Well, that taught 'em
Sammi Evil Nice writes "I shared with two students, and it was always the same; whenever it was near to paytime, my milk *and only this* would disappear.
One of them, John, was a lovely bloke but allergic to nuts. John makes tea. Soon after, John starts swelling up.
ME: Runs, administers epi-pen. "You're going into anaphalactic shock."
HIM: "How do you know?"
ME: "I put almond oil in my milk."
What have you done to teach somebody a lesson?
( , Thu 26 Apr 2007, 14:54)
Sammi Evil Nice writes "I shared with two students, and it was always the same; whenever it was near to paytime, my milk *and only this* would disappear.
One of them, John, was a lovely bloke but allergic to nuts. John makes tea. Soon after, John starts swelling up.
ME: Runs, administers epi-pen. "You're going into anaphalactic shock."
HIM: "How do you know?"
ME: "I put almond oil in my milk."
What have you done to teach somebody a lesson?
( , Thu 26 Apr 2007, 14:54)
« Go Back
Repost, but very fitting I think
One of my mates occasionally has too many when we go to the pub, and rather than leave his car there, has the nasty habit of driving home trolleyed. One night he did it when I was staying at his, and to this day he swears he'll never do it again.
You see, the next morning after a heavy session at the local he was still in bed nursing the mother of all hangovers. I'd got up a few hours before him due to my not being totally wankered the night before, and happened to catch the local news. It turned out that some old duffer had been knocked over and killed by a hit and run driver the night before. Well...the opportunity was just too tempting.
So with a spring in my step I almost ran down to the town center. I had three stops on my list:
The butchers (Pigs hearts a free if you ask nicely)
The hairdressers (They look at you funny but they'll give you a bit of hair if you ask)
The Off-Licence (You still have to buy a local paper)
So back I go to his house. The coast is clear. Good. No going back now. After little more than 2 minutes my master piece is ready for action. The corner of his car looks like an Iraqi. Its doused in pig blood and little bits of flesh and hair, and the headlight is smashed. I paused a bit before smashing it, but decided that it would make it look more real, and wouldn't cost too much to replace.
An hour later up he gets, still half asleep. He glances at the perfectly placed paper but thinks nothing of it. Then about half-an-hour later he goes out to his car. The look of slow realisation dawning on his face has he realised what must have happened was absolutely priceless, and worth any amount that the headlight would cost.
Then it reached a new height of funny for me. He started almost crying saying that he'd have to turn himself in. At this point most people would have stopped, but not me...no way.
I offered to go with him, and let him get all the way to the front door of the police station before I told him the truth.
( , Thu 26 Apr 2007, 16:55, Reply)
One of my mates occasionally has too many when we go to the pub, and rather than leave his car there, has the nasty habit of driving home trolleyed. One night he did it when I was staying at his, and to this day he swears he'll never do it again.
You see, the next morning after a heavy session at the local he was still in bed nursing the mother of all hangovers. I'd got up a few hours before him due to my not being totally wankered the night before, and happened to catch the local news. It turned out that some old duffer had been knocked over and killed by a hit and run driver the night before. Well...the opportunity was just too tempting.
So with a spring in my step I almost ran down to the town center. I had three stops on my list:
The butchers (Pigs hearts a free if you ask nicely)
The hairdressers (They look at you funny but they'll give you a bit of hair if you ask)
The Off-Licence (You still have to buy a local paper)
So back I go to his house. The coast is clear. Good. No going back now. After little more than 2 minutes my master piece is ready for action. The corner of his car looks like an Iraqi. Its doused in pig blood and little bits of flesh and hair, and the headlight is smashed. I paused a bit before smashing it, but decided that it would make it look more real, and wouldn't cost too much to replace.
An hour later up he gets, still half asleep. He glances at the perfectly placed paper but thinks nothing of it. Then about half-an-hour later he goes out to his car. The look of slow realisation dawning on his face has he realised what must have happened was absolutely priceless, and worth any amount that the headlight would cost.
Then it reached a new height of funny for me. He started almost crying saying that he'd have to turn himself in. At this point most people would have stopped, but not me...no way.
I offered to go with him, and let him get all the way to the front door of the police station before I told him the truth.
( , Thu 26 Apr 2007, 16:55, Reply)
« Go Back