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This is a question Too much information

Rakky writes "A friend of mine, when quizzed why she was late to the pub, announced 'I was at accident and emergency, having a stuck tampon removed. They had to have a right old dig around for it.' Suffice to say, no one was interested in their Scampi Fries after that."

When have you shared just that little too much?

(, Thu 6 Sep 2007, 10:09)
Pages: Latest, 15, 14, 13, 12, 11, ... 1

This question is now closed.

Ahh, festival bogs
T'was the summer of 1999, and my first ever Leeds Festival was in full swing. It was ace lazing around, watching bands, getting shitted as and when we pleased ... the only thing that left something to be desired were of course the chemical loos. You see, Leeds fest was in it's infancy in those days and the organisers had somewhat underestimated the number of toilets that would be required by the masses of beered-up, stodge-filled youths. Thus when it was wee-wee time it was something of a lottery, opening one door after the other and gingerly having a peek to see if it was any less shitty, pissy or sicky than the others.

On the evening of the third day of festivalness, my mate decided that she needed to make wee, so off she toddled to the now vary fragrant portaloos. A few minutes later she returned, ashen faced. I asked her what the matter was. This is what the matter was:

In the first loo that she tried, she was met by the sight of a mountain of shit, wee-soaked bog roll ("it was like bangers and mash") and a good dousing of sick mostly compromised of baked beans, towering out of the pan by a good foot or so. People must have literally climbed onto either side of the bog seat and added to the mound.

The too much info bit? "There were two bumcheek-shaped prints in it" she mumbled, "someone must have been too pissed to climb up and just sat in it".

Click "I like this" if you never want to be that pissed.
(, Thu 6 Sep 2007, 13:04, Reply)
Too much information about my mum's minge
My mother is a hardcore feminist. Nowt wrong with that - I'm very much a feminist myself. But unfortunately my mother is of the scary-hairy, ball-breaking, man-hating maniac variety.

Mum grew up in a very traditional family who thought that sex was Bad and Evil and Nasty and Wrong, and that her ladyparts were to be ashamed of. On the day her mother first discovered a few spots of blood on her underwear that Mum hadn't even noticed herself, she came home from school to find all the curtains drawn and her mother whispering in shameful tones about "growing up" and "women's problems" and "that time of the month".

So naturally, Mum was determined that I shouldn't have such an awful upbringing, that I should grow up with a happy, healthy attitude to sex and a good relationship with my ladyparts. So far so good. But alas, let's just say the pendulum swung rather too far in the opposite direction.

For as far back as my memory goes, she regularly tried to engage me in conversation about my vagina. She used to tell me all about her sex life at great length and in great detail. She lectured me on the harmlessness of masturbation (It's okay...as long as you wash your hands afterwards). She used to test me on all of this. Seriously, when other kids were learning to read, I was locating the clitoris on a colour-coded diagram. Then when I was fourteen, she packed me off on a week-long orchestral tour with a twelve-pack of condoms. Twelve! If I got that much sex now I'd be very happy, not to mention a bit behind on my work.

But the worst thing she ever did, worse than the masturbation tutorials, worse than inviting me to inspect her labia, was locking the two of us in a tiny toilet cubicle together and making me watch her insert a tampon. She stood up, naked from the waist down, put one pale, heavily-muscled leg up against the wall for easy access and barked a running commentary at me as she shoved a tampon into her bloody vagina, greying pubes glistening, a maniacal, I-am-woman-hear-me-roar expression in her mad, rolling eyes.

I now rebel against her by shaving my legs, wearing sparkly eyeshadow and not forcing small children to look at my vagina.
(, Thu 6 Sep 2007, 15:04, Reply)
I heard something ‘snap’
...in my head when I read some of these posts. It reminded me of another time I had to go through such extraordinary pain and anguish that I spouted every conceivable detail to everybody around me so they could bask in the general hideousness of it all. TMI?, tough turds, matey! Sit your ass down and listen!

Firstly, I am in quiet, jealous awe of people who go to the doctors with ‘non-embarrassing’ ailments: tennis elbow, touch-of-the flu, manic depression, severed limbs and such. With me, one way or another, I always end up having to drop my kex, park something on the quacks desk and watch his jaw drop. But I digress.

One time (not at band camp) I went for a good old ‘Forrest Gump’. Not an unusual occurance I grant you, but when it got to ‘happy wiping time’ there was blood…quite a bit of it. Lummee! I thought…So off I trundle…

Doc: Morning Pooflake, what seems to be the trouble?
Me: There’s blood heaving out of my ringpiece, doc
Doc: Crikey Christmas…You know the drill then,… pants-a-drop, and on you pop.
Me: Oh god almighty, here we go again

Next thing, bent over on one side, curled up hugging my knees I detect the sound of gloves being put on…

(I might like to add at this point that I am NOT gay – not that there’s anything wrong with that, but for all you ‘spot-diagnosis’ folk who think you’ve sussed the end of this story, the reason my dirtbox was bleeding was NOT due to 'too much cock'). Annnnyway, moving on...

This isn't going to be pleasant, I think to myself. I grit my teeth and prepare for the unholy…

YEEEOOOW! In it goes, then a bit further…then pushing harder and deeper. I think his personal goal was to tickle my tonsils from the inside. ‘I hope that’s just his finger’ I thought…(it was, by the way…this actually happened, it’s not the joke about feeling two hands on my shoulders).

Still, he had fingers like King Kong’s big brother.

Suddenly….squelch…and ‘pop’! Out it comes and I try to mentally pat myself on the back for my bravery and dignity, conveniently forgetting the fact that I was still on a doctors’s table in the feotal position with my grots round my ankles. It would all be worth it, I thought, If the quack could come up with a quick and easy medicine-related solution to my problems. Jesus, a tampon would do.

Doc: Other than a mild touch of the 'farmers', I can’t find anything wrong with you Mr Flake
Me: Never mind, you did your best…let’s just forget this ever happened shall we?
Doc: Not on your nelly boyo, you’re going into hospital for more tests
Me: Aw……….shit

So a couple of weeks later, I’m lying on a hospital bed for the preliminary test…which involves another finger….mmmf….then the doc produces what appears to be a big, cold, metal Ice-cream-cone-like thing.

Me: What are you going to do with th……AAAAARRRGGHHH!

Still no results…so they whisk my sorry, shivering cack-chute off to the ‘camera-up-the-jacksie’ department.

Now this is serious stuff…apparently at this point, I need an enema to clear out my weeping guts so when they shove the camera in, they can have a good gander round.

Cue a friendly looking, plump nurse greeting me and closing the curtains round my bed.

Me: please…I’ve got money…..noooo
Nurse: Just curl up into a ball for me, deary.
Me: …whimper…

OOOOOF! Next thing I know, something that felt like a Polaris missile was being shoved, then abandoned, up my poor pitiful poo-pipe.

Minutes tick by…

I suddenly feel an uncontrollable urge…. All I knew was that I didn't have long...

I hoist up my all-in-one back-to-front gown thing with my arse sticking out the back, and tank it to the bogs, which were thankfully not very far away…

With my legs in the air and shaking like a jelly with Alzheimer’s, my arse erupts like Krakatoa. HUUUURRRGGGHHH!

There was just one thin door between this event, it’s resultant noise accompanied by grunts, screams and general blasphemy, and the rest of the ward, listening with increasing concern for my wellbeing.

I stagger out a few minutes later with wobbly legs and all the colour drained from my face. Incredibly, that part was one of the more pleasant experiences of the day.

A few more minutes pass by, and the blubbering mess that is my body is wheeled off to the camera ward.

It seems obvious, but these doctors are not idiots, and subsequently they came up with a top-drawer idea to put my mind off what was about to happen.

They introduced me to a drop-dead-gorgeous young nurse. From what I could gather, her whole job was to 'stand there and look pretty' She rocked at this job.

Suffice to say though, I wasn’t exactly in the mood for idle chit-chat and realised that the chances of me pulling her in this state were slim to fuck-diddly-all. But I’m cataclysmically stupid and so therefore gave it a bash.

“Mmm hello there, have you been a nurse long?” I ask, trying to lie as masculinely on the bed as I could considering my attire and the circumstances, and completely oblivious to the fact that I was being wheeled into another room with monitors etc.

“Oh, not long. Don’t I recognise you from somewhere?” the hottie says, occasionally glancing at the doctors behind me.

“Oh well, It’s very possible, ah-hem. I’m in a very popular local band you know” I modestly reply. I could be getting somewhere here...

“That’s nice, would you mind curling up into a ball for me?” She asks.


Now this camera was definitely NOT one of those tiny little fibre-optic jobs you see on the key-hole surgery programmes. This bastard seemed like an industrial TV job, with seat, hydraulics and cameraman attached.

In fact, for good measure, It felt like they threw in a whole film crew, boom microphones and Ant & Dec to present the show up my quivering turd-tunnel.

And so it went on…and on….and gibbering on….and you know what they found?


In the end, they came to the following conclusion.

When I had the “Brad-Pitt” I mentioned about half an hour ago, it must have been a really big one, that split my rusty bullet-hole a bit, thus resulting in the blood.

So I went through having more things rammed up my heterosexual arse in one day than Kenneth Williams had up his gay arse for the whole of his life…..for that diagnosis.

length? longer and wider as the day went on. In fact, it took about 2 weeks for me to stop walking like John Wayne.
(, Mon 10 Sep 2007, 12:27, Reply)
So I ended up sleeping on a sofa, covered in a strange Spanish man's piss, too tired to even cry. Too tired to even cry.
Long. Scroll down if you like. Mostly it's a waste of time, anyway.

1995. A young Charles Calthrop is in France, living with a fat girl called ****. She wasn't much to look at, to be honest. But then, nor was I, ah, but then, nor was I.

(I once fucked a girl around the back of Woolworths solely because she thought that I looked like the suicidal one out of the Manic Street Preachers. So I was never much to look at either. It doesn't matter.)

As well as ****, I had a girlfriend who was in Spain. I actually think I might have been in love with her. Who am I kidding? Its been more than a decade, and I am STILL in love with her. So three days before her birthday I decided to hitch hike the 800 hundred or miles or so to see her. I didn't telephone her (no email in them days); I decided it would be more romantic to just turn up.

It is difficult to tell which of these two decisions would prove to be the more catastrophic.

Day one started fine. Quite early one morning, after a night of tar-black howling and rolling, I went out of the house and, standing on a slip road outside Marseilles, started to hitchhike my way to my love. (My love. When she smiled, sunlight danced in her eyes and the dizziness from the way my heart span was ecstatic. ) Then, as I started to get bored, the beautiful sight of a car pulling in to stop. Excellent. I don't remember all the lifts and all the stops, but I remember all went well till about mid afternoon, when I dozed off somewhere around Montpellier.

You know when you are asleep in the car and when the engine turns off, it's the absence of noise which wakes you? That was woke me up. That, and the hand that was trying to undo my jeans. Thank goodness for button flies.

That was the end of that lift. I remember after that, - too nervous to light my cigarette - I got picked up by 3 Brazilian lads after, which was good as they drove like lunatics shouting out "Socrates" with me retorting "Bryan Robson" etc. They dropped me off at Pau, where, for reasons which are more complex than I am willing to explain, I ended up locked up in the cells for the night.

Thus started day two. Despite the attempted sexual assault and the arrest, on the whole I was pleased. (I was very young).

I can't remember much of the journey that day, except that it did not go well and by around midnight I ended up in a café near the Pyrenees. I had the fear of the cafe owner, which I think may have been a delayed reaction to the attempted sexual assault, so I kept drinking espressos. I alternated between nearly passing out with exhaustion on the dirty table, and then waking up with juddering, jangly hypertension from the caffeine.

I also started to get nervous because tomorrow was her birthday.

Day three - an Italian truck driver. He spoke Italian and German, and I spoke French (badly) and English. About 2 hours into the journey (after annoying my by sounding his horn at _every_ fly poster with the minitel adverts for trente-six-quinze... on), gave me his magazines to look at. They were hard core Italian transsexual magazines. I'd never even heard of a chick with a dick, so I was genuinely, utterly puzzled. How could something have both breasts, and hairy balls? I didn't want to upset him as he was going past the town I wanted, so I looked at them and went "er yeah" every now and then. He drove me, as dawn broke, through the snow capped Pyrenees, and then down and down Spain until the ground got hot and dusty.

We slept in the cab, and then early next morning, he kindly drove from the motorway into the town to drop me off. We parted. I was very, very tired but happy. Around two hours later I would notice my wallet was missing.

I reached her block of flats in a posh part of ****** and with a joy which makes me shudder to remember, I pressed the buzzer thing. Nothing. Odd. 8.30 am and she's out? I settled down to wait. 10am. Nothing. I felt dozy and drifted off.....to be rudely awakened by an old Spanish posh lawyer type pissing on me. I admit I looked homeless, but there was no need for that. I think he thought I looked like a gypsy. To my shame, I did not fight the man, I just sort of angrily stood up, dodging the thick, steaming, yellow line of piss which had soaked me, shouted angry "Hey's" and "Oi's" at him. I very much doubt whether it intimidated him as I'd hoped. He finished, zipped up fucked off, I settled down to wait...and wait.

She came back at around 5 and the guy she was with was a good looking bastard. She was wearing a pink, print floral dress which the breeze was trying to look up. Her hair was longer than I remembered but the smile was just the same. She was holding on to his arms. He is the type of man which makes other mens' hearts sink. It was the first time I'd ever seen him, and already it was twice too often.

"Didn't you get the letter" she asked. In fact, it was the first thing she said. But I knew - she was more a coward than me. There was no way she'd written. I had no money, so she had to let me in. I had a shower, of course, but all the soap in the bathroom smelt of her, so I couldn't bring myself to use it. I let the water cascade over me, but still to me I stank of the passing Spaniard's piss.

I spent the night on the sofa, still convinced I stank of piss. I was so tired I started getting visuals off the pattern on the throw on the sofa.

Sometimes I was trying not to think of the 800 miles back. Mostly, I was trying not to listen as she came, and came again. Hearing her shout "Oh god I'm going to come again" over and over was far, far more information than I wanted. In my head, as they went to bed earlier, I'd convinced myself they went to listen to the world service. In my head.

I stole 200 pounds worth of Pesetas from her, left at 5am (for some reason I could not sleep), got a coach to the border, then a first class ticket on the train back home. I bought flowers for **** with the rest. Flowers, soap, and johnnies. But when I went into her, all I could hear was that different voice. Hers. Over and over. Sometimes I can still hear it.
(, Thu 6 Sep 2007, 12:10, Reply)
kidney stone
A guy I used to work with had been suffering with a kidney stone for a couple of months - really gave him some agro down his ones side.

One day he came in and started to tell me how he had finally gotten rid of it - I was stupid to ask how. He says the evening before it must have moved and finally blocked his piss pipes. Rang the doctor who told him not to worry, just keep drinking lots of water to help 'ease it along'. He said an hour later he was in tears. Desperate to go but only a mild dribble of bloody urine. Finally he said he could take no more - its the final push lads!

After an initial spurt the flow suddenly stopped abruptly. The stone had got trapped near the end of his old chap. The trouble was there was now about 5 pints of fluid all pressing into his old boy at such force it started expanding...and expanding. He said at the moment it resembled a rugby ball (seriously!) he started screaming at which point his wife came rushing in to see what the problem was. The stone now tore out of the end with a gush of blood and urine, ricocheted off the toilet and whistled past his wifes face. He was left in a ball on the toilet floor sobbing with relief and a now somewhat shrivelled member.
I don't know what my face must have looked like, but I was wincing and sitting cross legged. He then produced a bag and asked if i'd like to see it - I left the room at this point.
(, Thu 6 Sep 2007, 12:22, Reply)
Despite being dyslexic, I still managed to get into the Massachusetts Institute of Technology.

Now that's TMI.
(, Tue 11 Sep 2007, 12:56, Reply)
Thrush cream.
Christ, I have got about a fucking million of these. I used to work in a pharmacy. Many old people seem to see this and think "despite you clearly working here solely for beer money until you finally graduate and get a job where you no longer need to deal with the fucking public, i am going to share with you more than i should as you are vaguely connected to health professionals"

It's my usual sunday shift, im 17, and have a hangover of epic proportion. So in walks an older lady. Easily into her 60s. You know the type: the mouth like a cat's arse from years of smoking, the dyed hair, the make up that looks like it's been applied with a fucking tablespoon and the clothes 16 years out of date and 30 years too young. Nobody needs to see a cleavage like that. It was like somebody had managed to melt a leather sofa down her front. So she makes her way up to the pharmacy counter.

And so begins the inevitable flirting. I am so uncomfortable that my sphincter has tightened to the point you could probably press a diamond in it. I'll fast forward you through the grilling on my private life that this woman thought was clearly more important than whatever healthcare issue she came in with. Finally we get to the point:

woman: well it's a little embarrassing talking to a handsome young man like you about this, but i need something to treat a wee yeast infection i picked up
me: certainly madam, there are a number of options for you: we have oral medication, vaginal suppositories and creams

the thought of this woman cramming a suppository up her frothing, crusty axe-wound was awful in itself. Nothing prepared me for her response.

woman: Hmmm. I'll just take the oral stuff. The creams and whatnot are no good for me - when you get to my age, you'd just have to pick a wrinkle and go for it!

Gross. Just fucking gross.
(, Thu 6 Sep 2007, 20:08, Reply)
Butter the devil you know
I was watching a dvd round at a friend’s house a while back. Her housemate was upstairs enjoying some very vocal love action with her boyfriend. Suddenly, it went quiet. Then there was a rather loud “Ooooooow”. A door slammed and we heard footsteps running down the stairs. She burst into the living room wearing nothing but a towel, ran straight past us into the kitchen. She then ran back out clutching a half full pack of butter, pausing only to say…

“Anal. Ran out of lube…”

…before running back upstairs to carry on.

I have never eaten toast round at my friend’s house since.
(, Thu 6 Sep 2007, 16:59, Reply)
I asked my Dad once what his day
at work was like.

"It was ok; we had to do some tightening repairs on this 50 year old homosexual's anus, because it had become too baggy from repeated sex, and his faeces were falling out."

I was 15.

Cheers Dad.
(, Thu 6 Sep 2007, 10:57, Reply)
Anglo-French carnal relations
Back in my uni days, a few of us (mostly guys but a couple of girls too) were in the local pub for a leisurely afternoon booze-up. We were sat around a table having a good old chat about all kinds of nonsense. One of our gang, Emma, was there. She was fairly quiet but often came out with us, especially since her French boyfriend had arrived a few months ago to live with her, and Emma thought it would be good for her boyfriend, Stephan, to mix with us and practice his English.
Now Stephan was a decent guy at heart, but none of us really "got" him. His English was very poor, and he was a very sensitive guy (in that French way), often appearing sullen and moody. He didn't seem to understand any of our pub banter, and the baudy jokes flew right over his head. He just sat there at the table sulking, head downcast, probably conceiving poetry in his head or something.
Anyway, the conversation turned to anal sex (as it often does). One of our number, a Scouse lad named Stu, exclaimed in his thick Mersey drawl, "I jus' don't understand, like, 'ow a cock can fit up an arse!"
Without raising his eyes from the floor, and in a deadpan, Gallic 'ow-you-say monotone, Stephan calmly muttered the now legendary words: "ask Emma".
The entire table (nay, pub) exploded into incredulous hysterics. We were literally rolling around the floor. In a split second Stephan had transformed himself from moody Frog into comic legend. A grateful smile even crossed his mouth, as he saw that he was finally accepted here as one of the lads.
However, moments later his smile evaporated, as all eyes turned to Emma, the only one not amused even slightly, who was sat there silent, tears in her eyes, her normally pale skin flushed with anger and shame.
Emma got up, and hissed "I can't believe you just told them that", and stormed out of the pub in tears.
That was pretty much the end of their relationship.
(, Sat 8 Sep 2007, 13:04, Reply)
What's the sun made of, dad? It feels hot.
A seemingly simple quesion from my four year old daughter.

Now, I'm an engineer and I'm used to speaking to people all day in a highly concentrated acronym-laden convoluted mess of words and technobabble. So my first thought was to answer -

ah, subatomic fusion of hydrogen nuclei to form helium in a 14 million degree plasma.

Oh. 4 year old. Have to explain fusion.
To explain fusion, have to explain chemical elements.
To explain chemical elements, have to go into subatomic physics.
To explain subatomic physics, have to go into mass/energy equations.
To explain mass/energy conversion, have to engage in laws of physics revolving about mass, pressure,nucleus repulsion and the speed of light.

THEN-To explain how we know all of this, have to refer to the thermonuclear weapons program.
To explain that, have to go into mechanics of isotope separation and enrichment within a centrifuge / neutron cannon environment.
To explain that, have to explain global geopolitical history of the early 20th century.
To explain all of that, have to go into politics, fascism and communisim.
To explain how that could be executed, have to go into tactical military planning, bomber fleets, ICBMs, terrorism and the struggle against the axis evil powers.

And then we have to take into acount why the sun is a (mainly) uniform sphere 93,000,000 miles away. So have to explain gravity, simple harmonic motion, gas density etc.

To explain why it feels hot , have to explain radiation. To explain that, have to explain the theory of electromagnetic wavelengths. To explain that, have to involve use of mathematics to determine frequency versus EM band. And also briging the speed of light, vacuum permeability and electromagnetic wave propagation, wave-versus-particle photon theory as disseminated by quantum mechanics versus Einsteins' general relativity. And then it feels hot because of absorbtion, nerve receptors, chemical nerve conduction, axon interlinkage, cogniscence and resoning.

So either I can say "you'll find out when your older" (like, 14 years later in total) or I can avoid the TMI and say..


at which point she replied, in a disgusted tone of voice "Fire? FIRE!!?? DOH!"

To this day I don't know why the answer gave so much dissatisfaction... maybe she'd bet on the outcome with a schoolmate and realised she had wrongly said 'Fusion plasma brought about by the subatomic combination of hydrogen nuclei into helium and mass-to-energy conversion".
(, Thu 6 Sep 2007, 16:55, Reply)
My mother
decided to tell me not so long ago, that not only would my father only have sex with her up the brown, but he was also gayer than a handbag full of rainbows.

But fear not, to console me over the shattered images of my past, she shared her happiness about her sexual antics with her present husband, and the fact that he whips up so much fanny froth, they have to change the sheets every night.


(, Thu 6 Sep 2007, 16:21, Reply)
TMI? It adds to the experience!
When I was about 15-16, I was starting to dabble in the ways of frolicking with the ladies. However, I hit a snag. As soon as I tried to put 'li'l pooflake' in, it hurt like stinging ming-sticks. I started to believe the stories I had been told about fannies having teeth, but wanting a second opinion, went to see old doctor quack-sawbones.

He decided that, when erect, my diddy-dude was too big for my forskin (is that a yay?) and that I should be circumcised.

I had it done. It fucking killed like nothing on earth. So damned bleeding right I gave everybody I saw waaaaay too much information of every precise detail. And I'm still not finished.

Here for your viewing pleasure, are some of the highlights:

I was improperly anaesthetised and woke up as I was being pushed through the operating doors post-op…with a massive circle of blood round my nether-regions and letting out a cack-curdling scream that would make a banshee sound like Aled Jones singing a lullaby.

The bandage they put on my bell-end was so ineffective that it had fell off before I had returned to my bed. So blood from the open wound and crusty stitches of the relative hatchet job continued to splurge out willy nilly (intended).

A couple of hours later, as the bloodflow was clotting and getting lumpier, the good people from the NHS decided that they needed the bed, but before they could kick me out I had to prove that my tadger wasn’t irreparably damaged. Therefore a very attractive (it had to be didn’t it?) young nurse had to escort me to the bogs and listen to me piss. However, it was the sound of pouring blood hitting the water that convinced her I should be hoofed out on my arse.

I didn’t even have the foresight to pack tight Y-fronts or anything to strap the laddo in place for the lift home as every movement was excruciating to my cock-end. Oh no, baggie boxers for me (and I swear my mum deliberately drove home the bumpy way and insisted on hitting every pothole).

Mmmmf. Bump…mmmf….jesus

We get home, and I am approached by a very excited dog that jumps and makes a beeline for….you guessed it.


Mum: Pooflake, don’t be so rude, he’s just happy to see you.

I went to bed…and stayed there.

Next morning, I awoke to find that the dog had eaten a huge hole and every scrap of blood and god knows what from my discarded undercrackers.

Now is THAT TMI?
(, Thu 6 Sep 2007, 13:57, Reply)
Its when it buries you, you have a problem
Time management has always been a concept that has remained foreign to me. It has eluded me for years, and somehow I feel as though I will never quite grasp it. After all, given the choice between doing an essay that has to be handed in in 2 months, or going out and getting trolleyed, the choice is very simple.
And so, this pattern carried on until two days before said essay needed to be handed in.

SHIT! I thought to myself one lazy Wednesday morning. And so with a new found determination, I started to type furiously. "Its Ok" I thought "as long as I work on it all today, tonight and tomorrow I can get it done in reasonable shape for Friday." As last minute plans go, it wasn't a bad one...that is until my housemates decided that an impromptu house party was in order.

I couldn't believe it. I could have actually killed them. "YOU'RE HAVING A HOUSE PARTY...TONIGHT? I HAVE AN ESSAY TO DO FOR FRIDAY, I DONT HAVE ANY OF THE BOOKS I NEED, AND YOU'RE HAVING A HOUSE PARTY!" It was like they'd planned it to piss me off.

And so, while everyone else was downstairs having a good time, I locked myself in my room trying to ignore the bass vibrating the entire house and attempted to write an essay about something I knew very little. It was no good, I couldn't think. With a steely determination not to have any fun I went to bed with the promise of waking up early and carrying on the next day.

Morning broke. All was quiet. Excellent. I got up and opened the door out onto the landing when I was met with...about 200 text books cascading into my room like an avalanche of epic proportions. Turns out after me shouting at them, my housemates felt a bit guilty and decided to help me out. So they went to the library with everybody from the party with the aim of getting the textbooks I needed. Problem was that despite living with them for two years, nobody could remember what course I was studying, so they just got textbooks spanning as many subjects as they could lay their hands on. All of which were now strewn across my room. And that was when I recieved WAY too much information.

Incredibly, within the carnage that was now my room, in the middle of all the useless shit they'd brought back they had actually managed to get the exact books I needed
(, Fri 7 Sep 2007, 16:27, Reply)
Graduate introduced to the world of investment banking
When I left Uni I immediately started work at an investment bank. In my naivety, I presumed that I would be required to dress, behave and think professionally at all times.

After the induction day, one of our highest-level bosses took all the new grads to a bar and paid for drinks... all night. Despite the free booze, we were all treading carefully around him, owing to his stature within the company.

I plucked up the courage and introduced myself to him very formally, shook his hand with gusto and waited for him to chime in with some sage-like advice as I began my career. He gurgled to me...

"See that pretty blond girl standing over there? I'd like to dig a hole in her with a rusty spoon and fuck it till she dies"

Not quite what I was expecting, but still useful to know.
(, Thu 6 Sep 2007, 12:33, Reply)
Mates, eh?
In a crowded pub beer garden my mate told the story of his first ever lads holiday to Shagaluf. The conversation had already been quite rotten and some of the other patrons were giving us evil eyes. We didn’t care. We were being hilarious and if they didn’t like it they could fuck off. My mate decided to up the ante.

He was sharing a room with a mate, a double bed in fact, and had gone home early because he was knackered. About an hour later he was woken to the sound of his mate entering the room with a very pissed female companion.

“Ere, we can’t do it with your mate there.”
“Don’t worry about him, he’ll sleep through everything.

They proceed to get into bed and rut like horny pigs. She’s moaning and he’s grunting and my mate is trying to shut the whole thing out.

“I’m nearly there.”
“Oi, don’t cum in me.”
“Don’t worry sweet heart.”
“I mean it, don’t fucking cum in me.”
“Your alright sweetheart, I’m… I’m…I’m…”

It’s at this point my mate feels a hot jet up his back. He wasn’t happy.

Cue a lot of disgusted people making a rather noisy exit from the beer garden.
(, Fri 7 Sep 2007, 7:16, Reply)
Women’s directions

Ok so you turn out of your drive right, no, no wait left, no right definitely right. Follow the road until you see a field with cows in it or sometimes a horse that I always think looks really sad, then turn left where there is quite a big tree. Go down that road, I don’t know what it’s called, go along, keep going, through some wiggerly bits and then a straight bit where there is the sweetest little cottage on the left hand side, it’s got this sweet little thatched roof and is covered in wisteria, or is it honeysuckle I can never remember which one was which. Once when I was on holiday I met this guy who seemed to be really nice, he was a waiter and I think his name was Paulo and we were in Spain or Egypt I forget, all these places look the same. Anyway he didn’t really speak any English but told me how beautiful I was and how the stars reflected in my eyes, then he tried to touch my foof and I said “No Paulo that’s wrong I’m only 13” anyway there was some honeysuckle there that night.

So yeah go past the cottage and you get to a roundabout and you need to get off at the exit that everyone else goes down. Follow that road until you see a wedding shop with the beautiful dresses, there was this one once that was all silky and had pearls on it, that’s the kind I want when I get married, maybe I’ll give Paulo a call hmmm…… anyway turned left at the traffic lights its signposted London or Bristol I can’t remember then I am a little bit up on the left, how far? About the same time it takes to whisk egg whites into stiff little peaks. Cool can’t wait to see you! Oh you’re coming from that direction ok let me think…….

That was too much information, the correct answer was right on B3342, left onto A456, right onto high street left at first traffic lights and the house is 500 yards on the left.
(, Fri 7 Sep 2007, 11:18, Reply)
There isn't enough mind bleach in the world...
Last time Mother Vorlon came to visit me, she bought along her newfangled digital camera in order to show me the pictures of her and my Dad's recent holiday (she hasn't yet mastered the technology to the extent that she can upload and email her pics). Anyway, fed up at her holding the camera at an angle where I couldn't see the screen and scrolling through the images at the pace of an arthritic tortoise, I grabbed the thing and started to flick though myself.

"No! Stop!" she cries.

"Eh, what?" quoth I, confusedly. At which point she uttered the words that will be forever seared into my synapses:

"There's some pictures your Dad took on there, of, um... me...." *meaningful look*

So I did what any mature adult would do in my position. I hurled the camera into the depths of the sofa, clamped my hands over my ears and let out a scream like that of a traumatized manatee. (Actually, i have no idea what that sounds like, so maybe I didn't.) A minute later, when I could bring myself to look at the foul slattern again, she had a strange expression on her face. She looked... offended...

"They're not that bad, " she said, "I've lost weight."

Cue repeat hands/ears/screaming drill.

No apologies for length, my Dad wasn't in the pictures. Well she didn't say he was. God, I hope he wasn't... burning pain in brain... aaaargh!
(, Thu 6 Sep 2007, 13:12, Reply)
I tend to take conversations a little too far at times.

A few years ago now during a slow day at work.

I was on the phone sorting out a problem with my (home) broadband by calling the company's helpline. I had a manager who was one of those sarky, 'I have no life outside of work' types who have to have the last word on anything.

Me: "Grand stuff. They said they'll have the problem sorted by this evening."

Her: "(Sneers) So you can continue downloading your porn then? (Basks in sycophantic titters from the usual suspects)

Me: "Of course. Why else do you think I got it in the first place? I can't do it at work can I?

All: (Awkward silence)

Me: "Not to worry, I don't denigrate women or anything...... It's child porn"

All: "Eeew."
(, Thu 6 Sep 2007, 11:54, Reply)
Brace yourselves, people.
Since winning Qatar footballer of the year, Khalfan Ibrahim is constantly all over their televisions, radios, newspapers and advertising boards, endorsing a seemingly never-ending stream of products.

I definitely think it’s a case of too much ‘in-form-Asian’?

What? Apeloverage doesn’t have the monopoly on this kind of shite, you know.

I’m sorry….so really, really sorry. It will NEVER happen again. I’m just very very bored.

Then again...If you click 'I like this', it might force the odd-punnaging one to 'up his game'
(, Thu 6 Sep 2007, 14:36, Reply)
I still cringe...
Twas summer. I spent most of my days hanging out at the open air pool in Scarborough, (I know..)drinking beer chilled in the fountains, and rubbing in Hawaian Tropic.. When it came to pass that out of the changing rooms came a girl I had done the dirty with the night before... The walk from the changing rooms to the sunny side of the pool was a long one, and the time she took to walk around the edge of the pool was time I used to good effect - boosting my sex god credentials by telling my friends every detail of the dirty, filthy evening thet had gone before... As she approached, I basked in the approval of my peers. Closer ... and I voiced the opinion that she was obviously up for some more Ott3r lovin.... As she laid out her towel immediaely behind me I heard her utter the words that I'll never forget.

"Hi Mum, Hi Dad..."

The silence that followed haunts me still.
(, Sun 9 Sep 2007, 0:33, Reply)
An eye for an eye...
My gran’s dear departed sister, Annie, was a lovely woman. Mad as cheese, but sweet and kind and tough as old boots. By the time she reached the age of 85, she’d survived breast cancer, cervical cancer, pneumonia, and she’d gone totally blind. The reason for her blindness was her refusal to have her cataracts treated. She was a bit old-school and didn’t like going to the doctors, so she left it until it was too late.
She ended up in hospital, shortly before she died; her son, my mum’s cousin, came round for lunch to tell us that she wasn’t too good physically, but mentally she was in good spirits. But he warned us that should we decide to go see her, we should be prepared that there had been some, well, complications pertaining to her blindness. Ed, mum’s cousin, is nothing if not generous with detail (we’d already been treated to the problems his wife had been having with her chest drain after breast reconstruction surgery), so I should have known…

It seemed that because she’d not had her cataracts removed, an infection had built up behind her eye. This, in the way that infections do, had built up pus and bacterial detritus over a period of time, which hadn’t been spotted. Ed told us he’d turned up for visiting as usual to find that there was a bit of commotion going on and they wouldn’t let him see her. Eventually when they let him in, she had a patch over her right eye. He asked what had happened. It turned out that the pressure due to the build up of pus behind her eye had got so great that her eye had, literally, exploded. The nurse had come in to find the remnants of Annie’s eye ball hanging halfway down her cheek by her occular nerve.

It was at this point that I put down the cherry tomato that I had been eating and went to be quietly sick in the bathroom.
(, Thu 6 Sep 2007, 14:01, Reply)
Nice to hear that you have a friend with the same first name as me!

Anyway, your post (and reallywittyname's) reminded me of something I recently heard (and briefly saw) whilst using a communal bathroom at a campsite the other day. There was a boy aged about 3 sat on a lavvy with the door open and his dad keeping watch.

Boy: Uuuurghh....urggghhhh...hurrrrgh
Dad: You alright son?
Boy: It's stuck.
Dad: Keep straining, son.
Boy: Dad, I've got POOSWEAT!

I had to tank it out of there. I will never be able to strain over a tricky Richard III again without thinking of that phrase
(, Thu 6 Sep 2007, 12:23, Reply)
Po ho ho
At the age of 3, daughter proudly emerged from the bog to tell me she'd done a poo shaped like Santa.
(, Tue 11 Sep 2007, 8:29, Reply)
ingrown hairs
i convinced my ex to shave off his pubic hair because i was sick of gagging from getting it in my mouth when i was giving him head, which he got on an almost daily basis

only problem with this (the hair removal, not the daily blowjobs) was the fact that he'd get horrible ingrown hairs that i'd pull out for him... they were always huge ones where heaps of pus would follow... we would do this on a nightly basis.. along with me squeezing all of his bacne (that's back acne for the uninitiated) and have him cheering whenever we'd get a particularly large amount of pus out of them.

I also used to lick his asshole during some sexual activities and he loved it. He would always lose a lot of precum when i did it, and then blow really hard when he came.

Thinking of both of these things makes me gag now, so if i have to feel nauseous because of it, so can all of you!

click this if you think i'm a bitch
(, Sat 8 Sep 2007, 10:30, Reply)
Close friends
My best friend, Poo (as that is the name i call her), are very close. Close enough to talk about intimate details with each other. We had farting competitions when we went away on holiday. We've discussed the intricacies of our favourite sexual positions (complete with crotch movements). Back when Poo and I were school mates, she left a large, brightly coloured note pinned to my locker. "Hey Chicken, I've gone home for the day because my ovaries exploded."

Unfortunately we have a habit of having such conversations in public and not realising until it's too late.

Once in McDonalds, our conversation turned to our bowel movements, like it often does. We are both lactose intolerant.

Me: It's so embarrassing when it happens at my boyfriend's house. His house has really thin walls and I'm afraid his whle family will hear my trumpeting bum.

Poo: That reminds me of when I was at Alexis's house once. I drank a lovely glass of milk, right, and half an hour later I had to run to their bathroom. I was so embarassed, it was right next to their kitchen! So I tried not to be noisy, but you know how the more you try not to let it out, the worse it is? It was one of those crying poos, you know.

Me: Crying poos?

Poo: You know when your poos actually hurt? And you're like "Boo hoo hoo... *splurt*...wahh, wahhh *plop*"...

At this point, we heard a chair scrape loudly as the woman behind us stood up and walked away briskly, pissing herself laughing. TMI? Maybe for her, but not for us!

Apologies for length, but it IS my first post.
(, Thu 6 Sep 2007, 12:07, Reply)
(, Thu 6 Sep 2007, 11:34, Reply)
Subjects of your affection
"My ex-boyfriend had the biggest cock i've ever seen."

Right. Before. Entry.

TMI? I thought as much.
(, Thu 6 Sep 2007, 11:31, Reply)
Once worked with this guy we thought was gay
He had never official come out though. Everytime the conversation had headed that way he laughed it off and changed subject. We were all staying in a hotel in Manchester, he had vanished for the night and the rest of us spent the night drinking and playing on playstation. Next morning he missed breakfast and we were all sitting in the car waiting to go and no sign of him, someone called him and he said he was on the way, jokingly the person that called him said he sounded out of breath and was probably on the job. 5 minutes later he came running out and got in the car, we had moved about 10 feet when he said in an awkward voice stop. We asked him what was up and he said

"Sorry guys got to go change my pants, my arse is dripping cum and its rather unpleasent"

Not the way I would imagine most people coming out of the closet
(, Wed 12 Sep 2007, 12:54, Reply)
I am currently working in Amsterdam - city of sin - and I am confident that I am the only member of our party to get his cock sucked last night.

Alas, it was four o'clock in the morning, when I awoke in my hotel room to a mind-bending itch in my trouser department, to find a mosquito parked on my bell-end, contemplating sloppy seconds.

I beat the slag to death with a book, and there was blood everywhere. Mine, mostly.

Oh God, how it itches.
(, Sat 8 Sep 2007, 10:54, Reply)

This question is now closed.

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