Repost - sue me.
A favourite family story:

When my sister was potty training, a bat flew into the room, and somehow - somehow - managed to get into her potty.

She reported to mum and dad "There's a poo in my potty, and it's moving!"
( Je suis un vagabond is an unfunny, up your own arse middle class knob, Tue 28 May 2013, 11:54, 7 replies)

I was round a friend's house while his wife was out
As he was involved in putting his youngest to bed and his second-youngest in the bath, I was left alone with his eldest son (probably about 6) in the kitchen. He regarded me sceptically and asked me what kind of TV shows I liked to watch. I replied that I was a big fan of Transformers, but he'd not heard of that, so I said I also really liked Star Wars as I knew that the Clone Wars cartoon had been pretty popular with kids around that time, but again he shook his head. Finally, without much hope I suggested Star Trek, only be met with a completely blank look. I decided I needed to change tack here and asked the lad what he liked to watch. He stopped to think about it for a minute, then replied with absolute certainty: "I like violence."
( emvee cruor deo cruoris, Tue 28 May 2013, 10:41, Reply)

They MUST know what they’re doing…

My young kids love animals, so a few months ago the present Mrs PF and I finally caved in to their pleas and bought them a couple of guinea pigs. They were overjoyed, and set about naming the hairy buggers. My youngest called his ‘Muffin’ after his favourite breakfast treat. In a similar fashion, my eldest son named his ‘Flapjack’. Ahh, isn’t it all cute?

Well, more recently they were bumbling around ‘Pets-at-Home’ and they asked sweetly if they could also have a hamster. After being satisfied that they were adequately looking after said guinea pigs, we indulged them. This time, my youngest named the creature ‘Sir Cloppington’ (after a Minecraft character or

This continued merrily and I remained completely oblivious to any sort of problem; until the other day when I noticed that the boys have taken to shortening the animal's names for convenience. They are now affectionately known as ‘Muff’, ‘Flaps’, and ‘Clopper’.

Muff is (mostly) ginger, by the way. I reckon it’s a matter of time before they work out some plan to get a rabbit called ‘Beef Curtains’.
( Pooflake braces for an onslaught..., Tue 28 May 2013, 9:01, 50 replies)

When I was a little kid
I used to call my brother an adulterer. I didn't know what it meant. I only knew that it wasn't a nice word and I didn't know the proper word for someone that kept trying to poke me with his dick.
(the other guy not the one that gave you coochie warts, Mon 27 May 2013, 23:22, 4 replies)

Queer confession
Whilst shopping in our local Aldi (in a post-modernist, comedically ironic and cool kind of way of course) my ten your old son wandered back to the trolley and mumbled, "Dad, I love man cheese..." I managed to keep my composure and screech, "You bloody what?" where upon he repeated his shockingly frank confession of being enamoured of 'man-cheese'. Thoughts of future football matches, drinking sessions and, eventually, grandchildren evaporated to be replaced by images of pristine bearded men in tight jeans discussing soft furnishings and butt-plugs. I managed to squeak out a pathetic, "but... you're only ten - how do you know?"

He looked at me with a mixture of incomprehension and contempt and said, "What are you on a bout? I love man cheese? NO! Isle of Man Cheese. Cheese from the Isle of Man you weirdo!"

I think I cried.

NB: They also sell Isle of Man milk and Isle of Man butter. Doubtless popular in places like Brighton.
(qbslim, Mon 27 May 2013, 20:22, 6 replies)

Butt...
Shopping in Tesco with my daughter who was about 3 years old. The routine was I would pick something, pass it to her seated in the child seat and she would turn and put it into the trolley.

Next on the list was some tampons, in an attractive pink box with bubbles on it. I passed it to my daughter who studied it and asked me what they were for. Rather facetiously I said: "They're for your mums butt."

At the checkout and my daughter waves the box of tampons around and says to the cashier at maximum volume: "These are for my mums butt!"

Cue silence from everyone and then laughter as I wished a hole would open up.
(vikingaero Deilvered To Your Door in 30 mins, Mon 27 May 2013, 17:30, 4 replies)

Misunderstanding leads to racism
When I was about seven or so, there was another kid in school that I was friendly with who was in a different year, and he had a nickname. Or so I thought.

He came into my class to collect something for another teacher, and so I decided that it would be an appropriate time to use the new nickname I had learnt.

"Hello nig-nog! Nig-nog! How are you, nig-nog! Nig-nog!"

Suffice it to say that this was not a legitimate nickname, and the teacher was especially unimpressed.
(Eukanuba, Mon 27 May 2013, 16:48, Reply)

Aged three, one of my first fully-formed sentences was "the clutch is broken"
I'd been hearing it all week and dutifully repeated it in front of the dealer who was about to pay for our car and somehow hadn't noticed.
( Zuowan, Mon 27 May 2013, 15:10, Reply)

Fshitting it
We were having the usual I-want-sweets/ No-you've-already-had-some debate with our just turned seven-year old when she turned to my wife and said:

"If you don't get me some sweets, I'm going to take a picture of you on the toilet and put it on Facebook."

Now whilst this was (probably) mere banter, neither of us would put it past her, especially since we have a broken lock on the toilet door and we now live in no small degree of fear.

My wife thinks there is no greater shame than being papped whilst sat on the crapper. I have a feeling that having a seven-year-old take a picture of me with my cock out could have rather more severe consequences. Only time will tell which of us is right.
(zebideedoodah likes florence but prefers venice, Mon 27 May 2013, 14:32, 4 replies)

Our delightful brat
Was giving me backchat the way that small children do. This was shortly before Christmas last year when the must-have toy was the re-released Furby. I tried this threat, "If you keep up the back chat we'll be having a bonfire this Christmas and it will be Furby shaped." Thinking this might hit a nerve. The reply came back quick as a flash "Great! Can we have marshmallows?"
( heyrudi has just found this setting, Mon 27 May 2013, 13:53, Reply)

What not to shout In former West Germany
Growing up in the seventies, our family enjoyed holidays that were considered quite daring at the time: we would fly to a country in Europe, rent a car and then drive around from 'Zimmer' to 'Zimmer' for the half-term. I must admit it was always a great adventure setting off on these trips, and upon my return, I was expected to stand up infront of the class and regale them with my worldly wisdom. What did the Berlin look like? ('lots of barb wire'). Do dogs in France really have rabies? ( "I don't think so, but Mum wouldn't let me stroke any, so I never got bitten").

On one of these trips, we were driving thrugh West Germany and stopped off on a small town. My parents left my Brother & I in a playground and went for a walk together (yes, leaving your kids in a 'safe' place like that to return after 30 minutes was quite normal in those days). Anyway, my brother thought it would be a hoot to climb up to the top of a slide, that was the centre piece of this playground, stand tall, give a nazi salute and shout "HEIL HITLER" at the top of his voice

Every single person within earshot stopped what they were doing turned and just stared. No one moved or said anything. They just stared. Having gotten no 'reaction', brother dearest decides to repeat it a few times whilst laughing at his own audacity. I screamed at him to shut-up and get off the slide. He slid down to find me grabbing him roughly by the arm, thinking that at some point someone was going to really have a go at us. But the scariest thing was, no one moved at all. Very unnerving silence. M&D returned chatting with some shopping, and I couldn't wait to get in the back of the car. As we drove away (window very closed, doors locked), the car was flanked by all these families, and having all those people looking at me through the window is what stands out in my memory now.

Brother doesn't remember this at all now of course (little shit).
(sabre32, Mon 27 May 2013, 13:13, Reply)

My son's a right little bastard.
His mother and I were estranged when he was very young, so he didn't remember me. After some years we met again and I told him the truth.
"No! That's not true! That's impossible!", he said, crying "Abloobloo, bloo...".
So I cut off the little shit's hand and threw it down the garbage chute. Fucking local coppers knew all about it but were aware of what a little cunt he was so never bothered to prosecute me.
Local chief constable even thanked me for it when we met up at the Honda Accord owners club meet with our supermodel girlfriends.
(Me, I'm not... in any way intoxicated, Mon 27 May 2013, 12:12, 3 replies)

I was on holiday with my parents
somewhere in Britain, and we'd stopped off at one of those tedious open farms so that my little sister could point at some goats.

My brother decided to point and shout, right in front of a group of people, "Look at the size of that horse's cock"
( cs1ca, Mon 27 May 2013, 11:59, 1 reply)

ME!
I was a bonza kid, both hilarious and profound.

I remember I was 12 when my old man took to the pub for the first time. I sat at the table while he shuffled to the bar to order his 6 large whiskeys. "What crisps do ya want?" he shouted back to me.

Now, I liked prawn cocktail more then I liked ready salted, and I liked beef more than I liked salt and vinegar, and I liked smoky bacon more than I liked ready salted. Also I liked prawn cocktail less then I liked salt and vinegar and beef less than I liked ready salted and I liked smoky bacon more than I liked salt and vinegar.

So I said "Well as you know father, I like prawn cocktail more then I like ready salted, and I like beef more than I like salt and vinegar, and I like smoky bacon more than I like ready salted. Also I like prawn cocktail less then I like salt and vinegar and beef less than I like ready salted and I like smoky bacon more than I like salt and vinegar, so it should be pretty obvious shouldn't it?!"

The bag of nuts hit me right between the eyes.

Later that day my dad walked out on my mum and was never seen again. I remember him slamming the door and shouting "I can't stand living in the same house as the little bastard anymore!" Which was a strange thing to call my mum as she was such a large lady.
(ringofyre, Mon 27 May 2013, 10:04, 12 replies)

In which grandmasterfluffles isn't too concerned about her grandmother's imminent demise
When I was five years old, my grandmother had to go into hospital to have a massive abscess removed from her lung. She was in her 70s, extremely ill, and about to undergo a major operation. It didn't look as if she was going to make it. My mum had decided it was time to break the news to me, so she gently explained that Granny was very ill, and that there was a good chance she might never wake up from this operation. Everybody had to die sometime, and now might be Granny's time. Confused by how visibly upset my mother was about this, I tried to cheer her up by saying:

"But what's the problem? You don't even like Granny!"

I still don't really understand why she burst into tears.
(grandmasterfluffles Come to my Armageddon party on, Mon 27 May 2013, 8:24, 1 reply)

Supermarket checkout line
I knew what Dad liked, even if I didn't know why. I pointed at the curvaceous lady in front of us in line, and tried to imitate a wolf whistle. "Dad, look at that! Dad, look! Woo-hoo! Woo-hoo! " (of course, I was 16 at the time)
(Perv With A Dog had his eyes pecked out by scrub jays on, Sun 26 May 2013, 15:03, 1 reply)

Loosely related.
Happrise!
(Misery McUglywife an attention seeking sociopathic fuckstain., Sun 26 May 2013, 2:21, Reply)

People who say 'pearoast' are cunts.
I watch football at a small local non-league ground with my dad, a number of his mates and various hangers on.
A few years back,one of the lads, Terry, brings along his youngest son who was the tender age of 7.

The boy was carefully briefed as to the fact that as he was big enough to go to football he was big enough to understand that there would quite likely be LOTS of naughty words being shouted at players and, most likely, the referee and linesmen, and would he mind NOT repeating any of these words in mummy's earshot?

Match gets underway and it's evident fairly early on t hat the ref is having a shocker. Fouls are given when there's no foul to be seen, offsides not called when the man is far forward enough to be able to shake hands with the goalie, free kicks awarded nowhere near the offence and throw-ins awarded to the wrong teams. In short, he's fucking shit, but with an even-handedness which is both admirable, yet astonishing.
Unsurprisingly as a result the game is somewhat poor with frequent interruptions to play and both sets of supporters in the ground were getting somewhat fractious with some rather fruity language, mostly directed at the ref, being heard.

Finally, in the second half, the home team managed to string a few passes together without being stopped by the ref, one of the wingers burst through, delivered a cross which was PUNCHED away and off the field via the right touchline by an opposing defender. The ref blows up and awards a throw-in, rather than the expected and so-obvious-you-could-see-it-from-space penalty.

It's still the one and only time I've seen a football ground in stunned silence without there having been a famous person die in the week preceding the game. A very strange moment, for sure.
So, it was even more surreal when the silence was broken by a little voice piping up with a query of 'can I call him a wanker now daddy?'
( Amorous Badger NAKED BEA ARTHUR PHOTOS 4U, Sat 25 May 2013, 22:47, 28 replies)

Sad story
It might sound like something you only hear in the movies, but I only discovered I was a father at a fairly advanced age and when the kids were at an age when they should have known better-but I digress.
I'd reached a point in my life where after one or two run-ins with competitors that almost left me disabled, I'd fought back, found a good job with a boss I could work with, and built up a seriously rich business empire. However, just as we were about to complete the biggest deal in our history, out of the blue came the shocking news of my youthful indiscretion.
In an attempt to make amends for my abandonment, I offered the kid a senior position, but he turned me down flat, then something something forest moon of Endor.
(localboy purveyor of pisspoor puns, Sat 25 May 2013, 21:41, 14 replies)

when I was a kid I said something deeply racist.
LOL!
(dozers, do fuck off ur a nob m8, Sat 25 May 2013, 18:47, 5 replies)

YOU'RE frightened? I've got to come back on my own!

( Je suis un vagabond is an unfunny, up your own arse middle class knob, Sat 25 May 2013, 13:19, 1 reply)

Shopping hatred - with some MASSIVE RACISM thrown in…
Have this pea.

I’ll begin with a statement on shopping.

Ladies, we understand that you are truly wonderful – phenomenal creatures, but…can’t you get it through your heads that – just as you may not truly understand the timeless beauty of a particularly well taken free-kick, that us men sure as shit could not give the very slightest modicum of a fuck regarding whether or not an item of clothing is ‘too frumpy’, or...god forbid…’makes your arse look big’. In short – blokes generally hate ‘girlie’ shopping. Specifically as we tend to have no real sense of taste or style in that department, therefore we don’t see the point. ‘Women are from Venus’ and all that.

My love for the present Mrs Pooflake is quite unprecedented. As far as I am concerned, she is quite the most staggeringly amazing human being to have ever walked the planet…and I’ve been married for over 14 years now. Perhaps to put it another way – she puts up with me – and that in itself is a task worthy of a veritable sainthood and thusly I worship her relentlessly for it.

But she does have an Achilles heel. And that is the fact that she shops…like a goddamn machine.

Believe it or not, I also have two young sons…'flakelets' if you will, and I have managed through the magical medium of DNA to pass on to them via heredity, the realisation that having to accompany girls as they trundle aimlessly around shitty department stores quite boils our collective piss to an alarming degree.

Ooh, they so hate it too. Bless ‘em. It’s almost like synchronised swimming - the way we all whinge and whine in unison like the deadweights we are as my poor lady drags us round clothes shop after clothes shop….after fucking clothes shop. You get the point.

However, The present Mrs PF has another weakness…and that is camping…you know – as in tents and wotnot...as opposed to wearing a pink neckerchief and saying things such as 'Oooh! don't touch what you can't afford, treacle'.

I have devoted my life in trying to be suitably affluent so that we don’t have to spend our holidays dragging our own faeces across a field every morning, but she happens to love it – so of course I indulge. Crikey I'm spineless.

Anyhoo - to try and drag this back into something remotely relevant for the QotW, one Saturday morning the missus decided to drop the inevitable yet sorrowful bombshell from hell that I and my flakelets dread:

“We’re going shopping today…”

“Oh sweet cunting fuck-stagger clackervalves” I mutter under my breath, and glance over to the flakelets to see them muttering something probably very similar (but hopefully minus the blatant expletives)

The missus then proceeded to insist that we accompany her on a dismal day of bum-biting drudgery, sorry, 'wonderful voyage of discovery' around several supermarkets, then just enough clothes shops for us all to lose the will to live.

A few hours in, my youngest son plucked up the courage to pipe up: “Pleeeeeeeease…..mummy…..can we go home now…? Pleeeeease?...”

…

The pause was just long enough to fill all three of us males with the merest tinge of hope…

…

Mrs PF: “NO!, after this we’re going to the camping shop”

Now, when she said this we were in some posh ladies clothes boutique that was quite busy; and we were surrounded by various people - almost every race, colour and creed was charmingly represented by the women who were knuckle-deep into clothes on the rails, and the smattering of poor blokes who were all in the same boat as we were, as we collectively rolled our eyes and shared glances of dismay.

At this point I should point out that we had all been to ‘the camping shop’ many times before. It’s a place on the outskirts of Coventry called ‘Blacks’…

You can soooooo see where this is going…

In front of a packed shop on a Saturday afternoon, my youngest son decided to man-the-fuck-up and stage a protest at the utter disregard of how his afternoon of playing Minecraft and suchlike had been squandered mercilessly just so he could be dragged around and get asked his frankly redundant opinion as to whether he thought certain handbags ‘looked pretty’.

Unlike his entirely less-brave father...He took a stand. However, in his innocence, he wasn’t quite aware of the implications.

“NOOOOO!......NO MORE!!!” He screamed: “I…HATE...BLACKS!!!!” He yelled at the very top of his little voice, stomping his tiny feet and throwing his very best attempt at a hissy fit.

As I lunged for him he continued: “I HATE BLACKS AND SO DOES DADDY! WE ALL HATE BLACKS!!!!” at this point, with my eyes as wide as dinner plates I tried to smile meekly as I glanced at the massive 6ft 4 black chap nearby who was glaring at me with a rather understandable disgust, and who had the physical capability of squishing me into the ground with a mere flick of his little finger.

”Oh…ho ho ho…what a misunderstanding!...*forced laugh*…It’s a shop, everybody….he’s talking about a shop…please believe me…” I whimpered pathetically. I even considered mumbling the tune of ‘Ebony & Ivory’ in a desperate attempt to placate the surrounding crowd…who thankfully were too busy ‘tutting’ and calling me a ‘cunt’ under their breaths to notice as I dragged both flakelets out of the shop and lectured them on why they must never say that again.

Footnote: Actually, this is more relevant than it was the first time I used it. I could well have been torn a new clay-hole by various well-built onlookers - who if it wasn’t for their admirable ability to not be arsed wasting their time on a ball-sack like me. Lorks,they could have possibly reported me as a member of the Coventry branch of the KKK or something, if such a thing exists. God I hope it doesn't.

BTW: if you wish to check - www.blacks.co.uk - I can recommend the chunky socks.
( Pooflake braces for an onslaught..., Sat 25 May 2013, 13:04, 3 replies)

At the doctors
a friend of mine's kid asked 'Mommy, why is my doctor made out of chocolate?', in front of the doctor, who was black.
(Sick Boy likes to swear a lot, Sat 25 May 2013, 13:03, 1 reply)

My nipper got dressed up as a robot to go and see Transformers at the cinema when he was 6
Halfway through the film, he stands up and shouts "LOOK DADDY, I'M OCTOPUS PRIME".

The entire audience dun a lol.
(woocfot friends with Sacha Distel, Sat 25 May 2013, 12:04, 2 replies)

Pearoast
As regulars may know my occasional contributions are limited to ‘Africa Bore’ contributions which is a tradition I intend to continue.

The drive into Ghana from Burkino Faso takes you down a thousand meters from the central plateau along a winding road with sheer drops at every hairpin turn. Things were tense as I’d failed to convince Richard and Roxana that there was such a thing as brake-fade – they thought I was crawling along in first gear purely to piss them off, which is what happens after a couple of months on Larium. When Richard took his turn it was almost worth the near death experience to see his face as he discovered that the brakes did not, in fact, work when red hot. At this point I should also explain that our relationship(s) was(were) platonic throughout our journey, although ironically in her book (I jest not) Roxana admitted to falling in love with both of us.

We rolled into some Hamile, a dusty border town with vultures roaming along the main street (http://www.camelworld.com/photos_02.htm#Ghana) and stopped while the border guards decided where we should park. A small boy of no more than eight stood silently by the passenger door looking into the vehicle. I can see his eyes moving from me to Roxana, then to Richard and back to me

“You’re probably wondering who the woman belongs to” I asked. He nodded. “On Monday, Wednesday and Friday she belongs to me, and on Tuesday Thursday and Saturday she is with Richard. On Sunday she rests”.. He looked solemnly at Roxana and with a perfectly straight face said “she will be very busy then.”
(strongp, Sat 25 May 2013, 10:27, Reply)

But Daddy calls her that.....
In the late 1970s/early 1980s, before our parents divorced, my sister and I were treated to hearing our father calling our mother all sorts of charming names in a very loud voice. My sis, being about 3 at the time, was obviously much more impressionable than I was (cuz I was older). One day, Mom opened a window which was holding in a plant shelf. Of course, the little plant shelf was no longer secure at that point, and the plants naturally cascaded onto the floor. Imagine Mom's surprise when her precious 3-year-old, all blonde hair and blue eyes, looked at her and said, "you fucking asshole."
(CMJRoss, Sat 25 May 2013, 10:24, 1 reply)

my kids regularly tell me they hate me
And that they want a different dad. But then I am a truly awful father.
( mictoboy shitting in your cunt since, Sat 25 May 2013, 9:59, Reply)

The Wife's Nephew
Mick is my wife's brother, Billy is Mick's son, about 8 or 9 years old at the time. So, Mick and his family head over to a family party that he really didn't want to attend. In fact, he'd been complaining the whole week leading up to it. They get to the party, and Billy is running around with all the other kids. Mick is in conversation with the host and a few other people, when Billy runs up, wraps himself around Mick's leg, looks up and says, "see Dad? I told you it wouldn't be shit"

Not sure how many more parties they were invited to after that
(Pleiades, Sat 25 May 2013, 9:29, Reply)

Well, that's me told.
On the odd occasion as a family we all climb into one of our cars and the little-un will pipe up with, "Where are we going?". This is during a time period when Masterchef/My Kitchen Rules etc. are on tv and they are all talking about how to properly cook a slab of meat. This will make some sense in a moment.
Now to curtail the usual whinges about " I don't want to go to the shops." or "Didn't we go to the library last week?" I usually pull out the - "We are taking you to the Slave Markets, to see how much we can get for you."
Clearly I am not trying to sell my daughter into slavery, simply trying to head off some bad behavior from her by suggesting something completely implausible.
This is often followed with "Oh, Dad - that just doesn't exist. Where are we going?". But occasionally the game is played. When that happens we might discuss the prices that the slavers might pay for different people in our family.
Then one day my daughter comes out with - "Don't be silly Dad, why would a slave trader buy me when they could buy you with all your fat?", "Your flesh has all the marbling to make the meat tender and tasty."
I haven't even begun to think about using the "veal" gambit yet.
(Misery McUglywife an attention seeking sociopathic fuckstain., Sat 25 May 2013, 9:12, 9 replies)