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This is a question Amazing displays of ignorance

Sandettie Light Vessel Automatic tells us: "My dad's friend told us there's no such thing as gravity - it's just the weight of air holding us down". Tell us of times you've been floored by abject stupidity. "Whenever I read the Daily Express" is not a valid answer.

(, Thu 18 Mar 2010, 16:48)
Pages: Latest, 26, 25, 24, 23, 22, ... 1

This question is now closed.

It's probably more innocence than ignorance
But when I was still at the age when I needed to be accompanied to public lavatories by my dad rather than going about my business on my own, I went to wash my hands then asked my dad if I could have a sweetie from the vending machine on the wall.

Dad: Err, those aren't sweets, son.
Me: So why are they strawberry flavoured?

A voice from a cubicle piped up with "Good luck explaining that one, mate!"
(, Mon 22 Mar 2010, 14:56, 5 replies)
All alone in the big bad London
and I was getting my first fridge delivered. Charged by my Dad's advice of not letting anyone in without I.D. I asked the delivery man if he had any.

"Yes" replied he "your fucking fridge"
(, Sun 21 Mar 2010, 23:03, 4 replies)
The broken lens
Many of the stories here are about stupidity rather than ignorance, so I'll follow suit and post a story I've been waiting a long time to share.

Back in the 90s my mate Pete worked for a company which provided coatings for various types of lenses. One of his workmates, named Gavin, was renowned for doing stupid things, so he spent most of his time working in the mailroom where he couldn't do much damage.

One day he was wrapping up a coated lens which had to be sent to Germany. Said lens was worth several hundreds of pounds, or at least it was before Gavin dropped it and it broke into four identical pieces. Fearful that this really would mean the sack this time, Gavin asked Pete and some of the others how he could get out of this. Simple, they said, just send it anyway and when the German company complains, claim it must have got broken in transit. A very grateful Gavin thanked them for saving his bacon and went off to complete the task.

A few days later Gavin was called into the boss's office. The conversation went something like this:

Boss: Gavin, our German client's just been on the phone. That lens you sent was broken into four pieces.
Gavin (smugly): Really? Must have got broken in transit then. Some of those delivery companies can be very careless and...
Boss: Gavin, if it really did get broken in transit, will you kindly explain to me why when it arrived, each of the four broken pieces was wrapped individually?
(, Fri 19 Mar 2010, 5:04, 5 replies)
Morningwood Bellend! Peppers! Blushing Colleagues! Subject style stolen from disasterprone!
Ah, Smiler. More commonly known as Manni, but I called him Smiler because he always had a smile on his face. Whatever the circumstances. The phone would ring, he'd smile. Kick him in the balls, he'd smile. Shag his Mum, he'd probably keep smiling. Manni was a top guy, but Christ he could be naive sometimes. Of course, naivety to some means that they need putting right about a few things. To me, it means playtime. Yes, I'm a git.

One day, he asked out of the blue what the name of the hottest pepper known to mankind was. Now, some would say the Nag Jalapia or something along those lines. To be honest, I don't really know. Nor care, to be honest. But as I usually end up doing, I'm getting off the point.

Poor Manni. He didn't stand a chance as I happily spoonfed him the utter bullshit that the hottest pepper known to mankind was in fact the Morningwood Bellend pepper. I even furnished him with a physical description- about 6 to 8 inches long, girth variable, pinkish in colour with a purple tip, and if handled correctly would produce about a teaspoonful of seeds. And I told him they sold it in the Morrison's round the corner.

And off he toddled. And then returned, about half an hour later, blushing, and loudly calling me a bastard to all who would listen.

In my defence, I didn't actually think he'd be that stupid...
(, Fri 19 Mar 2010, 12:36, 6 replies)
Checkout Touche
I was at Tesco buying a couple of things and for once paid with a tenner instead of my card. In my usual trace I said to the checkout girl: "Can I have some cash back please?"

Without a moment's thought she said
"Yes sir, it's called change".

Titters from people in queue behind as I "Um, er, ah yes, very good, ahem" my way out of the store.
(, Tue 23 Mar 2010, 15:54, 2 replies)
I've deliberately left this until today as it's a pea...
Some of you may know that my real name is Kerry. As it mentions in my profile, many people have commented that they thought that was a girl’s name. Back in my sales job in London (many years ago) I was talking to a customer on the phone and arranged to give her a call back once I’d found out some information for her. She was being quite abrupt and told me that she’d be calling me back if I hadn’t got back to her shortly. She then asked my name, and the conversation went something like this:

“What’s your name?”
“I’m Kerry”
“Kerry? That’s a girl’s name”
“Well, no. It can be, but it’s a bloke’s name too”
“No, it’s a girl’s name”
“It’s really not, it’s unisex, like Lindsay or Lesley”
“Well, I’ve never heard of a bloke called Kerry. I’m sorry, but you’ve got a girl’s name”
“… Well, I’m a bloke, and I’m called Kerry – so now you DO know someone called Kerry who’s not a girl”
“Nope. You’ve got a girl’s name”
“Right, okay. Well I’ll get the information and call you back. I’ve got your number, what’s your name?”

At this point I really tried to restrain myself, honestly I did. Sadly, I couldn’t help myself and blurted out “THAT’S A BLOKE’S NAME!”

She hung up on me...
(, Wed 24 Mar 2010, 10:23, 12 replies)

Popped into my local for a pint. Bought said pint with a £20 note from the barmaid I'd never seen before and received... £2.70 in change.
"Sorry, but you haven't given me enough change."
"It says £2.70 on the till."
"That's how much it COST."
"It says £2.70 on the till."
Nice Mr Landlord hustles over to sort it out - his face indicates this is not her first mathematical screw up today - I get my change. As I wander away to drink my pint I hear:
"Enough's enough love, I'll pay you for 2 hours but you're out. I thought you were at Uni - how did you even get there?!"
"I take the bus mostly."
(, Fri 19 Mar 2010, 16:58, 1 reply)

At one company I worked at there was a huge, high-profile, project that involved employing dozens of programmers from an out-sourcing company. Well, I say programmers but I actually mean people-pulled-off-the-street-and-poured-into-suits. To my jaundiced eye these "programmers" seemed to have very little programming skills and a breath-taking lack of knowledge of IT in general. So it was up to me to educate them.

"Hey Legless" squeaked one of the masses "What does TCP/IP actually stand for?"

Bear in mind that this was a web project they were working on. A web programmer didn't know what the very bones of the Internet stood for.

"That'll be Transmission Control Protocol/Internet Pixies" I lied smoothly.

He looked suspicious.

"Internet Pixies" he asked looking puzzeled

"Yup. You see the fathers of the Internet were a bunch of hippies so would name things out of Tolkien or from Dungeons And Dragons. I mean, you've heard of Unix Daemons? - Systems processes on Unix boxes? Well the Pixies carry the messages to the Daemons. It all makes a kind of weird sense when you think about it"

I was warming to my theme now.

"Then there's a bunch of other Pixies on the internet. Your dial up modem uses PPP doesn't it?"

He nodded.

"Well that's Pixie to Pixie Protocol. Then there's your mail - POP3. That's Post Office Pixie. I could go on but that's the meat of it. Pixies run the Internet."

He was nodding now and smiling.

"You know, it does all make sense. Can't wait to tell the other guys about this. We've been wondering about it for a while." says Mr Gullible.

And off he trotted.

(, Fri 19 Mar 2010, 4:49, 2 replies)
Great conversations of our time.
*Ring ring. Ring ring*

Them: "Hallo, company X"
Me: "Hi. I'm wondering if you could help me. Could you tell me if Bob Jones still works there, please?"
Them: "I'm sorry, I can't give out any details of our staff."
Me: "I don't want any details. I'm just wanting to know if he still works there."
Them: "I'm very sorry, I can't give out any staff details at all."
Me: "Not even whether or not someone is still there?"
Them: "I'm not allowed to give out any staff details."
Me: "Okay, let's try this another way. Can you put me through to Bob Jones, please?"
Them: "He's not at his desk at the moment."
Me: "So he does still work there then? Thanks. That's all I needed to know."

(, Fri 19 Mar 2010, 10:33, 1 reply)

Playing trivial pursuits. The question was, "what was the first craft in space?"

The answer my nan gave?

(, Sat 20 Mar 2010, 20:38, 4 replies)
A student approached me in the lab the other day
in a state of some concern. She had managed to produce a wonderfully well-resolved emission spectrum for Lithium and yet the principal lines disagreed quite substantially with the wavelengths at which she was expecting them based on her calculations. Was this a problem with the instrument, she wondered, or had she miscalculated the positions of the lines?

Turns out she'd only gone and treated Lithium as being entirely Hydrogenic, and had completely forgotten to apply any quantum defect to the principal line series! Oh, how we laughed.
(, Mon 22 Mar 2010, 14:11, 13 replies)
I'm a pretty open minded individual
and like to think (after many stumbles over life's ignorance-traps) that I've developed into a rational, reasonable person.

My local pub is filled with an assortment of characters that generally have me crying with laughter, but sometimes I just want to bang my head on the table, or smash a glass and slice off my ears so I don't have to listen to what's being discussed at that moment.

Previous gems have included:

Stopping "the war" by killing "them" and burying "them" covered in gammon (they, apparently, are everywhere too).

How "poofters" shouldn't "be allowed". Quite what they shouldn't be allowed to do, or whether it is their very right to existence that has been called into question is never quite clear.

Various sectarian gems and rangers-celtic based conspiracy theories that make the grassy knoll and the magic bullet theory seem plausible.

The most recent was a discussion on Lady Gaga, self proclaimed pop royalty and erstwhile sausage-smuggler, apparently.

"I'd give that a burl! Phwoar!"
"She's got a cock, but."
"A cock, Aye."
"What.... she's a man? Fuck off!"
"Naw, she's no a man, she's no a woman either. She's a, what is it again, a her-mee-fra-dite. She's got baws and a fanny."
"What, a great big cock?"
"Naw, they've only got wee tiny ones, her-mee-fra-dites."
"Fuck, I must be one as well then!"

At that point I nearly choked on my pint. Sometimes ignorance can be genuinely hilarious :D
(, Thu 18 Mar 2010, 18:06, 1 reply)
Freshers week at Uni was always a bit of a laugh.
The randy as fuck eighteen year old first years away from home for the first time were just as likely to end up in casualty to get their stomachs pumped free of all the cheap vodka they’d downed in the SU, or the pint-or-so of sperm they’d gobbled down back at the halls of residence afterwards.

In my second year I took up residence in a shitpit in Trafford with a bunch of lads doing HND’s in Motor Mechanics. They thought I was doing a degree in cooking. Fair enough: economics and home economics are pretty easy to get mixed up, and thinking about it, learning how to make a perfect soufflé might actually have had more use in the real world than knowing about the GDP of a range of minor South American countries.

Anyway, one of the lads was absolutely fucking mental. An ex squaddie from Glasgow with long girlish hair who’d done a few tours over in Northern Ireland. He was a nice enough bloke if you didn’t get on his bad side. But if you did you’d end up on the floor, covered in blood, looking like you’ve been doing some bumpin’ n grindin’ with Edward Scissorhands .

One time his battered old Cortina disappeared from outside our house. Rather than call the police – who would’ve done fuck all - Kevin very calmly taped up his knuckles, said in a very quiet ominous voice: “I’ll be back in a little while,” and stalked off. He drove up half an hour or so later in his motor. Walked in, went up to the bathroom and washed the blood off his hands. Actually thinking about it, Kevin was a really, really, really scary fucker.

Back to freshers week – Kevin pulls. I haven’t on account of drinking my own bodyweight in Coors and having a brief but passionate encounter with the SU floor. Dazed and bruised, I’m sat back in the house watching The Sky at Night (gotta fucking love that show), when Kevin rolls in with this tart. This woman should’ve been chained up in a cage in a zoo and fed raw meat – she’d have made your average cougar run for the fucking hills in panic. This woman – evidently – was not a fresher. Probably some random cock-warmer Kevin picked up in the kebab shop on the way home.

Kevin and his lady friend disappear upstairs. Grunting. A bit of shouting. Heavy feet on the stairs. Kevin sticks his head round the door: “You packing?” he asked, pushing his long hair out of his eyes.

For a brief, scary-as-shit moment, I thought Kevin was asking if I wanted to join in. A threesome with a bloke who could snap me like a twig and a woman who’s peroxide could knock me unconscious at five paces, who’s wrinkly dried-up old skin would probably have the same effect on my delicate boyish body a cheese grater would have on a knob of soft butter.

But then Kevin continued: “Condoms! Got any? She won’t let me fuck her unless I’m wearin.”

I explained I wasn’t ‘packing’. I returned to the TV screen and Patrick Moore going on about space. Kevin wasn’t finished: “Well?”

“Well what?”

“Go and fucking get me some fucking nodders!” When Kevin asked you to do something in that tone of voice, you did it. No fucking questions asked. On-pain-of-death. “And don’t piss about!” And he stormed off.

Moments later, pissed off, drunk, I’m walking down towards the 24 hour garage through the fucking ghetto. It’s raining. Lashing down. I think: Fuck this! That fucker can’t fucking fuck with me! Fuck him! And I head back home, nodderless, and resume residence on the couch.

BANG-BANG-BANG-BANG, Kevin’s heavy footsteps down the stairs again. “Well?”

And I realise I’m going to die. “they.didn’t.have.any.” I squeak. Kevin looks fucking annoyed. Then I see a dim spark light between his eyes. His brain appears to have been working overtime, or the brain in his trousers took over and came up with this ‘plan’ for him.

Without a word he disappears upstairs. Before The Sky at Night’s finished – with accompanying bed-moving, groaning, and borderline screaming from Kevin’s room – he’s done the deed. The cougar, complete with tiger-stripe leggings and leopard print t-shirt, has stalked off into the night with a woodbine dangling off her bottom lip. Kevin joins me in the living room, sweaty, spent, looking rather pleased with himself.

“You found some johnnies then?” I ask.

Kevin shakes his head. “Nah - I put this round my cock and in the dark she thought I was wrapped,” and he tosses over one of his thin hair bands, it lands in my lap and I freak out. It did – however – look an awful lot like the round hard rubber circle they have at the base of a condom. “Don’t think she even noticed when I spluffed in her.”

“Errmmm... aren’t you... errrr... worried?” I said. “You know... about not taking precautions... It’s not a good idea not to, you know, with a new partner ‘n’ all that...”

And this is where the ignorance comes in. A display of ignorance that had me shuddering to the core.

Kevin tossed his head back, laughed, and said in as patronising a tone as possible: “I don’t think there’s much chance she’s gonna get pregnant. Did you see how old she was?”

The mind boggles.

And Kevin wondered why he started pissing needles a few days later...
(, Wed 24 Mar 2010, 13:26, 5 replies)
My trip to Bath (from the U.S)
In case you don't have the ability to look down, "Warning: this is long" =)

I went to Bath for work a couple times, lovely town – and I thought my parents would like to see it too, so the second time I traveled across the ocean to visit - I brought the parents along with me so they could spend a couple weeks there on my dime.

We did not represent our country well.

I was running on about 2 hours of sleep in the last 72 when it was time to go and expected to get some sleep on the redeye trip over – unfortunately the guy sitting behind my parents and I was, with no exaggeration, the most fucked up spastic I’ve ever seen, who I believe – also had tourettes. He violently kicked both my and my mother’s seat on an irregular basis for almost the entire trip, and I don’t mean he just bumped the seat from time to time, he would haul off and *kick* it. If you were drinking when he did it the liquid landed on the people one row up. Mix in shouted random words and you may wish for only a wailing baby on your next flight.

6 hours of that, he only quieted down when mom started loudly discussing to the air around her the idea of pulling his ass into the aisle and beating the shit out of him until he died.

I think she probably terrified the shit out of this guy, my best guess is he had an emotional age of about 6 and was not able to understand the concept of hyperbole.

I’m not sure mom was exaggerating at that point though so ... whatever works.

We still arrived with no sleep for any of us, I’m slipping in and out of consciousness as I walk around and the level of irrationality, grumpiness, paranoia ... and utter lack of focus... it’s at a respectable level of truly fucked … and we get to Heathrow!

What a joy that fucking place is, let me just say - it's just as yummy delicious as you remember. If you haven’t been there just imagine miles of fuck all mixed evenly with bureaucracy while carrying way too much luggage.

Still I was expecting the walk... the line... the waiting... the carts... the luggage... the last of customs... I was prepared for that.

I was unprepared for the herculean task of getting my two spoiled bratty whining children, uh parents, to Bath from the airport...

Let me set the scene...

--- A few hours before the plane lands: ---

Me: Dad, mom's really tired and worn out and she can't take anything
complicated, lets get a cab when we hit the airport - it'll be expensive but the company will pay for it and it'll be a lot easier. Door to door, 1 hour trip, much easier.

Mom: oh yes, I would like to sleep, do you think we could get a cab where they would allow me to sleep? cause as long as they're willing to let me sleep then I would like to do that.

Me (I’m baffled at the idea of a cabbie who'd force you to stay awake): Yes mom, we'll find a cab which will let you sleep.

Mom: (Mumbles for the rest of the conversation about cabs and sleeping.)

Dad: That sounds like an idea.

Me: Ok, thanks dad.

--- Every Ten minutes from then on Repeat the entire conversation verbatim --

Land... deal with all the Heathrow bullshit... mom steals a free cart along the way and insists on using it despite it being broken. Mom is the only person I know who could steal a free cart and get the broken one.

After much headaches and pain and waiting and lines and walking and luggage and impatience and waiting for slow mom and telling too fast dad to stop sprinting and to wait up ...


Mom: ... Sleep ... we have to find one who will let me sleep I don't want to go on one who won't let me sleep...

Dad: ...you're wasting money it'll be more expensive... we'll just take this bus to the train station transfer over from there and be there in 2-3 hours... it'll be much better...

(are you serious? better?)

Me: Hello mr cabby how much to get to bath?

Cabbie: 280 pounds.

Me: ...

Cabbie: You can negotiate.

Me: Are we going to get anywhere near 100pounds?

Cabbie: No.

Me: ok...

Can we get all our stuff and us in this cab?

Cabbie: No, you’ll need to hire a second one for those bags.

(in retrospect... it would have been cheap at twice the price)

Dad: I'm gonna go talk to the bus terminal woman.

Me: ok.

Mom: I'm going with him!

Me: ok.

Dad&Mom: You watch the bags!

Me: ok.

(they leave... they talk to the woman... they come out...)

(I look at them expectantly. There’s silence with significant looks)

Mom: (sits down, seems to have lost connection with reality)

Me: (looking to dad now… )

Dad: I couldn't hear a word she said. We'll get on Bus 4.

Me: ( ... how did these people reproduce? ...)

Me: hello nice woman at the bus terminal - how do I get to bath in the simplest easiest least painful way?

Bus Lady: Why you sweet boy - do not be unhappy - it is most easy - you herd your children over to there down the hall, you get on the bus to bath and you'll be there in an hour or so - have a joyous day!

Me: Why thank you bus lady person! You are very cool!

Me: Mom, Dad! We can go down the hall there and get on a bus to Bath, lets go!

Mom: (confused and a little upset) Ride a bus, to bath? all the way to bath?

Dad: We'll be taking the bus to Reading.

Me: ???????!?!??

Mom: Can I have candy?

Me: !!?!?!??!!!???

Mom: (walks off to candy machines)

Dad: We'll take the bus to Reading, get out, find the train station, and take a train from Reading to bath.

Mom: The machine won't take my coins!

Me: It's exact change only. But dad, that sounds like a lot of transferring bags and stuff and I

Dad: (walks away)

Me: (I was fucking midsentence there dad! Wtf!)

Mom: (sits down and looks sad, hands me 1 and 2 pound coins) Get me candy?

Me: ... ok mom...

Dad: (mysteriously returns) Getting candy?

Me: No, it's exact change only... (dad is gone already... what the hell?)


Time passes...


We get on the bus to reading.


I sit with mom and dad.

Mom: Whine. Bitch. Moan. Complain.

Dad: Pained Ignoring.

Mom: Sulk.

Dad: Cry for help.

Me: ... (moves to back of bus and hides under my coat)

.. ( I love my coat. )

We arrive at reading. We get our bags out, we go to the train station (very close luckily) ... there's a pasty shop in the train station.

Mom: I want a pasty!

Dad: ok, I'll go get the tickets.

Me: I feel so surreal.

(realizes to be reimbursed for tickets I should use company credit card at handy terminal)

Me: Wait dad - let me get the tickets here, I can use the company card.

Dad: Ok.

Me: (fiddle fiddle) ok, all good - I got the tickets! Dad?

(Dad has wandered off to buy tickets from people despite watching me buy tickets from the terminal...)

Me: Dad! I got em!

Dad: Ok.

(walks back to mom)

Mom: I'm soo unhappy! you all left me and I couldn't get pastys! (Waaahhhh!)

Me&Dad: huh? you're at the pasty shop? wtf?

Mom: but no one was here to watch the bags!!! ( waaaaaahhhhhhhhh! )

I suddenly have that reminiscent feeling of watching I love Lucy.

Dad: I'll watch the bags.

(dad walks off)

Mom: ok. (Mom goes to get pastys)

I am so confused.

I run into the pasty shop, get a drink and a standard small pasty and come back out to find...

Dad is moving all our bags 4 feet to the left.

Me: Whatcha doing?

Dad: Moving the bags.

Me: ok.

I move bags in circles around themselves. I'm still not sure why I did this, it just seemed to make sense at the time. Dad seemed to approve. Then he walked off.

The bags seem to be in their proper positions now. I am satisfied. I’m adjusting the last ones the way I know would make my father proud.

Dad returns.

Dad: Whatcha doing?

Me: (I look up... I have no idea)

We sit.

Mom comes out in a while, with bags and bags and bags of pastys which she hands out to everyone.


We eat pastys for a while.

Mom: Why are the bags moved?

Me&Dad: ...

Mom: (gets up and moves the guide rope for the restaurant seating section near where we're sitting)

Mom: (sits down and stares off into the distance.)

Me: I...

Mom: So where's the train?

Me: (confused)

Dad: (confidently) You just go over there whenever and it's waiting for you. They go in and out of here.

Me: (even in my idiotic state of mind this seems like a stupid thing to say about trains, in a train station.)

Mom: but which one is ours?

It strikes us all at the same time that this is a really good question... we search the station for answers.

We find none.

Dad: (sees a train, strides boldly and points) That's it there! We have to hurry - it's about to leave!

We stumble towards it dragging a trail of bags and pastys in blind reaction to leadership.

Along the way I actually try repeatedly to use my ticket on a cement post because it vaguely resembles a subway turnstile. I think its a metro gate. It's not. Dad pulls me through saving me from an eternity of trying to win a real life game of rock paper me.

We arrive at the train. But wait... look... there's other trains here too...

Reason snickers at us from the back of all our heads at once.

Confused circling of baggage ensues. We make little figure eights thinking hard with our heads down, yet we don't run into each other. In retrospect it reminds me of cats and legs. With about as much purpose.

Mom has a brilliant insight!

Mom: Look! the sign by that Train says 1001 - and our tickets say 0937 - we just have to find the train that says 0937!

Me: um mom

Mom: FIND TRAIN 0937!!!

Me: mom

Dad walks off

Me: Mom... that's the time I bought the ticket. the ticket says 0937 cause I bought it 20 minutes ago, the board says it's 1001 cause... it's 10:01 now...

Mom: ...

Mom: I don't think so. Find the train.

Dad: (wanders back) There's a guy over there lets ask him.

Me: (seeing guy in neon yellow work jacket who’s obviously a train station employee) Excuse me! Guy! pardon me!


I am not shitting you. He booked it. I don't know why.

Unless, maybe, he'd been watching us for a bit and valued his sanity.

Me: Guuyyyyyy!!!

Guy comes back. Guy shows no evidence of being aware of me whatever I do.

Me: Excuse me!

Me: Hey!

Me: Excuse me, pardon me, excuse me, hey you, guy, hey, excuse me, mister, hey,


Guy: huh?

Me: Is this the train to Bath?

Guy: (nods)

.. we board, ignoring the guy hence forth ... fuck him

We find seats...

Mom: do they have any seats facing the other way? I can’t sit facing the wrong way.

Me: (looks around... at all the seats ... yes they do... weird thing to ask...) You can sit anyway you want mom, it’s ok.

Mom: (sits next to me facing "wrong" way) You know if we took a cab it would have been easier.


Me to mom: I'd like to put my bag up above instead of holding it in my lap.

Mom: Ok (nearly crying as she takes this rejection of her as a sign she should move many rows away. She sits facing "wrong" way again)

Me: ... whatever

Hmm... skip rest of train trip....


Mom: No one carries my bag!!!

Dad: I just carried it down a flight of stairs and out of the train station.

Mom: But... you've barely carried it at all!

Me: He has his own bag mom, we all have our own bags, and yours has wheels.

Mom: But a gentleman should carry a lady's bag.

Me: If I see a lady I'll remember that.

Mom: ...that's just cold.

Me in my head: (Shut the fuck up! SHUT UP! SHUT UP! JESUS CHRIST! SHUUTTTTTT UPPPPPPP!!! GOD DAMN IT YOU STUPID SHIT FUCKER DIE DIE DIE £^$& £^$& %^%$&** &$&$%^"£$%"£"*%&"$%^* ^ )

Me out loud: Come on mom, we're all worn out - we're almost to the hotel - lets just get there and get some sleep, we’ll crash for a bit it’ll be great…

Dad: (has gone scarily silent every since the gentleman crack... as a side note, my father used to kill people for a living.)

Mom the martyr: you all just go on with out me... I'll catch up eventually...



So we arrive at the hotel... Menzies... lovely place.

Hi, we're the Allisades! We have a early check in arranged.

Evil Counter Bitch: We don't have any rooms for you.

Me: Really? (blink blink blink) (I'm not sure what surprised me more - that this has fallen through, or that I didn't see it coming.)

Evil Counter Bitch: Yes we sold all our rooms last night and you didn’t expect us not to sell a room just so you could get in early did you?

Me: Well... I called twice to arrange this specifically and you promised us the early check in ... so... yeah...

Evil Counter Bitch: I'm sure no one promised you it.

Me: No, we offered to pay for an extra night of stay to guarantee it and the lady on the phone said that wasn't necessary, that we could just check in early...

Evil Counter Bitch: But they didn't guarantee it did they? (voice is saying: you're an idiot to think anyone would)

Mom (babbling): We really did offer to pay and she said we could and we didn't have to and ...

Evil Counter Bitch (voice raising): Well we're not going to kick out our paying customers so you can have a room!

Mom: We're not expecting you to kick anyone out!

Me: But you shouldn't have promised us early check in.

Evil Counter Bitch: You can't…

Me: Fuck it. You don't have rooms? ok. That's the way it is. Let us know when you do. (Herds mom away...)


Me: yeah mom, just the way it is - lets go do some email...



I ditched my parents in one email place and then went to another and wrote this up to my friend as a cathartic release.

Dad came in a while ago (I respect his ability to track me down in a city when I've run off... I mean admittedly ... head for the computers, big surprise... but still)

Dad: How you doing?

Me: I'm ok – writing my friend - he's heading off to boot camp so it's one of my last chances. I’m telling him about the trip…

Dad: I took your mom back to the hotel.

Me: she getting some sleep?

Dad: Actually she flayed the desk girl alive.

Me: Yeah?

Dad: Yeah. Tore her a new asshole, then used that to rip her skin off from there. (there’s a bit of awe in his voice.)

Me: Cool.

Dad: She's sleeping now.

Me: I hope it helps.

Dad: Yeah, I'm gonna take a walk - tell your friend hi from us - wish him luck.

Me: ok dad, love you.

Dad: love you too.


Floored by abject stupidity? I was raised by it... but I wouldn't change them for the world.
(, Tue 23 Mar 2010, 20:31, 13 replies)
And these people are allowed to live...
Best Beloved is a maths teacher, doing her level best to educate the 16 to 19 years-olds of this once fine country.

One day I arrived home to find her in a somewhat despondent mood. She'd been trying to drum the concept of fractions into the heads of a particularly recalcitrant bunch who were arguing vociferously that they had no need of such rubbish in a modern world.

Sighing she begun to explain using a diagram of a cake, cutting into halves, quarters, eighths etc...

Suddenly their little ears prick up, and the class is all exited attention.

"So, miss, right. A half, is like, a fraction yeah ?"

"Yes, it is. Cutting the cake into two equal pieces..."

"Okay, so like a quarter is a fraction, that's like half of a half ?"

"That's right! and an eigth is a half of a quarter." she replies, somewhat surprised by this genius level of creativity.

"So, right, if I'm buyin' an eighth off Tooma for a tenner, an' de likkle fucker says he'll sell me a sixteenth for £15. I is right to be cuttin' his face for rippin'me. Yeah ?"
(, Tue 23 Mar 2010, 12:37, 6 replies)
Me. About 5 mins ago.
I asked a question on "off topic" concerning extension leads for computer monitors, to which I recieved a helpful reply including sales website.

"Make sure get the right ends" says helpful Phillipjoe.

So I visit the website, clicked on "VIEW LARGER IMAGE", looked at the picture on screen then tried to compare it with the cable ends I have by - by detaching the monitor cable.

Brilliant. I ve been to college and everything
(, Mon 22 Mar 2010, 21:11, 3 replies)
ok I'll give it a go
My ex wife once bought a Beatles calender
I asked her *why* she'd bought a Beatle's calender-seeing as she'd never ever expressed any interest in the 60's Liverpudlian beat combo..she replied that she'd always liked the Beatles and THATS why she'd bought the calender..interested in this seemingly new found admiration for Lennon, McCartney & co I asked her to name her favourite Beatles song

"Hey Hey we're the monkees" was her reply
(, Mon 22 Mar 2010, 12:24, 3 replies)
Who's that?
A couple of years ago I was visiting Venice. Venice in ITALY. I really wanted to visit the famous CHURCH, St Mark's Basillica, I'm not religious but I thought it'd be cool to have a look around such a famous CHURCH and soak up a bit of culture.

Once I got inside the CHURCH, I joined a queue of people making their way around, looking at the paintings and figures on the walls and ceiling. Painted on the ceiling of the dome of this famous CHURCH was a bearded chap with a rather beatific look and a circle of light behind his head. Seated around this back-lit guy on the ceiling of this CHURCH in ITALY, were painted 12 other similarly bearded gents. It looked as if the twelve guys were some sort of followers of the first, disciples, if you will.

Now, such an image painted on the ceiling of a FAMOUS CHURCH in ITALY must have some significance. I obviously wasn't the only one with an enquiring mind: the large American woman in front of me turned to her husband, who was also transfixed by the mysterious chap on the ceiling, as said: "Gee, do you think that's King Arthur and the Knights of the Round Table?"...

You know, I think it could have been.
(, Sat 20 Mar 2010, 17:05, Reply)
Not my brightest moment...
Visiting a mate's house many, many, many, years ago (I was about 12) I popped into the loo and saw a small plastic cage suspended just under the rim of the bowl.
It was empty.
I'd never seen such a thing before so I asked him what it was for.
"Ah, that's where my sisters put their tampons after they've used them, you flush a couple of times and they rinse out, then dry them on the line and they're good to go again."
I believed him for YEARS until I saw an ad on TV for toilet flush blocks and spanged myself in the head.

*Decades later, I reminded him of this over a beer and he laughed like crazy. "Did I really tell you that? What a bloody brilliant thing to say!"
(, Tue 23 Mar 2010, 5:15, Reply)
Sheer unadulterated gormless stupidity
I'm not kidding. How fucking stupid are those twats?

Choice quotes: nah, fuck it. Read it yourself.
(, Mon 22 Mar 2010, 5:29, 17 replies)
A friend of mine...
... had honestly never heard of how you can press Alt+F4 to make your web browser prioritise the current website you're looking at - therefore speeding up your download speed.

She had been surfing for years - the slow way - waiting for the computer to execute all its other processes! Imagine not knowing about Alt+F4!
(, Sun 21 Mar 2010, 21:12, 10 replies)
I'm afraid I have to admit to my own ignorance....
In Spetember last year I flew to Australia for the first time heading for Sydney...

I flew via Singapore and as the plane crossed the coast of Oz over Darwin, the chap next to me who was looking out of the window said "look, there's Darwin, we're over Australia".

So I popped my bookmark into my book, packed my Ipod away, put my shoes back on and sat waiting for our descent.

Five and a half hours later, we actually landed.
(, Sun 21 Mar 2010, 16:00, Reply)
Art students are idiots
I'm an engineer. I'm at an engineering university party. Said engineering university also does a couple of arts papers but is primarily known as my country's best engineering school. Arty boy in skinny jeans and a fucking top hat is trying to chat me up.

ABISJAAFTH: Hey, so what's your degree?
Me: B.Eng. No need to tell me what you study...
ABISJAAFTH(floundering slightly): Oh wow... Don't you have to be a boy to do that?
Me: Apparently not.
ABISJAAFTH: So you can, like, open your own garage once you finish!

Fuck off back to management and psychology, people in skinny jeans and top hats.
(, Sun 21 Mar 2010, 11:54, 4 replies)
I love her dearly but...
We were watching TV the other day and MrsScars turns to me and says "Hasn't Julian Clary aged badly?"

"Er, I think that's Jo Brand"
(, Fri 19 Mar 2010, 16:10, 2 replies)
Working for the a multinational company (1000+ employees) means that I have seen my fair share of stupidity.
I could go into countless tales regarding admin fuckups or the number of clueless people that complain to us about our level of service but the greatest display of fuckwittery comes on behalf of the company owner (Reffered to from now on as Bossman) a bloke that likes to be hands on despite we are a pretty successful firm.

Usually I would not knock him as he has shown to be pretty astute when it comes to the day to day running of things and has run this place from a one man outfit to what it is now, it’s just his choice of staff hiring can seem a little….off (Yup he still oversees the hiring and firing despite the fact that he could hire someone else to do this).

Firstly there’s the basic staff, they are a number of clueless tards with no idea how to do simple tasks, one time a couple of the blokes were sent to pickup some IT kit our department had thrown away after a takeover of a smaller group (Turns out that the useless kit that we acquired during the takeover of another company was actually important business info that needed recovering before we threw it away). Trying to trace the kit was a waste of time and we still haven’t got it back (God knows the net cost lost on that).

But his major fuckup has to be the incident with AS. AS was a guy who started way before I did and pretty good at what he did until he was involved in a little domestic incident that required a pretty long and painful hospital trip. Despite the lengthy operations AS was still pretty fucked up, both physically and mentally and never really the same person he once was. Gone was the optomistic IT bloke who could repair many faults and instead there was a more sullen and pissed off bloke being anal and picking up on staff for the smallest of matters, the first time I saw an incident involving A was when he kicked the crap out of Gary from accounts in the canteen.

Anyone in their right mind would have penalized AS for this and referred him to a psychiatrist but no. Bossman turns a blind eye as AS is a director and untouchable. Thankfully this came back to bite my boss on the ass.

A few months later Bossman got a chance to meet L an up and coming lad in the world of business. Bossman sees potential in this lad and offers him a job on the spot, the trouble is that he offers him a job as director, more specifically the same directors job that was currently done by AS with a view to replace ASA from what I was told). The moronic part was that Bossman voiced this offer while AS was stood in the same sodding room. AS was very pissed at this and was about to kick off when L mentioned to bossman that he could shove his job he was happy where he was for now. Bossman was a tad pissed off at this and gave the cocky little sod a slap which turned out to be dumb thing number 2 to do as AS was L’s dad and didn’t take that too kindly (They both had the same sodding surname at one point and Bossman was informed of this beforehand).

AS released a shedload of pent up range on bossman and eventually threw him down a well. Apologies for length, spelling and leading you to read a longwinded post that turned out to be fictional.
(, Mon 22 Mar 2010, 11:00, 7 replies)
One of my Sisters isn't too experienced in the world, which doesn't stop her having some very strong opinions of right and wrong,
I've been everywhere and done everything and bought the T-Shirt and burnt it and so on many times over, I lived a stones throw from Amsterdam for a few years just to give you an idea, she has yet to leave the same town she was born in, so me and her don't generally get along.

She believes in ghosts because she watches those ghost chaser programs on SKY and suchlike, she believes these to be empirical evidence of their existence, or she would if she knew that word, which she doesn't.

She votes right wing at every opportunity and thinks this makes the most sense, she agrees with 90% of what the BNP says and wants them to get in and sort the country out but she's lesbian, she doesn't see any problem with this, the BNP would apparently love her cos she's a right wing paki hating bastard just like them. Honest.

She hates forrins, I mean she REALLY hates forrins. Mainly she hates that they don't talk english, and assumes every forrin talking forrin language within her ear range must surely be talking about her and plotting to overthrow her. Why can't they learn to speak her language the ignorant forrin bastards. Of course every year she holidays in Spain, and she doesn't speak a word of Spanish and has no intention to ever learn, why should she, they all speak English over there anyway so no need, and rightly so, and who wants to talk to the durty forrin bastards anyway.

She absolutely and resolutely believes all the propaganda about terrorists and really does think they're evil and only blow us up out of evilness and jealousy for our better way of life, I've tried many times to explain the reality of it but she simply will not listen, I am a lefty terrorist sympathiser and that's that, end of.

She doesn't like filthy forrin muck, I once tried to encourage her to try some generic snack style 'sushi' but she wouldn't touch it 'cos it's raw fish and it kills you if they cut the wrong bits out. I think she got that off The Simpsons. She does however love a curry, but only if it's made 'properly' by white people (like in Wetherspoons). We once drove about 20 miles looking for a fast food chain that didn't have any 'coloured people' working in it 'cos they'll only spit in her food, then she settled on a pizza.

She doesn't understand why the moon 'follows her'. I did say 'because it's very big and very far away' but apparently that's beyond her comprehension, the moon is the best evidence of magic there is, it's right there, how can I explain that eh!? I can't! I can't, can I!? To her...

I don't have to worry about her reading this, the internet is evil, the tabloids say so, so it must be true. She doesn't give a flying crap about all this propaganda about cheaper car insurance and stuff, she ain't getting her bank account raped by nigerian paedophile viruses for nobody!

I don't visit her very much...
(, Sun 21 Mar 2010, 19:31, 9 replies)
My dad used to run a pub...
Stories of colossal ignorance abound, but this one sticks in my mind:

Mark, one of the regulars was chatting to my dad, and asked him for some advice. He'd just started going out with a black girl, and the relationship was moving towards the point where they wanted to spend some time alone in private.

"The trouble is" he told my dad "My dad will go MAD if I take a black girl home, he's funny like that" (Mark and his dad, as you may realise, were white)

"Well go to her house then" suggested my dad.

Mark spluttered over his pint and exclaimed "I can't do that, coon's houses stink!!"

(, Fri 19 Mar 2010, 19:33, 3 replies)
Logo confusion
Was asked the other day how long Audi have sponsered the Olympics for...
(, Fri 19 Mar 2010, 18:31, 1 reply)
Summer 2001 (may be a roast, I can't remember)
And a young Kroney is in the States on a six week jaunt through the South. As a trip it was something of an eye-opener to a middle-class boy from Surrey. It was the first time I truly appreciated just how safe and comfortable my life was.

I had left the trip until I was 21 for obvious reasons. There's no point going to a different country if you're not going to be old enough to do everything you might want to do, after all.

On this occasion, I was sitting in Miami airport having caught a Greyhound from Fort Lauderdale. I was heading back up to Tampa and, having done the journey down on a Greyhound, I had no intention of repeating the experience on the way back up. I elected instead to fly all of 45 minutes. There was a bit of a wait before my flight, so I decided that I'd like a nice beer. Thus began one of the biggest episodes of fuck-wittery I have experienced to date.

"Hi there, I'd like a bottle of Budweiser, please." I said, to the big, fat, thick-looking mouthbreather behind the bar. She looked at me with obvious contempt.

"ID," she said.

I sighed and produced my passport. I was four weeks into the trip at this point and the novelty of having to produce my passport every time was wearing thin. She all but snatched it off me and stared at it with knitted brows.

"I can't serve you, you're underage," she said, hanging onto the passport.

"Yes you can, I'm 21, it says so right there!" I said, pointing at the relevant section.

"You're not 21, it's the law here."

"Yes, I am. I was 21 this year, in May. I've been 21 for several months now." I was getting a little annoyed at this point and it may have come out in my tone.

"I'll get my manager."

So the manager comes out, looks at my passport and says:

"You're underage, we can't serve you."

"For God's sake. It says my date of birth right here," I take my passport back and point to the bit that says 'Date of Birth: 31-May/Mai-1980'. I hold it there for a bit. "See? Can I have my beer now, please?"

I get my beer. I pay and go to sit down. Whilst I'm passing the time, I try to figure out what the hell just happened. The date of my birth is clear and bold next to my photo. After staring at it for a bit, I start to laugh. At the top of the page is the passport number, followed by the only other date on the passport, the date of issue.

My passport was issued on 31st-Oct-1997.

That would have made me three.
(, Tue 23 Mar 2010, 12:37, 5 replies)
I believe that some people are unaware that the bird is in fact THE word.
(, Tue 23 Mar 2010, 7:29, 10 replies)

This question is now closed.

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