Kids say the shittiest things
Smudge the Demon asks: Have your kids - or anyone else's - come out with something that provoked extreme laughter, embarrassment, fear or outrage? Tell us your little darlings' memorable sayings. It's like Take a Break's letters page, only with more swearing
( , Thu 23 May 2013, 15:28)
Smudge the Demon asks: Have your kids - or anyone else's - come out with something that provoked extreme laughter, embarrassment, fear or outrage? Tell us your little darlings' memorable sayings. It's like Take a Break's letters page, only with more swearing
( , Thu 23 May 2013, 15:28)
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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.
( , Sat 25 May 2013, 13:04, 3 replies)
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.
( , Sat 25 May 2013, 13:04, 3 replies)
It's Pooflake, everybody!
Look!
For added novelty, this isn't a story where he soils himself. Not literally, anyway.
( , Sat 25 May 2013, 22:10, closed)
Look!
For added novelty, this isn't a story where he soils himself. Not literally, anyway.
( , Sat 25 May 2013, 22:10, closed)
You're just not putting the effort into your lies these days.
*snigger*
( , Thu 30 May 2013, 15:24, closed)
*snigger*
( , Thu 30 May 2013, 15:24, closed)
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