That's not catfood...
My 16th birthday, parents allow me to have a bash at our house. They say - 'We'll go out for dinner, and get back around 12.30/1ish. As long as everyone's outside (tents in the garden) by the time we come back, that's all fine'. No probs, thinks I, we're on for a winner here. Switch to 11 o clock, and I'm having a sweet old time. Although I'm trying to keep an eye on the manor, I've made the crucial mistake of getting turbo-pissed, so destruction reigns left right and centre. At one point, I wobble through to the kitchen to find my mate James, standing like a lone gunman after his first kill, a bright-lipped, watery smile pasted across his pale face. He's windmilled red, angry sick around the entire kitchen. Floors, walls, sink half filled, up doors, over the microwave and over the cat's bowl. 'Err..I'm sorry mate, I've just kicked over the cat food. Sorry, I was just about to clean it up'. Bless him. He did as well. Fast forward to later on in the night, it's been a classic party, this night will turn out to be probably one of my happiest teenage memories. All survivors are now perched half in/half out of tents, all pitched in a tiny circle. Everyone's got perfectly drunk and now stoned and bantering away. My mate Spud (was and is a top chap, slightly the proud side of portly) lets rip with an almighty fart, the volume and length of which sets everyone into hysterical laughter for perhaps 20, 30 seconds. The laughs die down, only to begin again when we all realise that he's still going. He starts laughing as well, which is where the real genius sets in. His farts sync-in with his laughter, and he's suddenly chugging away like the rear gunner of a lancaster bomber for over a minute. Superb.
( Coy Rastle, Thu 13 Apr 2006, 11:05, Reply)