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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, ... 5, 4, 3, 2, 1

This question is now closed.

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)
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)
New Bed Tomorrow Then??
Some moons ago my father was up visiting from knobs-vill with his new wife, well new to him but not new to this world if you get my drift......

Anyways being the nice folks that me and Mrs Matter can occasionally be we had made up the bed in the spare room for ourselves and let them have the "posh" main bedroom, i.e ours.....

Mrs M was showing them around when New Wife said we shouldn't have put the lovely lacy bed linen on as she had stress incontinence!!!!!!

Cue one new mattress after they left....... just in case.........

Well I wasn't going to check..........
(, Thu 6 Sep 2007, 13:43, Reply)
one of my friends is a vet
the rowing club had a ginger kitten that needed his 'biscuits' removed before he started increasing the local kitten population.

my vet friend said it was a simple procedure - no need to go into the surgery - and that he would do the op on the pool table in the club room.

i saw the pics and video in the cambridge branch of pizza express as my american hot arrived.

far far too much information.
(, Thu 6 Sep 2007, 13:43, Reply)
Pubes again
Sorry, it's another story about pubic hair. I seem to be full of such tales at the moment.

Another lass I know was telling me about a new type of Veet - the hair removal cream - which doesn't wash off easily. It's designed so you can put it on and it sort of sets while it does its business, then you can wash it off in the shower after you've washed your hair or whatever, using a special sponge. She had been using some of this.

I had thought it might have been for her legs, but no, it was on her fanny. Anyway, she left it on for too long so by the time she managed to get it off, the residue, comprising something akin to Nitromors paint stripper mixed with dissolved muff-fibres, blocked the drain hole in the shower. It also left her (now bald) minge red raw.

She had an appointment with a doctor (male) for a "down below" reason a couple of days later and she was impressed with his professionalism as he didn't mention it. He was probably too busy trying not to retch.

Apparently the motivation for all this depilation was because she's been doing a lot of swimming and her mate commented that it was better to remove the hair than to look like a burst mattress.

Actually, given first hand reports of this particular orifice from mates who have been there in the past, I'd imagine it would look like a badly-crafted ham sandwich even with the hair removed.
(, Thu 6 Sep 2007, 13:39, Reply)
my mum
sidled up to my ex (while we were still married) and asked if we had any porn she could borrow.

As if that wasn't enough she went onto explain that she wanted to show it to her new boyfiend because he had led a very sheltered life and didn't believe there was anything other than the missionary position. She said he had nearly jumped out of bed when she tried to go down on him.

Actually come to think about it, my ex wife didn't have to tell me. She must have really hated me.
(, Thu 6 Sep 2007, 13:28, Reply)
I was never able to look him in the eye again
In the vein of Enzyme's post below, a work colleague of mine once drunkenly confided in me that she kept a monstrous strap-on under the bed because her (by then, ex-) boyfriend liked to receive as well as give. Which would've been TMI in itself, but was made all the more difficult to process by the fact that said ex-bf was another work colleague, and one that made a great noise about his sexual prowess.

The temptation to bring the subject up in conversation was almost irresistible. But in the end I decided that I'd already had TMI, and more wouldn't have made the mental images any easier to stomach.
(, Thu 6 Sep 2007, 13:15, 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)
Gas Mark 666
When I used to live at home with my twin, he was in the loo doing a poo once. I was outside not far from the open loo window. Faint wafts of feculance enamated from within..
So I shouts very loudly
'Oh my god, it smells like one of Hitler's gas ovens in there!'

Hot summer day with plenty of neighbours in ear shot..
Cue mother clouting me and dragging me inside.
(, Thu 6 Sep 2007, 13:10, Reply)
My best friend, shortly after she'd been diagnosed with Crohn's Disease
Was walking through my parents' kitchen when she stopped to point at a picture I'd painted when I was 8. It was lots of green bottle on a green background, with different shades of green where the bottles overlapped - pretty damn good if I do say so myself.

As she's an artist, I thought she was going to comment on the excellent use of colour, form or perspective. But she simply pointed to one of the green bits and said 'My poo was that colour.'
(, Thu 6 Sep 2007, 13:10, Reply)
Prof HP...
Same applies for farts...if they're on the brew, you can't keep 'em in when you sneeze.

Is that TMI?

(just ask anybody in my office)
(, Thu 6 Sep 2007, 13:09, Reply)
I have something for you that might be too much info
and maybe also some sage advise, but trust me, never ever EVER sneeze while your having a shit, its like having a red hot poker rammed up your bottom.
(, Thu 6 Sep 2007, 13:07, Reply)
pubes...too much info
was travelling in a car with 3 other blokes to yorkshire for a climbing/stag weekend. We was chatting about shit and that. How the hell we got onto pubes i dont know, but one bloke said.

"I have to trim my pubes as I sweat alot!"

After about 20 seconds of silence this other voice said 'Dude, too much information!"

We rolled up, and then forgot all about it, and i dont beleive anyone has mentioned it since. Especially after the amount of brain cells lost to alcohol that weekend.

Length? I guess his pubes are short!
(, Thu 6 Sep 2007, 13:05, Reply)
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)
When the word "strap-on" appears in the first line...
... you know it's promising.

There is a point at all parties when the conversation gets just that little bit random. It had arrived at this point.

The girl whom I'd not previously met and with whom I'd only just got into conversation - but whom I would have liked to get to know a whole lot better - decided that this would be as good a time as any to tell me of how she and her ex liked nothing more than for her to attach a strap-on dildo and give him a good drubbing every now and again.

I decided that, perhaps, I didn't want to know her all that much better after all.

Insert length. Gag here.

Sorry: that should read "Insert length gag here."
(, Thu 6 Sep 2007, 12:58, Reply)
closet dog lover
just last friday night,me and best mate were out celebrating his birthday.Much drinking had been done,and towards the end of the night we went to the last bar of the night where we came across a lad who we both know only vaguely,and started a conversation.
I dont know how the topic arose,but me and mate turned it around to our love for animal sex (which of course neither of us has....well,i know i don't!).
Anyway,lets just say that our long-lost friend gave away slightly too much information on with relationship with his dog.....i'll never look at HIM(or the dog!) the same way again
(, Thu 6 Sep 2007, 12:46, Reply)
restaurant tmi
one of my friends was dining out in a really, really posh restaurant near where i live. the kind where all the waiters are like royalty, and the chef is a deity. anyway, she was pretty young at the time, about 4. She went to the toilet, and being a pretty young and naive child, didn't know how to clean up afterwards. so she did the first sensible thing she could think- she wandered into the packed restaurant, and shouted to her mum that she needed wiping. I'm fairly sure the family was banned from the restaurant afterwards...
(, Thu 6 Sep 2007, 12:43, Reply)
Parental sex
A few months after my step father died my Mother was begining to come to terms with things. In my mind the moment this became clear was when she noted that the previous weekend, before his demise, they had fortunately spent the entire weekend in bed....doing it. I was pleased that that had been the case.... however too much information.
(, Thu 6 Sep 2007, 12:35, 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)
A quotation
from a woman I know, who several years ago had a liaison with a bloke with an unfeasibly large cock.

"He got it out, and it was HUGE. I thought 'that'll never fit me'. But it did!"

I didn't really need to know that, Carol. Especially at the dinner table. In a restaurant.
(, Thu 6 Sep 2007, 12:31, 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)
Daniel Norris - "Have you ever been so constipated you had to dig it out with your finger? I have but I used a spoon"

Me - "Duuuuude no!"
(, Thu 6 Sep 2007, 12:22, Reply)
my sister
sat at the dinner table, and told us about her recent smear test. and how cold the lubrication they used was. and why smear tests are so important, even if you use condoms. because 'spillage happens you know, i've experienced it too many times!'. my sister is not a small girl, and her (now ex) fiance is tall, skinny, and looks like a spent match.

my parents and i are normally not queasy, but we all had to excuse ourselves after this image.

(think i'm off for a quick vomit now)
(, Thu 6 Sep 2007, 12:22, 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)
My mate Smithy
prefers to keep his lower regions tidy by shaving and trimming as appropriate. He told me the following story one night when we were playing at a wedding. During the buffet. In a loud voice. In earshot of most of the guests.

His wife Nicola had been having a bath one night, so he asked her to run him one too when she'd finished. This she did, and in he went. He said that normally when he ran a bath, he'd put in enough water to dip his arse in, have a quick scrub and get out. But Nicola filled the bath right up with hot water and bubbles, so he got in and read a magazine for about an hour before deciding to get out.

I commented at this point that after such soakings one's scrotum would be well relaxed, such that one's balls are close to knee level. He laughed and agreed and said, "Aye, it's just as well too".

Because when he got out, he realised he'd forgotten to shave his pubes, so picked up a pair of Nicola's nail scissors which he found (rounded ends, but turned up at the tip) and started "trimming the sporran". He was having a conversation with her through the door, when suddenly he felt an almighty pain.

"Nicola! Better come in here!"

"What is it?" she said, coming in. "Aaagh - what have you done?"

He looked down and saw a half inch long V-shaped cut ("like a wee fanny" apparently) in his nutsack, which was now spewing blood all over the bathroom.

Nicola was all for getting him to A&E but Smithy would hear none of it, as he was afraid the doctors would take the piss when they found out how he'd done it. (Which they wouldn't have, being professionals, but we certainly did!)

Eventually he put a Band-Aid on it! It leaked blood for three days.

Far too much information, Smithy. And all the wedding guests thought so too!
(, Thu 6 Sep 2007, 12:21, Reply)
not giving a shit
when asked why i was laughing emerging from a foul smelling T in the park toilet cubicle, I explained that due to the fact there was no bog roll i had used a soiled sanitry towel that some bird had left to clean my nether region.

i won that weekend.
(, Thu 6 Sep 2007, 12:11, 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)

“She thinks she might be preggers ‘cos the nodder fell off inside her and squirted all over the shop”

I was told this only hours after I had introduced same mate as in my below post to my cousin from Australia.

Still, she wasn’t the classiest strumpet (runs in the family). Once she’d got over the possible imminent arrival of a mini Furious D (i.e. five minutes later), she proceeded to put a shirt over her head, put her head in his lap, then blow the living gizzards out of the boy in front of about 8 of us. I think even HE was slightly embarrassed at that.
(, Thu 6 Sep 2007, 12:08, 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)
Scrabble on Facebook
Great game, love it. Currently playing with a girl that insists on making her moves [on the board, filthy perverts] and then telling me her life story.

Currently, the breakup of her last relationship.

I played 'lonely'.
(, Thu 6 Sep 2007, 12:05, Reply)

This question is now closed.

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