you know that thing where you can stand the smell of your own guffs, but not other peoples'?
So you can drop the most rancid guinness fart in the world and sit there quite happily while everyone else is retching?

Once at work, I popped into the loo to strain my greens and was greeted by the smell of a previous occupant's sit down visit. What utterly freaked me out was that although the farty smell was clearly not my own, I could quite happily stand to smell it. It smelled like I'd done it.

I'd unwittingly stumbled on my very own guffleganger. I am to this day a little disturbed by the incident.
( mictoboy shitting in your cunt since, Fri 17 Jan 2014, 16:21, 12 replies)

Lush
I was Christmas shopping in town and popped into Lush (VERY fragrant soap shop - bath bombs etc) to buy my Mum some smellies as a gift.

Having drank a lot of Guinness and eaten 'dirty food' the night before, my bowels were in a bit of a state and I inadvertently emitted a 'silent but violent' guff while browsing the gift boxes.

Within moments, I heard someone shout, "What the fuck is THAT?" and almost immediately another voice shouted, "JESUS CHRIST!".

People started backing away from me like a terrified demented mob.

The reason I'm so pleased about that fart is that you can smell Lush from 2 streets away and my fart cut through all that soapy scent like a knife through butter :D
(l0bst3r, Fri 17 Jan 2014, 14:05, 8 replies)

Now as you know I am sans bumole
Now whatever part of the large intestine they removed must have been solely responsible for removing the foulest smells from your shit leaving it only moderately gag-tastic.

The effluence that currently emerges from my body could be sold to the Syrian rebels and used to wipe out a small city. Just stick one of my used bags into a catapult device and launch into an offending city and watch the fuckers come out waving white flags quicker than the french with the 3rd Reich on their doorstep.

The worst is hangover bag, it is the smell of satan's breath himself. Now usually there are little filters that let the gas out and they actually filter out the smell but when they get wet they stop releasing gas. So I wake up in the morning with a bag like the Hindenburg. Now imagine how bad one hangover fart is, I've got a bag of the fuckers. Nothing will induce vomiting quicker than a bag of hangover farts/shit.

tl:dr, No bumhole, bags smell of death.
(bumless The man with the hole in the middle, Tue 21 Jan 2014, 10:00, 30 replies)

I just farted in a foundry.
It smelt.
(The Incredible Sulk Finally remembered his password on, Fri 17 Jan 2014, 13:12, 3 replies)

tadpoles
if the school caretaker forgets about the bowl of tadpoles you put on the nature table when he closes the school for easter break, they tend to die. this, after 2 weeks, creates a smell so odious and vile that the first girl into the classroom at the start of the new term will almost immediately vomit all over the floor. the next girl in can now smell dead tadpoles and vomit, and so a chain reaction of puking begins.
6 girls sent home, 4 classrooms closed for 2 days until the smell went away and one caretaker seriously reprimanded for allowing the tadpoles to stay there and stink up the place and for not airing the room out.
( Smash Monkey lowering the tone of the whole internet, Fri 17 Jan 2014, 13:54, 10 replies)

The freezer
Quite a while back, my girlfriend of the time was performing in a play in Edinburgh.
She rented a flat with the rest of the cast from someone who would move out for the festival and sublet their flat whilst on holiday.
I got up there about three weeks into their residency and set up happily walking round the city whilst they did thespian things.
After a few days in the flat I began to notice a smell. It was like a muffled scream, you knew it was a noxious smell but was being masked by something.
I decided to find the source of this odour and almost instantly tracked it down to the freezer.
Upon opening the white box I was assaulted with a smell like no other. As soon as I opened the lid I threw it shut an tried to physically jump out of the way of the stench.
My God! It was like nothing I had come across before.
Now that the lid had been opened the smell quickly found it's way around the entire flat, calling the occupants out of their rooms to ask what the shuddering fuck had happened.
We all stood around this innocent looking white appliance that was slowly releasing it's stinking cargo.
As the only bloke in the flat it was decided with no word uttered that it was my job to see to the problem.
I first had to open the freezer again and inspect the damage. A big breath was taken and held, the lid thrown open and I peered in. The freezer was half full with ready meals, chips, unidentified bags of goop, collapsed cardboard and water that made the most rancid bin juice look like Evian.
I let in a little gasp of air and almost projectile vomited into the stinking mess.
The next half hour was a contstant battle to keep my stomach from hurling it's content out in disgust.
As it was a chest freezer I had to lean further and further into the thing to pull out the contents and bag them up. Every time I bent over the freezer and stuck my face in I would get nearer and nearer to vomiting. Kind of like touching the cloth but from the other end.
Eventually I had got the solids out and was left with the swamp of murky water with floating chips, peas and scum in it.
This "water" had to be scooped out with cups, into saucepans then carried across the flat to be dumped in the toilet. When I had almost finished the task I lent far over the side of the freezer to try to get the last dregs, rested my stomach on the side, reached and knocked the air out of myself. I involuntarily inhaled to re inflate my lungs, pulling in a huge breath of stagnant fish fingers and chicken kievs. The breath quickly came out, followed by the morning's breakfast, which splashed into the final bits of freezer juice, which splashed back up into my face and mouth making me heave once more.
Oddly enough, the acid smell of vomit cut through the blunt stench of the freezer and made the final cleaning up (even with the added chunks) much easier. Either that or it could be that I'd lost all self respect, standing in a stinking flat, covered in the remnants of someone else's freezer and regurgitated fry up.
Soon after I found the reason for the freezer failure was one of the actresses unplugging it to put in their hair straighteners the day they got into the flat. I wish I could say that I got my revenge some how, but all I wanted to do was forget the experience.
( monkeyboyalpha jumping on the bandwagon since, Wed 22 Jan 2014, 9:21, 6 replies)

The drains...
I possess, among certain circles, a reputation for gastrointestinal fortitude. I have been known to clear rooms, and once woke up members (plural) of my family, through a STRUCTURAL WALL of the house, merely with the noise of my ano-rectal ministrations. One event, however, lives proud in my memory, and stands out as a truly special example of the genre.

We had gone, as a group of middle-class-nerdy-orchestra-kids, to the Royal Albert Hall. It was summer, and the proms were on, but because we were *cough* cool *cough* middle-class-nerdy-orchestra-kids, we had gone to the 'late' prom. A jazz trumpeter called Wynton Marsalis was playing. We had heard he was good, and so we were going to be cool-jazz-kids for the evening. We queued outside, and entered the plush and hallowed concert hall.

Those of you who have been to or seen the Albert hall during Proms season will know that the whole central arena is standing room. You end up fairly packed in, and we found a place somewhere near the middle, to the right of the stage. Once standing, some... issues... began to arise. There was a dark, mysterious odour. A sharp, acidic, almost tangy scent. It smelt a little like something had died. It got worse. The group I was with turned to me with a resigned disgust.

I knew I had done a bad. I had made a rather impressive stinky, and now we were all standing in it, packed in by other concert-goers. I decided that in my new guise as cool-jazz-kid, that I did not want to take the blame for this. I decided to produce a very clever lie.

"Bugger off, that's not me! And you KNOW I like to take credit for them!"

They'd never fall for it. It is true that I did/do take credit where it is due, but there was no way they would be fooled. They weren't fooled. But, clinging to the last vestiges of my dignity and self-respect, I kept up protesting my innocence.

More stench arrived. In waves. Each one more ripe, more fruity and pungent, more soul-destroying than before. It felt, as they were escaping, like they were somewhere in a hinter-land between gas and liquid, so dense and cloying were these airborne-toxic-events.

After about 30 minutes of the sort of chemical onslaught that even hardened war-criminals would refuse to inflict, there was a round of sheepish apology from my friends.

"Actually mate, there's no way that could be you. This is just inhuman. It must be the drains!"

For the full concert, my bowels continued to unleash their vile and venomous fury. Other patrons began complaining to the ushers ("It simply isn't right that a venue such as this has inadequate drainage!"), in endlessly polite hushed whispers, so as not to disturb the concert audibly as well as nasally. People from yards away, the other side of the auditorium, were clearly also disturbed. The ushers were putting in near-frantic calls on their walkie-talkies to get someone,(anyone!) from maintenance to come and try and sort out the problem. How the band managed to keep playing is a mystery and a testament to their professionalism.

The gig... Okay the *concert* (really am still a bit too middle class) finished, and we left the venue. I felt elated. Not only was I many cubic feet of shit-smelling-buttockular-foulness lighter, but I had pulled off the crime of the century. I had dropped a Colo-rectal Hiroshima, and escaped blameless, with only my assaulted nostrils and slight sense of repressed shame as a lasting reminder. I was off scot-free.

That is, until the drains... sort of... followed us onto the tube. I will never forget that look of loathing, mixed with quiet awe.

Good concert, though.
(Serotonicity was a naughty boy on..., Sat 18 Jan 2014, 11:22, 6 replies)

Jungian
A friend of mine, L, has been seeing her other half, R, since long before I knew her. On one occasion, she was telling a group of us a story about the first time she and he went camping.

R is lactose intolerant; the merest exposure to lactose means that he's generating foul stenches from his behind for hours. Unbeknownst to either of them, R had eaten something with milk in it at some point in the evening. His insides were beginning to bubble just as he and L turned in for the night.

"I don't believe in any of that race-memory or collective unconscious stuff," L said, "but I am Jewish; and there I was, in a dark, confined space, slowly being gassed..."
( Enzyme is powered by sunlight, Fri 17 Jan 2014, 13:42, 1 reply)

Pike
As a child I was obsessed with mother nature - finding fox skulls, birds nests, collecting anything that nature was done with, carefully labeling it and putting on display in my lab (otherwise known as "the spare room") One successful mission resulted in me finding a 2' long freshly dead pike. Apparently the local fishermen used to catch them and leave them on the banks to save the other nicer fish.

I trotted this pike home, and placed it carefully on the garage roof, to let the summer sun and flies do their business, and I would eventually be left with a perfect, complete pike skeleton to add to my collection.

I then, with a spectualar timing, went on a 2 week camping trip with the school cadets.

Upon my return, i discovered my parents were at their wits end - the house smelled generally rank - they had no idea why the bathroom (above the garage) smelled of dead bodies. There were flies everywhere, and a stench so pervasive they could barely sleep. My dad had torn apart the plumbing system trying to find a leak or blockage.

I guess my "ah, about that..." look gave it away.

Honestly - I don't recall the punishment -it was so horrendous I think I've blocked it from my memory, but I am sure it involved scrubbing the roof, walls, gutters and inside of the garage to remove the rancid fish juice and blowfly maggots.

The real punishment was that I never did get my skeleton.
.
.
( gp_guineapig, Tue 21 Jan 2014, 19:29, 5 replies)

Repossession
I worked as an estate agent for a while in the 90's, and was showing a repossessed house Houghton Regis, just north of Dunstable. I arrived 10 minutes early to look around, as I hadn't been there before.
The house looked bad. I mean newspaper and pornos all over the floor, holes in walls, a piss soaked mattress (with helpful graffiti next to it with an arrow and the words 'a finely piss soaked mattress').
I made the stupid mistake of opening the oven. Bad idea. Before leaving, the occupants had carefully curled out a turd into a pan and left it to bake. I turned and lost my lunch onto a copy of the Sun and a copy of Fiesta.
(Redbull_(UK) pfffft, Fri 17 Jan 2014, 12:30, 5 replies)

Safe sex
"Come on in and smell this", he said.

I was reluctant at first. I barely new him. I was at work. This was an important customer. Should we be this friendly after only a few meetings?

He beckoned me into his 'office'. A small dark non-rectangular room with discarded office furniture reclaimed as the occupier's own. This man. This hippy. This weirdo. He had hung posters on the wall of bands I'd never heard of. There were ancient sequential copies of PCW magazine on a heaving shelf. He'd positioned a growing collection of disfigured action figures around the room.

In the corner sat an old but serviceable safe. The type you see in black and white crime caper films.

"Come here", he said grinning, "Put your head in there and smell it".

The heavy door was persuaded open.

I leant in. I smelled. I grimaced.

"Smells like cum doesn't it?" he queried.

"Yes", I replied with a frown.
(daddypigsaw Geddinthebackothevan!, Tue 21 Jan 2014, 13:49, 2 replies)

One Boy One Cup
Back when I was small I'd stumbled on to realisation that your own farts smell pretty good. Further thought and I'd noted that by the time they reach your nose they'd been pretty diluted. Just imagine if you could capture the fart whole! How amazing would that smell? In the bath that night I got a cup, filled it with water and strategically positioned it upside down. Burbling came from below and success! Carefully I moved my nose to the water's edge, lifted the cup and inhaled good and proper.

...And nearly vomited on the spot. Your own farts smell reasonable BECAUSE they've been diluted. Don't go to the source.
( chthonic, Fri 17 Jan 2014, 17:18, 6 replies)

Poo
So, first thing in the morning on Sunday.

The sprog's been up at the first hint of dawn, but luckily it had been mutually and non-verbally agreed that it was my turn for a bit of an extra kip, so My Missus, Laura has taken the pooy 'Eraserhead baby' downstairs to watch some TV.

But when I get up - Laura decides, to further my education in all things baby-like, for me to have another go at changing the sprog's nappy (which, although I have done it a few times, I've managed to get out of generally).

No problem, thinks I, I've changed the nappy before when it's been full to overflowing, and couldn't be any harder than that.

So off I hop upstairs, sprog under arm, lie her down on the changing rug and undo the nappy. . . .

...to find the dark horror. Satan would have been proud.

There is black poo, everywhere. Every square millimetre of this nappy is quagmired with evil, with undigested black (beans?) bits in it. The poo covers the nappy, entirely, and stinks worse than anything I have jet to encounter at such close proximity. You could almost see the heat shimmer off it.

As I said, this was on Sunday morning.

Sunday.

The day after Saturday. Which traditionally involves drinking rather substantially.

So - setting the scene: I've got the little 'un, holding her crossed ankles in the air with one hand, her besmeared lower-region hovering inches away from a massive stinky pile of stinking partially digested bum-matter, and barking like a dying rabid dog through heaving so much.

"HuuRRRGHHHHHHHHHHHHHaagh!!!!" I explained.

"HRRRRRRRRRRRuuughAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA!!" I repeated for the hard of hearing.

"HAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA-uuuuuurgh ARRGH!!!" I reiterated, eyes filling up due to a combination of highly acidic fumes and wretching.

"Huuuuuuu-rrrrrrrr - LAAAAAAAAUUUUUUUUUUUUUURRRRRRRAAAAAAAAA !!!" I screamed, trying to decide what would be harder to clean off the carpet, baby poo, or my breakfast and last nights cider. I could run off, but the sprog would be up straight away, covering the whole of her room in a very innocent but particulary horendous dirty protest. Or I could stay holding onto her ankles and blow chunk after chunk of my OWN rancid ejecta all over the carpet . . .

" LAURA!! HELP!!" I bark once again, face pointing as far away from the offending pile off baby-generated fecal horror as I could manage.

Luckily, help came in the form of the evil-one's mother, and I was able to safely run to the bedroom and stick my head out of the window, where I managed to heave and wretch for a good three more minutes or so.

Luckily I managed to hang on to my Bird's Eye Potato Waffles that morning, but I can still smell the anal swamp terror while typing this . . .
(Names changed, etc)
(SigourneysBeaver took off and nuked the entire site from orbit on, Fri 17 Jan 2014, 13:34, 12 replies)

work...
..and I had a bit of an upset stomach. Not to offend anyone, I went to the loo and had a massive poo, with some quite astonishing aromas.

While I was safely locked in the cubicle, I heard my boss (who's quite a scary man and definitely ranks highly on the psycopath scale) come into the toilet and start shouting.

'OH MY GOD, WHAT THE HELL IS THAT. DID SOMEONE DIE IN HERE? I MEAN, WHAT THE FUCK? JESUS CHRIST. MY GOD, SOMEONE NEEDS TO GO TO THE DOCTOR OR SOMETHING. FUCK ME. FUCKING HELL, WHAT ROTTING. DID SOMEONE EAT SILAGE? JESUS. NO I MEAN SERIOUSLY, JESUS FUCKING CHRIST WHAT THE HELL IS THAT. MY GOD. FUCK ME.' and on in that vein for a good 5 minutes while I had to stuff toilet paper in mouth to stop from laughing while tears rolled down my face.

Which meant another round of spectacularly noxious aromas, and we entered a vicious circle of verbal to gaseous explosions.
(inflateable, Fri 17 Jan 2014, 18:54, 3 replies)

Mr Charlie has some kind of dead animal decomposition bio-reactor installed in his rear end -
- and it frequently emits the foulest stenches ever to have wrought havoc upon the innocent receptors of the mammalian nose. Of late, however, I have trained him.

He now goes into the hallway to make his gaseous utterances when they are due, but unfortunately this does not always work. So viscous are his farts that they are brought in behind him when he returns to the room, as if still attached to his anus by a bungee cord. And there they will bounce around, searing nostrils and teasing uvulas for a good three minutes or so.

I recall there was one night before his training had begun, when I had partially drifted off to sleep beside my love and he 'let one go'. This might have been fine, if his bum gas had been sealed beneath the covers and I already unconscious, but sadly the eye-burning fumes had raised the duvet enough for the effluvium to be liberated. To compound matters, it was the middle of the summer, and there was a fan switched on to blow directly at the bed. Instead of blasting the horrors away, the airflow merely trapped the defilement in the air above our heads, and it proceeded to rain its toxic fallout upon us. An open Dutch Oven, if you will.

I still remember how my eyes watered in a vain effort to protect themselves from the acid breeze, my stomach tried to eject everything it still held from the meal I had consumed not three hours previously, and my throat tightened from some sort of inflammatory, asthmatic reaction. No amount of window or door flapping would free me of the air-borne sewage, and all the while Mr Charlie lay in my bed giggling as if he had planned this with the devil and now shared his mirth with the creature at his shoulder.

I have since tried revenge bottom belches, but the worst flavour I can come up with is roast chicken, and I simply cannot produce it in the same volumes as he :( No one ever talks about the glass ceiling of flatulence, or how vile your gut needs to be to shatter it.
( Yo 'Ho of Charlie mass-market saucetrepreneur, Fri 17 Jan 2014, 15:36, 6 replies)

Speaking of septic tanks
Many years ago, the Achtungmeinfield family lived out in the sticks, and the house we lived in came equipped with a septic tank. Twas a very old septic tank, with a brick lining. For the first year, we had to have the bloody thing emptied about once every 6 months, for reasons my father could not understand. Yes, he had three vigorous sons who ate him out of house and home, but still. That's an awful lot of shite. Now we lived about halfway down a hill, and there were about a dozen houses uphill of our gaff. And they never seemed to have the problem we did.

Right until we happened to dig up, divine the purpose of, and subsequently block with concrete, the seemingly communal pipe that linked the overflow from all their septic tanks to ours. Before long, if the wind was right, the stink of badly backed-up septic tanks was all too apparent, and some of our neighbours had started to take on increasingly haggard expressions. Word was there had been some unpleasantness, stuff like flushing the bog causing all manner of effluent to boil up out of the kitchen sink plug. As concerned neighbours, we were only too delighted to give them the number of a nice firm who would empty out their bastarding motherfucking freeloading septic tanks for them.

As for our tank - one day, Dad's tame builder and his oppo were peering into the manhole cover over the old tank, poking inside with a long pole to check the integrity of the brickwork. Much sucking of teeth, "Looks like you'll need a new one, amateur put this one in, happy to quote you, gonna be a few quid mind, etc". Right then, the wall they'd been prodding collapsed, causing a wave of the most heinous pong to well up out of the manhole cover, right into their faces. I was standing a good way off, so it might have been the distance, but it didn't half look like the builder puked up not only the contents of his stomach, but his entire gastric tract.
(Achtungmeinfield, Wed 22 Jan 2014, 21:44, 1 reply)

the men in my family are all big man utd fans
one day my brother was at old Trafford with a monumental hangover. the beery kebab farts he was releasing on the way to the ground nearly choked him, and each one got a bit worse.

he carried on eking out his disgusting gut gas once at the ground. an outside, massive sports ground was no match for this smell. after a while, the woman in the seat in front of him smacked her bloke across the back of the head.

"you dirty bastard," she moaned. he disputed it vigorously. my brother sniggered and released another brown clown. a few minutes later, the innocent dude in front got another whack.

"I know it's you, you filthy cunt," his charming girlfriend hissed. this continued for a little bit, with my brother struggling not to piss himself as the couple got more and more angry with one another, and other people started complaining too. eventually the woman in front glared around at everyone else. at the top of her voice, she announced:

WELL. WHOEVER IT IS, THEY SMELL LIKE A FUCKING FARM.

I think this may be my brother's proudest moment.
( rachelswipe with a fork, Wed 22 Jan 2014, 14:51, 7 replies)

My mate Sylvan,
At primary school, my mate Sylvan said that he'd farted into a Tupperware box and put it in the fridge, and the next morning there was a cabbage in the box. I believed him.
(Smale is stuffed, Tue 21 Jan 2014, 20:12, 6 replies)

I used to commute from Ealing to Central London every day on the central line
My journey would typically take 45mins, depending on changes. On the way home, I'd try and get in the same carriage each time as it sped my exit from the station at my 'home' end.
At the time, the trains on that line were relatively new, and comparatively clean. However in the summer they could get rather warm, so much so that if it was summer and I couldn't get a seat, I'd try and stand at the front of a carriage near the door, so I could get the breeze from the open window.
For one summer, every evening I got on the train at Tottenham Court Road, I'd be joined by a corpulent, greasy bloke who always wore the same clothes - shiny polyester tracksuit bottoms and a polyester mesh american football top. Every day he would sit in the centre of the bank of seats, with his legs spread, and his arms draped over the backs of the seats, and, for the entire length of the journey would exude a mind-boggling stench of BO and knobcheese. The smell was so bad that I could taste lumps of it on the back of my tongue. He would sit there with a look of complete contentment as he surveyed everyone else in the carriage's distinct discomfort at the sheer horror of his odour. The fat fucking cunt.
( mictoboy shitting in your cunt since, Fri 17 Jan 2014, 16:14, Reply)

Sulphur tablets
As a sweet-loving 8 year old, my Dad took me into a pharmacy where I spied a packet of what, in my mind, was another delicacy that I'd never tried. I convinced him to buy these things called "Fruit-Flavoured Sulphur Tablets". The warning of "Consume no more than 3 tablets in any 24 hour period" meant nothing to me. I'm not even entirely sure I knew what the word "consume" meant!

30 minutes and about 36 tablets later I had finished the bag. Not the nicest sweets I'd ever had, but they were slightly sugary, so I was happy.

1 day later, cue an 8-year old child sitting on the toilet desperately trying to "go". But with anything that emerged from his backside resembling the smell emitted from those little glass stinkbombs you could buy, only worse. Much, much worse. The foul stench would cause me to vomit and even a towel wrapped tightly round my head did nothing to lessen the odour.

The next day, I learnt that I could have fun in class and get the place evacuated pretty quickly just by farting. I had never had this level of power before and I probably never will ever again.
(Drodbar, Thu 23 Jan 2014, 12:32, 1 reply)

Chain Reaction
I shared an office with 3 blokes, with a shared interest in spicy food and cider. Farting was a regular occurrence, with no major hangups. Until I found out that Okra and my intestines do not mix. At all. After a morning of mild pain and pregnancy like build up, I let go a rather disappointing run of the mill sounding fart. What followed wasn't.
My colleagues and myself caught the stench of bilge, decay and death, and ran into the corridor laughing at the potency. The neighbouring office opened the door to the commotion and the permeating smell reached into that office. They all ran out down the corridor away from it. This continued past another 4 doors in turn where the smell seemed to be carried in fleeing peoples' wake then spread. Within a minute, the entire floor of the office had cleared outside. Workers returned after 10 minutes of sending in apprentice canaries. I was sent home "To Poo"
( Ulic hissing slightly, Mon 20 Jan 2014, 14:18, Reply)

Dodging the smelly bullet
Some years ago I was moving house. The process had been a difficult one, partly because of Mrs Moon Monkey's insistence on moving at the same time as she was due to give birth (I believe they call it "nesting", but another name would be "adding a metric fucktonne of stress"), partly due to weird luck (the freeholder for the flat we were selling decided to drop dead on the day we were to exchange contracts), but mostly because the people buying the flat were irritating shits who complained about everything and attempted to use every possible excuse to get the price down.

Eventually, with the price now many thousands under the original agreement, we stumbled through the process and were all set to move. Even this last barrier was fraught, as The Shits suddenly announced on the day of completion that they didn't actually have the deposit they'd agreed to pay. Now THAT took some frantic sorting out!

But we got there. We were living in a cave in the piles of boxes containing our worldly possessions, waiting for the actual moving day. And then, without warning, The Stench arrived.

A foul miasma from the depths of the Earth wafted up from the floor, like something had crawled up Satan's arse and died. Dear god, it was rank; it could strip the varnish from the woodwork and bubble the enamel on the fridge. I learned several new forrin swearwords from my mother-in-law, who was staying to help with the new arrival. But weirdly, it came and went; hours would go by with nothing, then suddenly we were living in the lowest pit of Hades and inhaling perdition's putrid pumpings.

So what to do? Panic set in as all possible sources were checked and eliminated. Then we realised something wonderful: having completed the sale, this was now Somebody Else's Problem! The annoying couple who had screwed us out of every possible penny, and caused untold extra stress, were now the legal owners - of both the house and The Stench!

So, with a certain amount of guilt, we said nothing and disappeared into the night. I heard from the neighbours that they had to have the floor taken up and excavated in every single room of the flat, to locate the source: a sewer pipe (running under, but not related to, the flat) had cracked. Serves the fuckers right.
(moon monkey is busy making memories worth repressing, Mon 20 Jan 2014, 10:43, 1 reply)

When I was about 10 years old some of the men of the village had salmon nets set up at the end of a point of land. They'd had some trouble with a particular seal wrecking their nets, resolving the situation by shooting the fucker the head. With a final gurgled exhalation the aquatic canine sank into the murky depths.

A couple of days later, buoyed by an abdomen full of corpse gas the seal bobbed back up. Us kids saw it and hatched a plan to skin it.

It was as we hauled the beasty into the rowing boat the inevitable deflation occurred via it's arse.

All you slack jawed Nancy boys claiming to have smelled something really bad don't know what the fuck you're talking about.
( Ring Of Fire A petty, drooling belming butthurt retard., Sun 19 Jan 2014, 20:34, 7 replies)

Nothing beats the smell of mouse
Got home from first lecture one day when I was a stude. Did chemistry, so 'free hours' were uncommon. On the way home I starting thinking that a bowl of bran flakes with ice cold milk would be just the ticket. Got in, opened the cupboard door and 'hello' I recognise that smell... Ignored it, thinking it was way down on my 'to do' list. Opened what I thought was a virgin box of bran flakes only to be hit with a concentrated lungfull of eau de musculus.

Little fucker had helped himself and left a load of little black mouse shits on the top of the bran flakes. The smell was unbearable, but I did what any self-respecting student would do and got a bread knife and cut the box and inner bag about two inches down from the top and poured out a bowl of delicious flakes and ate a hearty breakfast.

Not really, I just threw out the whole box and marched down to the local indoor market and got a mousetrap. Got the little bastard that night as well; it had just caught him on the tip of his nose and it took a good 15 minutes of 'clickety clack' noises behind the telly as he was trying vainly to escape before he finally expired. the girls I was living with at the time were going mental as well, it made for a glorious cacophany.
(mersault, Fri 17 Jan 2014, 13:01, Reply)

When I was 5, my Mum and Dad bought a brand spanking new Citroen GS.
Very shortly after we bought it, we drove from London to Aberdeen in it, for a 2 week holiday with relatives. This is a journey of about 12 hours.

Two of my Mothers cousins were fishermen, and ran a trawler. At the end of the holiday, they gave us a big case of fish, in ice.

This went in the boot of the brand new car. For 12 hours.

By the time we got to London, the car had started to smell. By a week later, the fishy water that had slopped all over the boot had reached a crescendo of stink.

The boot carpet was removed and replaced, but for the whole time they kept the car, maybe 4 years, as soon as the temperature got above about 10 degrees, the faint waft of fish would appear in the car.

I imagine when they sold it, they chose a cold day.
(username failed moderation, Wed 22 Jan 2014, 17:37, 3 replies)

Burning balls
About a year ago, I had a vasectomy. I've got 2 kids and that is enough for me. I opted for a procedure where they poke a hole in your scrote, pull out the tubes and then frazzle them with a hot poker. Sounded good!

I happened to get the last appointment of the day. As I was called in to the room (of doom) I was hit by a very strong smell akin to that of burnt pork. It then dawned on my that I was inhaling the smell of burnt bollocks from around 10 other guys. I was fairly calm up until this point but this put the fear of god into me.

The procedure was as horrific as you may think but the definite low point was the sound of him frazzling my nuts with the hot poker and then actually seeing the smoke rise from between my legs.

Thank god you only have to do it once.
(Tom Jones's Mojo Hasn't had any since, Tue 21 Jan 2014, 8:27, 1 reply)

Needs medical help.
A guy I used to work with related this story to me:

Three of them were tasked to upgrade a few hundred PC's. The day before a plan was devised. One of them would do the upgrades in a small office whilst one other dropped each PC off, the 3rd person would pick up a completed PC and put it back on its original desk.

This plan was formulated the evening before whilst the 3 of them were eating a good curry and drinking a few Guinnesses.

As you can imagine a parallel plot was devised by the two chaps who happened to drop off more than an a PC each time they visited the now rather humid office. Yep, they barked, trumped,guffed and nay nearly sharted, thinking it was the funniest punishment for the lazy fecker who sat in the office whilst they lugged kit around.

What they didn't anticipate was the firms IT manager turning up to check on them on a Saturday. He walked into the office to see the progress, he no doubt turned a bit greeny/yellow before saying to the two guys humping kit around - "Is your mate OK?, I think he may need to see a doctor as our comms room next door has generated a few humidity and temp alarms".

Apparently the guy stuck in the office described it as been at a "Bhopal Disco"
( Signify, Sun 19 Jan 2014, 20:01, Reply)

Bank revenge
I read this somewhere, years ago, can't now remember where, who or even why. Bank safe-deposit boxes are pretty much a thing of the past, when they were still common the box was inviolate and couldn't be opened by the bank without a court order.

Somebody, after experiencing what they saw as very poor customer service, prepaid for a year's storage of 'certain valuables' as they would be working abroad in a place not known for safety of personal possessions. Loaded their safety box and left the country.

When after several weeks of deteriorating air quality in their vaults, the bank finally got a court order permitting entry to the safe, they found what had actually been deposited was a very large uncooked mackerel wrapped in newspaper.
(Carpe Cyprinidae, Sat 18 Jan 2014, 19:32, 4 replies)

Classroom farts
I know this is a classic in my profession, but one that I feel deserves a mention.

When I first started teaching, like so many I used alcohol and comfort eating as a crutch to get me through that difficult NQT year. It was not an easy school, and in my first term I began to drink Tennents Super with an alarming regularity for someone with a job and a roof over their head.

One night I had quite a heavy Tennents session coupled with a massive curry.....a vegetable Naga with all the trimmings, blow your head off spicy, just how I like it. The next day my stomach was brewing some terrible treats. How was I going to survive in the classroom?

I felt a big fart brewing whilst teaching Year 7 History, and suddenly it hit me what I should do. I went and stood next to a kid who I knew would be blamed for the toxic fart, pretended to look at what he was writing over his shoulder, and let out a massive silent but violent, then walked off. The heaviness of the hot curry/ tramp juice fuelled fart meant that it took a few seconds to hit the noses of the other children, at which point I was at a safe distance. "Eurghhhhh.....[kid's name]!" the other kids began shouting. The boy began to protest, so to add authenticity I joined in with the class: "That was absolutely disgusting! If you are going to do that again, I suggest you go outside! I will not tolerate smells like that in my classroom!" I was really laying it on thick, in the hope that no-one would suspect me.

I thought I was really clever, but when I relayed my antics to some of my colleagues, apparently it's a tried and tested staple! xx
( lucifer101, Sat 18 Jan 2014, 14:18, 3 replies)

Fart Cannon
If i'm sat on my sofa and have my laptop positioned correctly every time I fart the laptop fan will suck up may fart and project it straight at the wife!

Try it with your own laptops and wives (not mine because she is getting annoyed with me doing this which only makes it much more funnier!)
(Lip Up Fatty Fatty Reggae still loves BBQ food on, Thu 23 Jan 2014, 11:22, 7 replies)