suddenly did that arms-flailing thing and grabbed at the fridge door handle.

The fridge door flew open, unsteadying Son even more, so that he started grabbing at the shelves.

He dragged all the shelves out, tipping food and milk all over the kitchen foor and eventually falling facedown in the mess. Took about 30 seconds to create total mayhem.

By then I was crying with laughter and unable to offer any help whatever. Couldn't tell him off either - it was too funny.
(Juan Quar is clinging to her front teeth on, Sun 24 Jan 2010, 21:31, 2 replies)

Obvious in hindsight...
I was given the family's old Escort as an 18th birthday present, and one of the things I did to "improve" it was to replace the steering wheel.
An easy job - remove the cover of the old one, remove the nut, and prise the old steering wheel off.

The lessons I learned that day were as follows:
(a) if an object is stuck fast, don't just pull harder
(b) if you do continue to apply more pressure, it will eventually either break or come loose in a hurry
(c) if you're sitting directly in line with said object, you can be sure that it's going to smack you square in the face, and this will hurt.

I'm sure that the watching parents had smirked to each other with a knowing "I can guess what's going to happen here" look in their eyes, and judging by the laughter involved, it must have been the funniest slapstick moment of their entire life. Strangely enough though, I don't think I was laughing much.
(Chunder, Sun 24 Jan 2010, 20:52, 2 replies)

milk and roller boots
when i was a kid, i was given a pair of roller boots. proper ones, with wheels in the corners, none of that in-line nonsense. i loved those boots, i went everywhere in them.
one day, mum asked me to go to the shop for a pint of milk. i was happy to go, as a 10p mixed bag was my reward and i could skate there and back.
within minutes, i was happily skating home with the bottle of milk clutched tightly in my pudgy hand. i got home and skated into the living room, where we'd just had a shagpile carpet laid.
shagpile doesn't like rollerboots. shagpile wraps around wheels.
within moments, i was airborne, one of my feet actually being pulled out of its skaty covering. backwards i fell, putting my arm out to cushion my fall. unfortunately, my arm twisted as i landed on it, causing it to snap quite painfully. i screamed. mum screamed. then she phoned an ambulance.
despite falling and breaking my arm, the milk never left my hand. the bottle remained intact and not a drop was lost.

fucking shagpile.
( Smash Monkey lowering the tone of the whole internet, Sun 24 Jan 2010, 20:47, 1 reply)

Further to the previous post (A pearoast)
The next morning. Friend #2 decideds that I've slept long enough. His novel method of waking me was to drop friend #1's one-eyed ginger cat on my face. The cat went mad. Awoken from a peaceful slumber, so did I.

So what did my friend do, confronted with me, three quarters asleep and with a fair bit of blood on my face from claw scratches?

Yes. He dropped the cat on my face again.


You can still see a faint scar the runs down into my eyebrow even now, some three years later.
( MatJ LOOK, Sun 24 Jan 2010, 19:07, 1 reply)