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This is a question Tantrums

Pooster says: "When we were younger my little brother had a tantrum which ended when he threw a fork and it stuck in my other brother's cheek for a bit." Tell us your tales of screaming kids, and adults acting like children.

(, Thu 19 Jul 2012, 12:48)
Pages: Popular, 4, 3, 2, 1

This question is now closed.

I'll have a go....
A nasty old troll named Rory,
Was seeking internet glory
But shit attracts flies,
Just count the replies
When he re-posted EmVee’s story.
(, Tue 24 Jul 2012, 14:21, 5 replies)
There once was this small site called B3ta
Who had a few people who'd hate ya
If you posted some guff
That wasn't funny enough
And who would troll on and on and berate ya.
(, Tue 24 Jul 2012, 14:01, 10 replies)
Glass eye
While working in a school for children with severe learning disabilities, I saw one angry kid take out his glass eye and throw it at the kid who'd upset him. Apparently it was something he did regularly. Lovely.
(, Tue 24 Jul 2012, 3:11, 7 replies)
Fork throwing brother versus fork in face brother again
My little brother is the youngest of four and when he was younger was used to getting more attention as he was the baby of the family. He didn't like it when somebody else was taking up time with our parents that he felt should only belong to him. One day our parents took us to a park that had a wee castle you could climb with a slide on it. For some reason my middle brother took it into his head to jump off it. He was probably about 9 and LB would have been 5.

Although it was probably only about 8 feet to the ground, MB landed badly and ended up with a sore ankle. This meant that when we got home our parents were fussing over him and bringing his food over to him whilst we had to serve ourselves. Little brother as it turns out, has issues with this as he feels that our parents time would be better spent with him.

Out of nowhere a shoe comes flying across the garden amazingly hitting MB's bad ankle. Turning, my Dad sees LB standing there with an angry expression on his face. Dad rants and LB starts going into hysterics. Eventually Dad gets him to calm down enough to explain why he did it. Clearly LB can't say he was jealous so must think of a better reason to deliberately attack his already injured older sibling.

"Because he was naughty" sobs LB.

Dad enquires as to how MB was naughty.

"B-because he shouldn't have jumped off the castle."

Aaah, little brother-you rock.
(, Mon 23 Jul 2012, 21:06, 5 replies)

The tension in the room was palpable, made worse by the shirty air conditioner that seemed capable only of moving the warm, malodorous air around. Sweat dripped from my forehead, stinging my eyes. I was uncomfortable, so I knew that prissy, clean-shirted Jesus Reyes would be hating every minute of this. Maria Gonzales, our boss, was livid with anger. She had given us an assignment, and Reyes - dressed as a priest, I might add - - had fucked things up royally. She was going to tear him an new asshole. She knew it, I knew it, and Reyes knew it.

Which made his outburst all the more surprising. He stood up, ripped the dog collar from his supplice and hurled it to the ground. What followed was fifteen minutes of bitter histrionics in which Maria's sexuality was the main bone of contention. He ranted and raved, gnashing his teeth and spraying spit and sweat around the office.

Once he'd finished - winding down like a clockwork toy - he stood with his arms limply hanging by his sides, and his breath being drawn in ragged gasps. His anger dissipated, he picked up his dog collar, spat an oath at me, and walked from the room, slamming the door behind him. Maria and I sat silent for a moment, astonished by what we'd witnessed, and convinced that we'd been party to the beginning of the end of his long and infamous career within the Service.
(, Mon 23 Jul 2012, 20:52, 1 reply)
I was in my local Waitrose when Sting came up to me red in the face, started slapping me like a girl and crying that he hated me. When it finally stopped I noticed he'd ejeculated down my leg
This is how I learned the ancient eastern art of tantrum sex. sorry
(, Mon 23 Jul 2012, 20:37, 1 reply)
As a stoodent I worked at a care home for old and old-ish mentals.
There was a strict rota of cigarettes ostensibly to stop them setting stuff on fire but basically so the resident nazinurse had another way to make the poor fucks miserable. One chap with a very variable number of marbles and no real short term memory got slightly annoyed when he was told that he'd just had a fag and would have to wait an hour. He stormed back to his room and went quiet. Worryingly quiet. Turns out he'd put on all his clothes - a few shirts, two suit jackets, three or four pairs of trousers, his best slippers - clambered out of the window and disappeared into the woods. Took two days to find him. Fortunately he wasn't dead from exposure ... presumably because he was wearing every item of clothing he possessed in the sorry world.
(, Mon 23 Jul 2012, 19:27, 20 replies)
I shared a flat with bloke training for the Barcelona olympics swimming.
This was last year but he still wouldn't listen. Actually, it must have been around 1990. Anyway, he had a good looking and rich girlfriend, but the general consensus was that she was fucked in the head. Fatal attraction fucked in the head. As what happens, the attraction of sex and driving her daddy's BMW slowly paled compared to the awful reality of her craziness. He decided he was going to dump her. I was either coming back from uni or more likely the pub that afternoon when on the pavement in front of our shitty flat I saw a man struggling to walk, dragging a lying woman holding onto his ankle screaming, "Don't leave me! Bob (not his real name), I love you! Don't fucking leave me!" and so on.
Not wanting to get involved, I stayed over the other side of the road. Her banshee screams having little effect, she tried this bombshell: "Bob, I'm pregnant. It's yours". This stopped him cold, and he asked her to come back in the flat with him. About 10 minutes later, I heard him yelling and he stormed out the front door with a face like thunder. Her wailing started up again and there was the sound of breaking glass. I went into the flat to find she'd hurled my microwave at some shelves and was smashing my crockery. I had to physically restrain her, grabbing her wrists. It was like dealing with a possessed woman. I was dirt poor at the time, and while what little we had was worth squat-all, I didn't want some crazy bitch busting it all up. I pushed her out the front door and she screamed that I'd broken her hand closing it. It was a ruse. I opened it again out of concern and like a shot she was in again trying to do more damage. I had to tackle her and push her out again, where she spent a good 15 minutes banging on the door and screaming abuse.
I found out later a skeptical bob had said he wanted a paternity test, after which she'd confessed she wasn't really pregnant. Whereupon he'd said he never wanted to see her again for the rest of his fucking life. Ahhh, young love.
(, Mon 23 Jul 2012, 18:14, Reply)
Oh man, you're not going to believe this one!!!!!
My grandad was in hospital, right? He was going a bit soft in the head and could remember whether he's had some aspirins or not!!!!

Then four interminable paragraphs of utterly tedious and uninteresting drivel happened.

Then, right - check this out - A SURGEON WALKED INTO A BED!!!!!!!! I KNOW - A BED!!!!!

I thought I'd DIE laughing - luckily I was in a hospital, eh??!!
(, Mon 23 Jul 2012, 17:37, 15 replies)
This one just popped into my head
I'd had an argument with my older brother (no idea what it was about) - I think I must have been about 6, therefore making him about 9. He was massively into cars, so his bedroom was covered in posters from Autosport and the like. I waited for him to leave his bedroom, then snuck in with one of those chinagraph pencils (the ones that are sort of tacky, so you can use them on plastic, glass, metal etc.), and wrote the worst word I could think of in big, capital letters across every single poster.

He came back to find "POO" crudely scrawled across all of his beloved poster collecton. I am so middle class it hurts sometimes.

I'll have to have a bit of a think to remember some of the classics my little brother pulled (7 years my junior, so not born at the time of this story). He was a right little git.
(, Mon 23 Jul 2012, 17:22, Reply)
Someone once took the jam out of my doughnut
I didn't mind too much though as I prefer normal doughnuts without the fillings anyway.
(, Mon 23 Jul 2012, 13:39, 2 replies)

(, Mon 23 Jul 2012, 13:21, 1 reply)

I have worked for many years as a glorified babysitter within the Out Of Home Care sector. I get to look after kids in state-funded homes. These kids are not able to live with their parents/families either because their own behaviour makes them too dangerous for their family to look after, such as when they sexually abuse their siblings, or because their family is unable to care for them, such as when Mum and Dad get busted for pimping their kids for drug money. Occasionally we get kids who simply have no living relatives left who are able to act as guardian, but this is rare. The majority of kids we get are deeply traumatised, extremely emotionally reactive, and hypervigilant, with no impulse control. Despite having more balls and self-awareness than most adults I have met, they can't cope emotionally with the word "No." Bless -em.

They have magnificent tantrums. A coworker (J) once called me in the middle of the night, because the kid she was looking after, high on chrome (paint fumes), had smashed her way through the house with a large, nail-studded "club" she had acquired from a nearby building site. Everything in the house was smashed. windows, oven door, plasterboard walls, tv, fishtank, panels and windscreen of the work car. J had called me for a quick chat to calm herself down while she waited for her line manager and the police to arrive. The kid had, mercifully, chosen to run for it instead of taking the club to J's head. J explained that earlier that afternoon, the manager had advised the hardware shop where this kid had been scoring spray paint, that the kid was using the paint to get high, and asked the shop owner to refuse sale. When the kid had rocked up later to get some paint, the shopkeeper said "no." The kid twigged that her carers had spoken to the shopkeeper to cut off her supply, and she went back to the house and threw a tantrum. This one kid's antics were the stuff of legend within my industry for many years, and I heard a couple of years ago that she has become a well-behaved and functional adult, and a huge advocate for the rights of kids in Out Of Home Care. Quite a 180 turn.

More recently, I have had the pleasure of correcting a kid while he unleashed a stream of verbal abuse at me. He was so apoplectic, the only nouns he could muster were "faggot" and "poofter," while I believed that "bitch" and "slut" would be more gender appropriate. He smiled when I pointed this out. Then he smashed the tv.
(, Mon 23 Jul 2012, 13:17, 7 replies)
My girlfriend
went mad when I told her I was under investigation for suspected child abuse.

She really threw her toys out of the pram.
(, Mon 23 Jul 2012, 12:58, 2 replies)
Down with Breville, Swan all the way.
As a teenager, I liked nothing more than getting home from school and firing up the trusty old Swan toastie maker. This thing made cheese and bean toasties a delight and was pretty much what I looked forward to when getting home. After years of use, the Swan was looking a little worse for wear. It had gone from 1980's cream to some sort of foul-yellow. The rubber feet had long gone black, fallen off, and had been replaced by greasy cheese, it also stunk because it had managed to leak cheese into its own vents.

All that aside, it made beautiful toasties and never stuck. My parents however, were not convinced that this health-hazard was welcome in the kitchen. They decided to replace this monstrosity with the breville. They proudly bring home this white thing, with removable plates "look, these can go in the dishwasher" they say.

I wasn't convinced, this thing kept sticking, after numerous attempts to prime the plates with fat, it still preferred to marry itself to the toastie and rip it apart, or detach its plates around the sandwich. One day whilst stoned the incident happened. I was hungry, very hungry and a little incapacitated to make anything complex to eat. I waited for hours to muster up the energy to make a toastie, I gave it one last chance, it failed, detatched its plates and ripped my tasty delights to shreds.

The red mist descended.

After assessing the damage there was a: snapped butter knife, a knife shaped dent in the formica, a broken spatula lying in the sink and a smashed pint glass, presumably the unintended recipient of the spatula.

The breville was consigned to the bin, presumably to join the Swan in silicone heaven. I didn't eat toasties after that.

TL;DR - I smashed some stuff when a toastie maker stuck.
(, Mon 23 Jul 2012, 12:48, Reply)
Went to see the new Batman film last week
I caused a 'bit of a scene' when I got annoyed about the trailers going on and on for ages when I just wanted to watch the film.
(, Mon 23 Jul 2012, 12:32, 8 replies)
We got onto the 0700 morning town overground commuter train into Mordor, and, unsurprisingly, it was packed.
There was a suited-and-booted guy with good hair, in his late 20s/early 30s standing in the middle of the increasingly packed end carriage.

"Alright, boss - would you mind moving along a wee bit so that the rest of us can fit in, please?" I asked politely, smiling.

"What. The. FUCK?!" he replied, "Where the FUCK do you expect me to fucking go, you cunt?! Fuck off!"

"Erm ... " I replied, somewhat taken aback, "Well - there's room behind you - about four or five feet of room ... "

"For FUCK'S SAKE, FUCK OFF!" he shouted at me.

Clearly a complete mentalist, I decided that, to avoid him kicking my fucking teeth in, I'd let the matter rest, and took to discussing the coming weekend with Mrs Vagabond, whence we were bound for my friend Al's gaff, for fun and frolics. We were discussing Al, and the amusingly unconcientiously camp thing he'd done, and how we'd nicknamed him Big Gay Al after the character in South Park. We moved from that conversation to discussing what we were going to do with our garden, and whether or not we should invite over S & P, and maybe have a little party, when "Yeah you fucking go on, sunshine" said mentalist, "You fucking go on."

"I'm sorry - what?" I enquired.

"Fucking talking about me, go on you cunt. I'm going to stitch you right up when you get off this fucking train I tell you, cunt, I will fuck you RIGHT up ... "

I decided that the stop we'd just got to would be perfectly adequate for our needs, and got the next train in from there, which was, thankfully, free of suited, normal-looking complete fucking mentalists.
(, Mon 23 Jul 2012, 12:20, 21 replies)
Poor career choice?
I was riding the bus in San Francisco, doing the tourist thing and, annoyingly, missing my first actual earthquake* amongst the normal bouncing and jolting.

Suddenly, I realised that the bus had pulled over to the side of the road, and the engine had been turned off. The driver was sitting with her arms folded, staring straight ahead. We didn't appear to be at a bus stop, and the other passengers seemed equally baffled.

Eventually, one of the braver passengers cautiously approached the driver, and very politely asked if there was a problem?

The driver, still staring straight ahead, gruffly replied, "I don't like people talking behind my back!" An interesting complaint for someone whose job requires them to spend their entire shift sitting in front of hundreds of people, I thought.

No amount of encouragement would get her to resume the journey, and eventually the bus company sent another bus to pick us up, and some burly medical orderlies to deal with the still scowling driver.

* A 4.3: totally ignored by the locals, but personally I was pleased to feel a 4.7 a few days later
(, Mon 23 Jul 2012, 11:16, Reply)
I go green when I have a tantrum. I mean really fucking green the colour of grass. I also go fucking massive, like I just ate a bag of steroids. I fucking hate it, never remember fuck all and always have to move town after every tantrum . Anyhoo if you want to contact me, drop me a line at [email protected]
(, Mon 23 Jul 2012, 0:20, 8 replies)
As a youngster my dad worked in a bank that had squash courts in the basement
One day he was playing his boss, and was most untactfully kicking his arse. When it was about 7-1, his boss started pacing around the court, banging his racket on his hand and his forehead, and shouting, "IT IS NOT THE RACKET'S FAULT, MALCOLM. IT IS NOT THE RACKET'S FAULT."

When my dad won, his boss promptly ignored his own exhortations and smashed the racket straight into the wall, shattering it. Then he stormed out. Dad had to get changed and head up to face him in the office as normal somehow. I would have laughed in his face for a week.
(, Sun 22 Jul 2012, 17:26, 2 replies)
duffy and the wart
duffy, a lad i grew up with, was an unstable and large ginger nutcase. he lived with his overindulgent grandparents and was used to getting his own way, so he would throw massive tantrums wheneve he couldn't have what he wanted.
despite looking like a shaved Bungle, he believed himself to be utterly irresistible. so, when he developed a wart on the underside of one nostril, we took the piss mercilessly, as only children can. after a couple of days of this, he finally snapped. screaming at the top of his voice that we were all bastards, he gripped the offending wart and ripped it right off.
warts bleed a lot.
if he'd left it, it would have eventually gone by itself. he could have had it removed by a doctor, even. instead, his nostril became very infected and looked utterly disgusting for weeks.
(, Sun 22 Jul 2012, 16:18, 7 replies)
The Ginger Fox was nocturnal,
fortunately so was I. The un-stress of student life enabled me to play Civ II until 2am, and enabled her to have massive late night paddies, safe in the knowledge that I would be around and, being her other half, would have to listen.

That night she started by comparing herself disparagingly to her best friend cum housemate. I nodded and went 'hmm' occasionally. I had found an unsettled island, and sent a ship full of engineers and tanks.

I was going to leave her for someone prettier, and with bigger tits, apparently, she said. I sighed and pointed out that one day, eleven years later, I would refer to her as 'The Ginger Fox' on the internet, and not without cause. I was reassured that I was wrong. One of my engineers built a road, some tanks fortified my new city.

She went through a glossy magazine, pointing to all the things she didn't own that were advertised, like she lived in the third world or in poverty and didn't come from a comfortably-off middle-class family of civil servants. "I've never had a dress like that, I've never had a ford focus, I've never even had multigrain cheerios...". Yes dear, whatever dear. Tanks put down uprising, kill guerillas.

The next day she slept in later than I did, she was even less of a morning person. I had some business out and about. I ended up in the supermarket, spotted something, smirked and bought it. When I got back in, she was in the kitchen, making toast. I opened my bag, put the box forcefully on the table and said sternly,

"Don't you ever say I don't buy you anything". It was multi-grain cheerios.

She laughed and smiled and insisted we both eat some, right now. She said she didn't think I listened to her when she was ranting. She liked that I paid attention. She then insisted that we go to our room and do the thing she only normally let me do on my birthday.

I broke the fourth wall and did a double thumbs-up at the camera.
(, Sun 22 Jul 2012, 14:10, 16 replies)
People who put me in a rocket and fire it into the sun
make my blood boil.
(, Sun 22 Jul 2012, 10:36, Reply)
Whilst plucking my nose hairs in front of my dresser mirror
and reading this weeks QOTW I perceived a reflection of the word 'tantrum' which made my blood turn to ice, my heart miss a beat and scary film music screech from nowhere.

(, Sun 22 Jul 2012, 8:55, Reply)
my little madam of a sister.
when i was about 11, my parents had a chest freezer, in the depths of which were hidden a large box of moonlight mint choc ices. The freezer had a lock and the key was in the possesion of the parents. I had a padlock for my bike and out of curiosity i tried the key in the lock and it opened. Sneaky choc ice heaven until my litle 6 year old sister spied me sneaking about and threatened to turn queens evidence to the folks if i didnt let her in on the arrangement. I refused and she threw a massive wobbler and stomped off. Every day for a week she wittered on and sulked and finally she flounced off and grassed me up.
One smacked arse and being sent to my room session later, I absconded with 3 of her cindy dolls and applied some heat from a cigarette lighter i had acquired from my older brother and melted the faces off them. I still tease her about it now. It was worth being grounded for 2 weeks.
(, Sat 21 Jul 2012, 23:59, 3 replies)
My Mum (More revenge really but quite relevant)
I pulled a right tantrum when I was about 7 because my mum wouldn't let me have a penguin bar. As a result I took a Biro pen and inserted it, Nib up, Between the cushions of the sofa. Cue 10 minutes later a scream of pain from the living room and me pissing myself laughing in my bedroom whilst playing with my box of Lego.
(, Sat 21 Jul 2012, 15:43, 3 replies)
No-one throws a tantrum like a surgeon.
Wavy lines are for cunts.
Back in my student days I was on my surgical rotation, tasked with getting the punters prep per for the day's surgery. I was advised by the sister in charge 'don't fuck this up, as Mr Cunt the surgeon(possibly not his real name) is notoriously impatient and likes to belt through his morning list as he's got a golf match clinic in the afternoon'.

The list when off with nary a hitch until it came to Mr Niceoldgent, the final punter of the day.
The theatre team had decided to pick him up as they'd just dropped one patient off on my ward and so, rather than go back and wait to be told to 'send' they'd decided to pick up the last patient, perform final checks and send Mr Cunt off to the golf course his clinic in good order.

Sadly, there was a last minute hold up based around some uncertainty as to wether the gentleman in question had in fact, been taking aspirin for a week prior to his surgery, rather than stopping, as is usually advised(aspirin thins the blood and thus causes bleeding, never a great thing to get excesses of in surgery).
The nurse on the night shift had failed to indicate on the patient's drug chart if he'd had it or not and the patient, who was in the very early stages of dementia, couldn't remember wether he'd been taking aspirin prior to admission or not.
Phone calls were made to the gentleman's wife and the nurse who would have been responsible for administering the patients drugs that morning was tracked down. This obviously, takes time.
Meanwhile, Mr Cunt, was getting increasingly restive and, according to a fellow student who was on their theatre placement had, after much huffing and puffing, decided to de-scrub and come remonstrate with 'those lazy fat fucks on Ocelot Ward'.

In retrospect, Mr Cunt's dramatic entry onto the ward, crashing through the double doors at the entrance to the department, whilst shouting the place down would probably have looked a lot more impressive and fearsome had he not been knocked over by Mr Niceoldgent's bed, the query now resolved, on its way, post-haste to the operating department.
(, Sat 21 Jul 2012, 14:03, 18 replies)
A mate of mine has started working in New York and posted this quality tantrum:
So I'm at the subway turnstile this morning and I'm swiping my metrocard but it won't register for some reason.

"Hey! Hurry up! You're holding everyone up you ASSHOLE," a voice sounds from behind. So I turn around expecting to see a queue of like 50 irate commuters. Instead I find one angry looking middle aged woman.

"Go to another turnstile," I say.

"Fuck you, PRICK," she says.

"Umm, excuse me," I say. "You should watch how you speak to people."

"Oh FUCK YOURSELF!" she says.

So I stabbed her.
(, Sat 21 Jul 2012, 12:19, 2 replies)

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