
It's been nearly six years since we last asked about your worst vomit, so:
Tell us tales of what went in, what came out and where it all went after that.
( , Thu 7 Jan 2010, 17:02)
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I met a footballer. A famous one and that. He played for a big team and all; ah yes, a totally gold-dug pints of beer out of him all night long. Oh hot stuff, I’d like a tall glass of your best pilsner, I slurred, doing my best to keep the ale chuffs confined to my inner bottom.
Come the end of the night, what’s a girl to do? Perhaps I might give him my telephone number, provided I could remember what numbers were. It would be much too tacky and dirty to sleep with him, yes. But he remembered my name! We’re laughing! He touched my thigh, lingered and didn’t make the crotch jump! Oh, this is serious – all the signs were there for a proper date. And I did it all while being ginger! My mind was agog, so telephone number it was. Flirty smile, flip of the ginge, he leans in, I regain my balance, lick the tip of my pen, blaaaAAaAaArghsplat.
I coulda been a WAG, dear readers. A misanthropic beer-swilling belchy WAG who knows Perl, yes, but a WAG.*
I was a student studying the dark art of poverty – I’d have accepted free beer from your creepy moustachioed uncle and likely sicked up all down my tits much the same.
*Wonderfully Angry Ginger
( , Fri 8 Jan 2010, 15:40, 8 replies)

As a female member of B3ta, I neglected to mention my giant funbags.
Huge, they are. You'd like them.*
*If they existed.
( , Fri 8 Jan 2010, 16:00, closed)

So as to maximise clickage.
( , Fri 8 Jan 2010, 16:49, closed)

this is still not my favourite story of yours concerning the involuntary expulsion of liquids from your body.
( , Fri 8 Jan 2010, 16:17, closed)
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