Huh? Where are the brakes on this thing? Etc.
During the heady days of University, I was at my (then) girlfriend's house, unsuccessfully trying to worm my worm into her frigid panties (it was not a long relationship), when that familiar time came for me to fuck off home.

So instead of getting to know her insides, I prepared to head out at 2am in the rain on a not inconsiderable walk home when lo and behold, one of her housemates offers me her bike to use, hallejulah!

As I sped my way down the sizeable hill, revelling in the lack of traffic and the rush of the cool air on my unfulfilled trouser-engorgement, I came to take the corner at the bottom of her road and discovered to my horror that this 'bike' had no brakes.

There was a brief moment of weightlessness where I realised that my face was about to make rapid and painful contact with tarmac, followed shortly by my face making rapid and painful contact with tarmac.

I lay in the road for a while, mainly swearing, my primary concern being 'what the fuck does my face look like?' before sullenly cycling and swearing my way the rest of the way home.

I awoke the next day and surveyed the damage. I had managed to smear blood over most of the surfaces of my house, and for the next month or so I had to wonderfully prominent scabs where my two front teeth smashed into my face, and I looked like a right pillock. I still have little scars there.
( SigmaX0 Dear Die Hard. You rock!, Thu 21 Jan 2010, 15:01, 1 reply)

click for...
'There was a brief moment of weightlessness where I realised that my face was about to make rapid and painful contact with tarmac, followed shortly by my face making rapid and painful contact with tarmac.'

You made me do a lol, well done!
(SimianKid internet faffer, Thu 21 Jan 2010, 15:44, closed)