Dont fuck with lawyers
My dad is a partner in a smallish law firm. He loves nothing better than annoying people and suppliers who piss him off, nothing bad, just minor spats. He loves doing really pointless but perfectly legal things. This is my absolute favourite petty revenge story of all time.

Dad has queried an outstanding payment to an office supplier, its about £3800. He contested it and basically dragged out payment for months. Eventually, he agreed that if they sent someone round he'd pay them cash.

In the mean time, he went to the bank and after discussion with the bank manager, worked out what the legal minimum denomination of notes and coins could be used.

He also went to the garden centre and purchased a cheap, yet sturdy black dustbin.

As it turns out, you can pay in coins. the resulting amount pretty much filled the dustbin - well 3/4 full. It was almost impossible to move. 4 guys from the office got it upstairs and hid it in Dad's office. They spent half an hour emptying all the coins from their bags.

The debt collectors arrived. Dad made them wait an hour or so for the hell of it. He came out and spoke to them argued the toss some more. Eventually dad 'caved' and pointed them in the direction of the money. Upon seeing it they groaned and muttered that theres no way they're going to take that. Prepared, Dad immediately hands them a piece of paper and says, fine, sign this. They ask what it is, "its to confirm that I offered you full payment and you refused to accept".

They sigh and give in. Dad asks for a reciept. They start counting. Dad has previously removed a pound or so earlier on.

A couple of hours later, they point out that its a pound down. Dad denies thats possible, maybe they should recount? They relent and fill out a reciept. They fill the bin back up and start dragging it to the lift. My dad watches on.

The lift arrives and they struggle to get it over the floor divider but panting, they finally get the thing in the lift. As the doors begin to close, my dad sticks his hand between the doors, forcing them to open again.

"Erm lads? Where are you going with my bin?"

My dads ace really.
( I have run out of coke is a little sweaty, Thu 16 Aug 2007, 16:30, Reply)

Can we get Philip Larkin into the top 10 posts?
Well known but not well known enough:

They fuck you up, your mom and dad
They may not mean to, but they do.
They fill you with the faults they had
And add some extra, just for you.

But they were fucked up in their turn
By fools in old-stylen hats and coats,
Who half the time were soppy-stern
And half at one another's throats.

Man hands on misery to man
It deepens like a coastal shelf.
Get out as early as you can
And don't have any kids yourself.

Go on click "I like this" and we can get the old sod some posthumous streed cred:
(beaverwastemanagement a real company. I want to work for them!, Fri 17 Aug 2007, 9:55, Reply)

Shit Parenting = Dickhead Kids.
Sorry-bit epic this one.

Tom and I went to primary school and secondary school together, and even ended up at the same Uni and even now live just one bus stop away from each other, so we are both pretty much honorary members of the others family.

Tom's big brother was always a twunt, he'd constantly have his friends around, and whenever I was at Tom's residence my friend and I would find ourselves spending most our time locked in Tom's bedroom, as whenever we left we risked our heads being shoved down the toilet/being locked outside in the rain/ having the shit kicked out of us. You've gotta love upper middle class kids eh?

Big Bro being the massive cunt he was left home at 17, much to everyones relief and he and Tom didn't speak for a long time after that, besides, his parents had always wished I was their son instead. But this story is not about those parents, oh no, this is about Big Brother Joe himself and his horrible bastard little girl.

Last December Tom gets a lettter from his brother, assuming it to be the usual stiff, impersonal "To Tom, Merry Christmas from Joe" he recieves every year he sighs as he opens it and, is very surprised to find his brother has invited Tom and Myself down to his house for Christmas/ New Year week!

We arrive there to find Joe a broken man, quiet with bags under his eyes his swagger had become a slow shuffle and it didn't take long to realise why- Old Wifey is an absolute bitch. We are greeted with a smarmy "Can you take your shoes of please this was a very expensive carpet (fake laugh) thank goodness for Christmas bonuses eh?" (forced smile.)

I did the maths instantly.Absolute bitch of a mother and a whipped ex-yob for a Father- I am not looking forward to meeting The Daughter. And rightly so.

I've never hated anyone more than Little Rosie, and she was eight when I met her. Shed make random demands in the middle of the day to anyone within earshot. "Muuummy! I want an Appletiser. Buy me an Appletiser!"

"Uncle Tooom I need some lipstick"
Tom looked bemused before asking "Why?"
"oh my God are you STUPID?!!! So that Bernard Steel will go out with me. YOU DUMB FUCK?!!"
This shit I could manage. This was just spoilt child, I could deal with it. But there was more. A gentleman came calling at the house one day, selling something or canvassing the area I assume. Little Rosie answers the door and shouts "HOW DARE YOU KNOCK HERE!" and slams the door in the gentlemans face.
"Why did you do that?" I asked.
"The cheek of a nigger to knock on my door!" She says shaking her head. The girl is 8 years old! I stare at mother expecting her o tell her daughter off, but all i get is a look of contempt! Now THAT is shit parenting.

The icing on the cake came when she demanded
"Get me a drink."
I glared at her. "Get it yourself."
She looks at me like I've just slapped her (If only)and runs out the room. A few minutes later Mother comes up and screams at me because Rosie claims she walked in on me having a wank!! Of course despite my vehement and logical denials (why would i choose to have a wank in the lounge while watching countdown) she had none of it and demanded Tom and I leave the next day. That woman is the reason you should have to have a license before having a baby.

However just before we're leaving Tom got sweet vengeance, Little Rosie comes to say goodbye to him on her own (i.e no mummy dearest present)
"Bye Uncle Tom."
"I'm not your Uncle."
"What?"
"And your parents aren't your real parents either. You're adopted. Probably from a black woman as well. Their kind are always having teenage babies arent they?"
Little Rosie is for once at a loss for words and begins to silently cry.
"Oh," continues Tom, "and you know that boy you wanted to look pretty for- Bernard Steel?"
"Yeah?"
"He probably thinks you're a fat bitch jutst like the rest of us do."
At this she starts bawling, Tom and I grab our suitcases and leave.

There is no sound sweeter than that of a crying child.

Apologies for length :)
(Vadge is new to all this, Thu 16 Aug 2007, 20:29, Reply)

A friend of mine...
Used to live in Wales, next to a prison. His dad would take him for a walk round the block most evenings before bed, and every time there was a woman outside the prison walls, shouting:

'KEVIN! KEVIN!'
A light would then flick on in the prison, and shouts would be returned:
'SHARLENE! SHARLENE!'
'OH KEVIN, I LOVE YOU SO MUCH!'
'I LOVE YOU TOO, SHARLENE!'
etc etc.

One evening, he was strolling round with my friend in his pushchair, when he noticed a distinct absence of Sharlene. He began shouting:
'OI! KEVIN!'
Light flicks on, Kevin replies,
'WHO THE FUCK ARE YOU?!'
'KEVIN! I'M BANGING SHARLENE!'
Then all you could hear is prisoner going nuts inside his cell, screaming profanities from the window.

How responsible is antagonising prison inmates with your young child in tow?
(Merrep, Mon 20 Aug 2007, 17:27, Reply)

My dad's a rozzer
and not some tit-headed flatfoot, but the tazer-wielding fast car-chase sort.
One morning he's doing a morning shift, on patrol in a big Land Rover, with ALL the toys. Multi-band radio broadcast unit, tannoys, and, best of all, rear programmable LED board (so that you can type messages to the car behind you.)

Thinking, at the age of 15, that it would be fucking A to get a ride to school in one, I readily accept his offer of a lift (which he wasn't supposed to do, but who cares.)

It was all smiles and gloats as he pulls into the car park, watching my peers and enemies gape their jaws at such a majestic vehicle. I jumped out, try and pass off a blase "cheers Dad," slam the door, and nochalantly stride off towards my comrades. Five seconds later, the sirens blurp out a high-pitched squeal, I turn to look at the departing van to read on the LED board "DADDY LOVES YOU TOO XXX"

You simply cannot imagine the shit I put up with at school for the next three years. All policemen are bastards.
( Grrrmachine the indifference engine, Fri 17 Aug 2007, 16:39, Reply)

Freddy Krueger is real!!!!!
After reading a harrowing tale on here yesterday concerning that poltergeist film it brought back the most horrendous experience of my childhood and which gave me a sleepless night last night just thinking about it. Once again this concerns my childish, prankster, twat and all round cunt of a father. While being only the tender age of thirteen I was aloud to stay up late one night to watch Friday night TV. My parents were going through a period of not talking to each other at the time and so my mum had fucked off to bed early and my dad was working in his shed. So channel 4 it was then.....

Remember how good Friday night TV was on channel 4 back in the 90's, eurotrash, who's line is it anyway, roseanne and not forgetting the obligatory French grot/art film. I digress. Nightmare on elm street was on that night and I decided that I wanted to see what all the fuss was about concerning this film. Playground gossip had put it in high stead. So there I was kicking back in the recliner chair (dad's chair) with my coke and crisps and the lights off (btw i hate the dark now). The film was pretty unimpressive for the first hour or so but this lead me into a false sense of security. During this period of relaxed viewing my father was busy in the shed working but little to my knowledge he was making a Freddy Krueger glove and plotting my demise.

At this point I must point out that I was fully kicked back in the recliner chair to the point I was nearly horizontal. Then the scene where Johnny depp was in his room watching TV on his bed came on, we all know the one. Just before the penultimate moment in the scene where Freddie's hand cuts through the bed and drags poor Johnny down my cuntish father had slipped into the room with the stealthy skills of an SAS soilder and creped behind the chair. I was unaware at the time that it was possible to get your hand through the chair from behind. I think you know whats coming next and the absolute cunt timed it to perfection.

As soon as Freddie's hand came through so did my dads. I jumped up higher than a kangeroo on a pogo stick, wetting myself with fear ( probably due to 2 litres of coke in my bladder) and run up the stairs to the sanctity of my mum while screaming like a girl. My mum came running down the stairs to find my father sitting in the recliner chair, laughing his arse off and grinning like a maniac while wearing the Freddy glove he had made. This is real cuntish bit though..... expecting my mother who was already annoyed with him to lay into him, she then started pissing herself with laughter too. Remember I was soaking wet with piss and looking like a frightened cat. A night I will never forget and brought many a sleepless night my way for years to come.

There's a moral to this tale but i really can' be arsed to find it.

Lenght... Just ask your mum!!!!
(CaptainCuntyBollocks the man who can with a frying pan full of lamb, Fri 17 Aug 2007, 9:38, Reply)

Creamy Discharge
Similar event only - turn the tables.

I was once married to a woman who already had four children. We went off the east coast one hot summer's day, in the early eighties. On the way back, the children, tired and hot were whinging like gooduns. This, of course, made driving all the more uncomfortable. At length, I found a convenient lay-by and I pulled the aging Citroën Dyane into it. I parked up and lectured the children about the fuss they were making. I finished up with "If you don't be quiet, I will put you out and you can all walk home!"

I gunned the motor (well! As much as you can gun a Dyane :) ), slipped the clutch and away we went. Not a peek was heard from them! Not a murmur. I was congratulating myself on my parental powers when I heard an almost whisper "What has that light come on for?" as I applied the brakes to pull up outside our house.

When the wife and I got out of the car, there was no immediate evidence of the children. It seems that, under the acceleration from the lay-by, the seat rolled backwards and tipped them in the boot, then came back empty. They thought that I had done it deliberately.
(AsADie, Mon 20 Aug 2007, 6:39, Reply)

I was a mistake....
Just 3 years ago (I'm 22 now) I overheard my dearest mother talking to my youngest cousin about my birth, whilst we were on holiday in Majorca....

"Well, me and your Uncle used to do a lot of drugs in the 80's, and when Sean was conceived, we were off our heads on magic mushroom and LSD"

So, after hearing this revelation, I quickly piped up "WHAT?! YOU DID DRUGS! Wait, so was I like..... an accident??"

"Well... yes, sort of.... It was bonfire night and we went to Skegness for a few days, and you know, one thing led to an another. But it's ok, I always wanted to have a child"

"Er, so what about Dad?" I asked

"Well, he likes you now"

ARRRGHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!
(silkysean pneumonoultramicroscopicsilicovolcanoconiosis, Fri 17 Aug 2007, 8:23, Reply)

A Sad Story
Not my usual funny tale, but some of the stories on here are so moving, I thought I'd share mine. It's about the worst father I have ever, ever heard of. And it does upset me to type it, but here goes.

Now, my parents, though divorced, are great - they'd do anything for me, and I'd do anything for them. I love them unconditionally. My cousin, Victoria, didn't have that blessing, unfortunately.

My cousin is the daughter of my beloved Aunty May. Back in the 70s, she was a singer in the clubs, all sequins and wigs, she was a gorgeous woman with an amazing voice and a great Yorkshire personality. She was my dad's best friend.

May married young, and had a daughter, Victoria. The marriage crumbled, and she remarried when Victoria was only a few years old. She married Jeff. Jeff was, to put it nicely, a twat. He would rule the house with his booming voice and ludicrous rules (no friends in the house, supervised family visits only, no talking loudly or playing near him, etc). Though to our knowledge he was never violent, he wore poor May and Victoria down and eventually the house which was once a haven for our (huge) family and friends became quiet and May became reserved. We all thought she would leave him when Victoria was sixteen, as she didn't want her to be moved yet again.

Sadly, Aunty May started to get headaches, bad headaches. The doctor gave her strong painkillers and advised her to rest. By the time they found the brain tumour, cancer was scattered like pepper through her head. She was dying.

What did Jeff do? He propped her up in bed on her own, sent Victoria out, and proceeded to convert Victoria's bedroom into a study, as he was adamant she would be shipped back to her biological father (who she barely knew) when her mother died. May sat in bed, alone, for most of the day, with her crippling headache, whilst Jeff hammered and drilled and sawed. The worst part was, he had left a full length mirror facing her. She watched herself lose stones in weight, lose all her hair, and go grey with illness. Visits were supervised, of course. One day, my dad carried May down to the lounge for a change. He said it was like carrying a doll, she was so light. Jeff hadn't been giving her water, or tea, or food. As she sat on the sofa and tried to talk, Victoria came in from school, she was around fifteen. My dad sent her into the lounge and made the tea. As he carried the tea into the lounge, the sight of his dying sister hugging her daugter broke his heart. That was twenty years ago, and he still cries at the thought of it.

Jeff walked into the room and looked at them. 'She's not long to go', he stated fairly cheerfully, 'she'll be dead by Christmas'. My dad, who normally would have gone understandably mental, knew May couldn't cope with any upset, so he stayed calm and just told her to ignore him.

The next day, May slipped into a coma and was taken into respite care. My dad and the family visited her, and Jeff was there, giving them all smug, evil looks. They stayed only for about twenty minutes, and as they left my dad stroked her hair and said 'we'll come and see you tomorrow, love'.

She died a few hours later.

Victoria was removed from the house within hours, and Jeff's previously unmentioned lady friend moved in within a matter of weeks. He was seen laughing and joking even before May's funeral.

A few years ago, my family heard through friends that, through some amazingly apt twist of fate, that Jeff had terminal brain cancer. He died in agony a few months later. Alone.

I have never seen or heard so many people laugh and smile at hearing a man is dead. But by God, that scumbag deserved every ounce of pain he got, and then some.
(Northern Lovely, Tue 21 Aug 2007, 12:58, Reply)

totally awesome parenting


(I've posted this before, but I think it's worth looking at twice)
(apeloverage committed the vile act of onanism on, Thu 16 Aug 2007, 10:53, Reply)

Why should I be fired?
Because I'm always late.
( idonthaveafunnynickname Drink-Aware? Sure. I'm aware I want another drink., Sat 18 Aug 2007, 19:57, Reply)

Short one
I'm a terrible parent - I don't even have a child.
( e.m.m.y. foxtrot uniform charlie kilo india tango, Thu 16 Aug 2007, 16:33, Reply)

Springing into action...
Call it natural child like inquisitiveness. Call it dumb stupidity. Whatever it is causes it, I and my 2 brothers all did the same thing when we were about 2 years old.

We all managed to get firmly wedged between the washing machine and the kitchen cupboard. Crying our eyes out, hyperventilating stuck.

What was my father's reaction when my little brother got stuck? Why, the same reaction he had when I got stuck. Which was the same reaction when my older brother got stuck.

Papa lawofnations: Wait, don't pull him out yet...
Mama lawofnations: What? Why?
Papa lawofnations: Get my camera. This is really funny...

Hence why in the photo albums of our childhood, there is a photo of each of us, red in the face, eyes screwed up, miserable and terrified, crushed between kitchen appliances. Because my dad thought it was hilarious...

Mind you, quarter of a century on I can see his point...
(lawofnations, Sun 19 Aug 2007, 17:09, Reply)

What a tool
My dad once tried to score some weed off me. Nothing wrong with that, except that in doing so he used the phrase "jazz cigarette" with a straight face. What a tool.
(zauron, Sat 18 Aug 2007, 13:45, Reply)

Pramtastic



My mother has never liked Jenny, the girl from nextdoor.

We always put it down to just one of her many, many irrational grudges.

A few years ago and the topic cropped up in conversation.

Me: What *do* you have against her then?

Mum: Well, when you were a baby, you'd cry and cry all day long so I used to put you in your pram and dump you at the bottom of the garden so I wouldn't have to listen to you.

Me: That explains a lot, what about Jenny?

Mum: well, the little bitch would climb over the fence, bring the pram up to the house and then knock on the backdoor to tell me that you were crying.

A 42 years and counting grudge, well done mum.
(Fanta Menace Is tall enough to see over the fence, Thu 16 Aug 2007, 11:40, Reply)

Medical Parents
My mother was a nurse and dad was a doctor (both thankfully retired now). They say that if you have medical parents you are either kept in a hyperbaric chamber or left to bleed. Unfortunately I was the latter (although the former would be terrible as well i spose).

When i was about 9, I tried to make my own bow and arrow set. Using a craft knife to whittle.(why the hell did they give me a craft knife???) Oh dear. I predictably cut my fingers very badly. very badly. I cut all the tendons in my left index and middle finger. However mum and dad didnt think i needed to go to casualty or anything. So they cleaned the cuts, applied plasters, and left it at that. 2 weeks later when i took the plasters off and found that i couldnt in fact bend either of the fingers. I confronted my dad and he said that if i'd have had microsurgery then it would have been fine. but never mind we cant change the past eh?

Years later i found that they both were drunk that day and they just couldnt be bothered to take me to the hospital and then forgot about it in the morning.

TWO OF MY FINGER DONT BEND PROPERLY MUM AND DAD!

Click "i like this" if you would like me to send a scalpel bomb to my parents.
(powervator and NONE SHALL PASS, Fri 17 Aug 2007, 13:19, Reply)

Lies my parents told me
When I was but a wee Vorlonlet and my little brother was just a baby, my highly-educated, workaholic Mother took a stab at being a housewife. At the time my Dad was in the Navy and thus away a lot and we lived in a one-bus-a-day rural hamlet. Mother dearest unsurprisingly found herself bored shitless.

So she made her own fun, most notably by putting utter rubbish into my innocent little head. The one I remember most vividly was that every time I told her I had a pain somewhere or felt ill she replied with "oh dear, that's your hypochondria". I was convinced that I had some kind of terminal illness with an endless list of symptoms. The result was that at playgroup I'd toddle over to the helpers, tears in my eyes, and come out with lines like "My hypochondria's bad in my tummy," at which point they would unfailingly piss themselves laughing.

To this day she maintains that it was worth it. For the lulz, as it were.

/cherrypop
(Vorlon, Thu 16 Aug 2007, 15:18, Reply)

I have twin brothers
Whenever one was acting up my Dad would threaten to send him back to the hospital because they'd got a spare.
(Milo Minderbinder, Thu 16 Aug 2007, 11:21, Reply)

Terrible great-grandparenting
This one doesn't refer to me, but my grandmother. When she was growing up in Liverpool, they lived in real poverty - four kids to a bed, no food, leaving school at 11, that sort of thing. So their main 'treat' during the year was the trips to Blackpool their father took them on.

Unfortunately, their father was an alcoholic. He would take them to Blackpool, walk them into a police station and tell the policemen that he'd found the children roaming the streets. He would then head down to the pub for the next 6 hours and spend the money saved to treat his children to a nice day out, before coming back to the station at the end of the day and reclaiming his children. This happened often enough that the police got to recognise him, but they kept accepting the 'lost' children. I think they realised that if they looked after the kids, they'd at least get fed and looked after, whereas otherwise it was sitting on the pavement outside the pub all day.

Quite depressing really!
(Onion Terror, Thu 16 Aug 2007, 10:43, Reply)

This Came Up A While Ago
.
Several months back I wrote a blog entry about a couple of Chavs I'd bumped into in my local town. I overheard them call their sprog by it's name.

Nokia.

I shit you not. So, I mentioned this on my blog and asked if anyone could beat this. I thought I was on to a winner until my mate, BarBitch, chipped in.

She works with young offenders and one of them had named their kid........ _{wait for it..........}

Chlamydia.

Cheers
( Legless Mister Stabby - shanks for the memory, Thu 16 Aug 2007, 10:21, Reply)

hidden present
Father, being as inebriated as a boiled owl, was unable to drive my mother and I back from the pub. Mother, therefore, lovingly placed her 9 month old baby in the back with his drunken father. The drive, uneventful and suspiciously quiet, was over very soon. Back at the house mother removed her baby from the back seat and proceeded into the house. The texture of the baby-grow all-in-one suit with front zip was somewhat different, she thought. On inspection, she found that it had been used as a sick bag - a deposit had been made and concealed by zipping in up again. Father slept in the car that night.
(Evilsquirrelboy, Sat 18 Aug 2007, 6:47, Reply)

The best intentions
My older brother, aged ten, fell and scraped his knee. With mother our, it was up to my dad to tend to this mishap. In a stupendous display of backwards logic, my father surmised that if Dettol can clean both wounds and toilets, surely toilet cleaner (containing bleach) must be able to clean both toilets and wounds. It took my brother several minutes to convince him that it was NOT a good idea to apply toilet duck to his injury.
(schnuff, Fri 17 Aug 2007, 7:13, Reply)

SERIAL CHILD KILLER (ALMOST)
My old man was not only a fence for the local criminal classes of Birmingham (his front for this activity being a big fuck-off pub which went from one side of the street to the other and had effectively a front saloon bar on each side) but a gambler and a local hard man. All of that did not make him the brainiest person in the city however - but he did have a big car - a Zephyr much beloved of TV programmes of the time.
Now I played centre forward for my primary school team and as a result one Saturday my old man offered to take us all to the match in his big car. That is 11 players, 2 subs and a teacher who was the coach.
Zephyrs were big cars but even a big car isn't big enough for 13 seven year olds and 2 adults - my old man's idea: 4 of us head to tail like sardines in the boot.
I volunteered thinking it would be fun. It wasn't. It so fucking wasn't - not only was the turning back and forth of the car and the bouncing on the 60s soft suspension vomit-inducing some of the exhaust fumes leaked back into the boot. It was bloody horible.
I remember heaving pretty quickly soon after the journey began onto someone's World Cup Willie soccer boots. The others joined me and my sock soon felt a bit soggy and gooey and the floor of the boot got slimier and sslippery making us all slosh back and forth in kiddie puke. The sounds of retching were well covered by the noisy engine but in the boot it was all we could hear.
Thankfully the match ground wasn't too far away - the car stopped after a final bounce or two over the grasssy entrance to the pitch and cue four sick covered kids emerging from the dark - still puking in part from the smell of the sick from the enclosed space. One of us had shit himself too for good measure. It was fucking scary in there.
We lost 6-nil I think but one good result was that when I got onto the ball no one dared come near me to tackle me in case the crap on my shoulders got onto them.
Looking back I now know that he could have killed us all the useless sod - not a single sensible idea he had about childrearing nor team transport. Another time he enrolled me at a school telling them I was twelve when I was nine - I ended up at High School at 10 before they found out he'd screwed up and by then it was too late. My expected teenage sexual years were ruined by him thanks to that lack of memory of how long I had been around his life! My mates were getting it while I still ran around collecting lego and action men.
Now he's a broken man who sits around doing a small garden doing little thanks to a stroke he had a few years back. Think I care? Not one whit - he was a cruel and fucked up guy when young and certainly hurt a lot of people around him - you get back what you pay in to life.
(beaverwastemanagement a real company. I want to work for them!, Fri 17 Aug 2007, 5:01, Reply)

my old boss helena
and her husband were having a crafty shag one morning thinking that their kids were asleep. as he was getting to the vinegar strokes, a sticky little hand grasped her foot and her 2 year old son, who had wandered in unnoticed at some point, cried out gleefully, "faster daddy, faster!"

god, talk about ruining the moment.

mind you, when he was a couple of months old, she was leaning over my desk at work to show me something and a very swollen, very full, very milky breastpad fell out of her bra and out of her blouse and landed wetly on my keyboard with a sickening splosh. drops of my boss' white breastmilk splashed all over my keys.

we looked at it for a moment, and then she pissed herself laughing and flatly refused to move it. bitch!
( rachelswipe with a fork, Sat 18 Aug 2007, 10:02, Reply)

Is it just me?
Right, I'm too young to have kids now, but I can imagine being 40-something and having an argument with my son/daughter.
Then, and only then, will I be rewarded for having a kid (this would be the only reason I'd have one)
kid: Fuck you dad, I hate you
Me: Haha I shagged your mum!

So is it just me?
(River of Squid has a variety of lemons in his pocket, Sat 18 Aug 2007, 0:19, Reply)

True, alas
On a train in Maidstone (town of hairdressers and pubs). A woman got on with two kids in tow. She looked like a prostitute: microskirt, clown make-up, face twisted into a vicious scowl of hate. I will call her Slag. The kids - boy and girl - must have been 6 or 7.

Slag: [To boy] You littel cant! You facking littel cant!
Boy: I din't do it! It wasn't facking me!
Slag: Who facking lost my facking handbag then? I giv it to you to look after!
Boy: It wasn't facking me, you cant!
Slag: {Cracks boy across head] Don't call me a cant, you facking littel cant!
Girl: It was a nigger.
Slag: Wot?
Girl: It was a fackin nigger stole your bag.
Slag: Facking nigger bastard! I should've guessed!
Boy: Don't say facking 'nigger'.
Slag: Wot you talking about?
Boy: They told us at school not to say 'nigger'.
Slag: That's cause they're all fackin niggers at your school!
Girl: There's lot's of niggers.
Boy: Dont say 'nigger' you cant!
Slag [Cracks boy about the head] Don't call your sister a facking cant, you facking littel cant!!
Passenger: Excuse me - would you mind not swearing all the time.
Slag: {Eyes roll insanely in her skull] WOT? You fack off, you fackin cant! Facking tell me how to facking speak in front of my own fackin kids you fackin bitch cant! FAAACCK OFF!

This was about ten years ago. I wonder if those children have recently received glowing A level results?
(frankspencer, Fri 17 Aug 2007, 12:39, Reply)

Ice cream
When I was very young my mom picked me up from school in the middle of the day telling me that we were going to go get ice cream. She then drove me to the doctor's office and said I needed to go in for a checkup before we get any ice cream. Before I would leave the car I made her promise that she wouldn't let the doctor give me a shot. He didn't give me A shot, he gave me THREE shots. Afterwards I asked her if we were going to get ice cream now. She said all the ice cream shops were closed because I took to long getting my shots.
(cnidaria0 Cnidaria, Fri 17 Aug 2007, 6:50, Reply)

Cool Parents
On the whole, my parents were pretty cool. They took me on fantastic holidays, pretty much encouraged me to run away and they even banned me from doing homework. Basically they made me the rather amazing person I am today.

Ahem.

But naturally they had their fair share of bad parent moments. I think the one which stands out the most is when my mother ran me over. Twice.

It was a gorgeously fabulous day, and I had just finished a day of work dodging at school. For some reason or other, dear Ma had to pick me up, and as she pulled in to the car park I stood up and moved to the side of the curb which her car consequently mounted.

Being a somewhat daydreamy child I didn't notice this, and the incident ultimately culminated in her parking on my foot. Surprisingly, it didn't hurt that much (at the time) and so Ma didn't immediately believe me when I told her. In fact, when I refused to get in the car, she got out to drag me in, at which point she saw and hastily got back in to roll the car forward...

...onto my other foot.
(Captain Skippy pooed in a bag and left it on your doorstep, Thu 16 Aug 2007, 18:11, Reply)

Catapolt + ballbearing + over enthusiastic father = disaster
Having read and posted a few on this question I am quite happy my childhood was pretty much stress free and I want to cheer you all up with another tale of fathers inability to act like a grown up father.

My father would always know how to spice things up in the long summer holidays. My father is a creative genius when it comes to DIY, you name it the fucker can make it. I told my mum I wanted a catapult for my 14th birthday. She told me to promptly "get stuffed", she knew me too well. I got a game boy game instead I think but later in the day my dad called into his shed for my present from him (insert peado joke here).

He had built me a catapult that would not be out of place in military use. It fucking enormous and was so powerful he built a strap that connected to my arm so it would fire further. Not only that, he gave 500 or so marble size ball bearings to shoot with. The summer starts here....... or so I thought!

We waited for my mum to go out cause she have would have gone mad at him for building me one, once she left we went in the garden for some fun. We set up loads of bottle on wall and proceeded to blow the shit out of them for hours... good times

When my dad took a turn he was interrupted mid shot by my outraged mother shouting "WTF do you think your doing", miscues his shot, pings off the mental pole that kept the washing line up and the ball bearing went straight through the newly double glazed patio door and thus causing a comedic smash that would not be out of place in a Tom and Jerry cartoon....Bad times

My mother lost her rag completely and screamed at my dad about setting and example to his son but god bless him this was his next line:

"I made it for me, the boys been watching me use it all afternoon. He wanted ago but I said it was to dangerous and I just proved I was right"

Got me out of the shit and landed him deeper init. Taught me how to lie convincingly to women (insert cock gag here) and never snitch on anyone, especially your mates.

Ladies, Gentleman and fellow B3tans I give you the legend, accident prone, comedic, cigar smoking, minor alcoholic, womanising, all round good egg of my father.

BTW* I dread how he might one day twist the brains of my unborn child.
(CaptainCuntyBollocks the man who can with a frying pan full of lamb, Wed 22 Aug 2007, 11:53, Reply)

My father
Promised for my whole life that he would pay for my entire education as he had done for my sister. In the Christmas holidays of my first year, mere days before my first university exams he announces that he is no longer paying for my education. This was due to an argument we had stemming from him randomly deciding I had spent my fees money on beer. Even after I had provided him with receipts covering all of the money he had given me, he was still acting as if I had indeed spent my fees on beer. I was about to have to pay £1500 pounds for accommodation and had £500 in the bank. He said I should get a student loan to pay for it knowing full well that I wasn't eligible for one.
On the same holiday he'd been making snide comments about me being a below average student etc (how the hell would he know - I hadn't done any bloody exams yet!). Well I showed him - despite the panic of thinking I would have to drop out of uni, and spending more time in the bank etc trying to get overdraft etc than revising for the exams, I was still in the top couple of people in the class.
Did he apologise for being a general wanker? Did he apologise for making me live on tesco value baked beans for a month before I found a crappy job and got paid? Did he apologise for the fact that because of him I was working practically full time as a waitress while I should have been focusing on my degree?
Like fuck did he - he apologised for putting me in charge of so much money at the start of the year. Money that I had proved I had spent on the things I was supposed to have spent it on.
Haven't spoken to the man since, emailed him to tell him all about my first class degree from one of the best universities in the country and my upcoming place in one of the most competed for PhD programs in the country. Below average student my arse!
He used to spend entire summers when me and my sister were young trying to turn us against our mother. "Your bitch mother this, your bitch mother that etc". Spent a long time trying to persuade us that our mother was mentally ill (narcisist apparently) and was abusing us. She wasn't going to win any mother of the year prizes, but our mentally ill and abusive (emotionally and psychologically) parent is most definitely our father. The fact that he is never the wrong one in an argument (even after being proved wrong) and the fact that everyone (especially women) that stands up to him are mentally ill in his eyes leads me to believe that if anyone is my family is a narcisist it is most definitely him!

If you agree that my father is a complete mentalist, and that I've done ridiculously well to avoid becoming a crack whore, click "I like this"
(mmm....beer, Wed 22 Aug 2007, 2:17, Reply)