cigarette rolling machine error
In the simplest of rolling machines, I used to think you put the rizla paper in first, then the tobacco, then roll. I was actually corrected by a 90's Victor Lewis-Smith TV show (can't remember which one) that had an old black and white demonstration of the paper being rolled into the machine like a typewriter after the baccy had been loaded and the machine closed.
(five5v, Fri 16 Jul 2010, 17:30, 5 replies)

I was at least 9 when I found out that
there are more people than names. My name is Dominic, and I was at least 10 or 11 when I met anyone also called Dominic, and because of that, I somehow managed to convince myself that there was only one person with each name.

My mum's friend Tim, well, he was skinny with black hair, and since I had just watched 'Annie', he was definitely Tim Curry. My dad's boss had curly hair and was called Brian, so I wondered why Queen's guitarist had taken over a gas showroom. Sometimes the reality was staring me in the face, but it still never occurred to me that this wasn't the case, even when I was introduced to one of my dad's schoolfriends called Lenny, and I asked why he wasn't tall and black, like the Dudley funnyman.
(bobman500 enjoys a grope as much as the next fella, Fri 16 Jul 2010, 17:27, Reply)

I received technical advice from a mate of mine once
about my custom Marshall stack amplifier

What the fuck does he know? These go to ELEVEN
(Darth Foxtrot A one-man army dedicated to making fetch happen, Fri 16 Jul 2010, 16:21, 7 replies)

Just remembered another one
One of my friends used to bring her lunch in to work with her every day; usually a sandwich, a yogurt, and a couple of slices of melon.
One week, she mentioned a few times that she'd purchased a particularly shit melon, which was tasteless and not very juicy.
On about the Thursday, she came in to work and told us she'd discovered why her melon wasn't very nice: it was in fact a pumpkin :D
(Professor Kenny Martin Hmm? What?, Fri 16 Jul 2010, 16:20, 5 replies)

How to measure the size of a banner ad
Back in the days when the internet was still something of a novelty I took the plunge and joined the sales team of a prominent publisher, selling the banner ads on that new fangled web thingy.

It was a fun job but most days were spent trying to educate marketing dinosaurs on the benefits of online advertising to the point where they started to consider us as experts in the field, regularly asking our advice on how best to invest their budget. If you've ever worked in sales, you'll know that reaching this position with your customers is something of the holy grail.

This well-deserved reputation was fatally wounded the day we hired a new executive. I'd like to say she was hired due to her experience and expertise, but in reality she was (as a ex-boss of mine used to say) one for the troops, not for the books. For the sake of this post we'll call her Laura.

Laura was a bit of a looker, but clearly not that bright. The powers that be however decided she was immediately ready to start liaising with some of our key clients.

We kept a close eye on her, hoping she wouldn't do anything to embarrass the team and destroy our reputation.

Things seemed to be going fine, until two odd things started happening.

Firstly, all of her clients starting sending in banner ads of the wrong size and specification. Secondly, Laura could often be found holding a ruler up to her monitor...

*facepalm*
(BinDipper, Fri 16 Jul 2010, 16:18, 9 replies)

When I was a but a wee lad
before I discovered the joys of Lady Palm et al, I found that when I rubbed stuff against my crotch it was rather pleasant. Then followed a few months of me scratching my balls rather firmly and slowly, with a full-handed method. Then came the joyous day when I discovered that if, rather than rubbing something small against myself, I rubbed myself against something big, it was even better.

There then followed a period of, ooooh, a year or so? Maybe? I'd like to say less but in all honestly might have more. Anyway, of me getting my jollies by humping stuff. Mostly my bed and pillow, but it wasn't an exclusive relationship. At the time I thought I was being rather stealthy, but in retrospect I cringe at it. My bed was hardly silent and the walls weren't that thick. Plus of course once jollies were had, there was nowhere for said jollies to go other than my pants. Which then went into the laundry basket. That was then put into the washing machine. By my mum.

Oddly she's never mentioned it. What a fun conversation that would be for all concerned. So, remember when you went round humping everything and anything like a randy nympho chimp and spunking straight into your pants? Ah yes, good times. Remember washing those crusty abominations?

Unfortunately it's all true, but I can't help but feel this tale would have been better related by SpankyHanky. Entertaining lies are much better than shameful truth. Particularly if it's my shame.
( kappynitty doubled your entendre on, Fri 16 Jul 2010, 16:14, 2 replies)

Melons!
Apparently your not meant to eat the skin but I really quite like it, gives you more of an oral workout than an apple so maybe you should start to eat it to....pansies

P.S. I keep getting told that writing on the back of my hand will give me ink poisoning, ten years on and I don't bleed the stuff and my wangle hasn't turned into a BIC biro, I think my point is proven.
(Dragonpity, Fri 16 Jul 2010, 16:02, 5 replies)

I am the deliverer of "You're doing it wrong" moments
I work as IT support in a school.

As the end of the school year approaches the teachers can no longer be arsed to do a lesson and have decided to shut the kids up with a film instead. I inevetably get called out to these lessons with with desperate cry of "The sound isn't wokring!" After a quick bet in my office, away I go.

I enter the room full of pupil disorder and encounter a teacher who is more wild about the eyes than normal. They stutter out their desperation at having no sound, turning to me as their savior. In response I calmly walk over to the speaker control unit, the one next to the sign saying "For audio please make sure this is set to channel 1."

Guess which channel I set the speakers to?

At least once a day for the past 2 weeks.
( Crap Little Monkey Deathstar, so good they built it twice, Fri 16 Jul 2010, 15:57, 2 replies)

I'm still doing it wrong....
There is something that I have always wanted to do, and tried on many occasions, but just seem utterly incapable of achieving. And that, boys and girls, is to get stoned.

From the first few furtive puffs on an incredibly poorly-rolled, mostly baccy joint at house parties in my teens (although in retrospect that was probably cos it was grass, or moss, or friggin' coriander for all I knew) through to lying on carribean beaches smoking with crack-addicted rastas, I just seem totally unable to get high.

I've been told that it's cos I don't inhale properly. How exactly I have managed to survive my quarter-century on this earth without expiring of asphyxiation I'm not quite sure, but somehow whenever there is THC in my inhalations my throat comes over all puritan and screams "Nay! We shall not suffer such impurities about our persons! Begone foul bringer of mellowness and munchies!".

I'm not that fussed about it, though it does seem fun, and it's always a bit weird when I'm at a friends place and there's a spliff doing the rounds and I'm the only person who declines. I used to partake and pretend a bit but I can't be arsed now. Plus I tend to bum it.

The thing that really bugs me is that everyone else seems to be able to do it. I see chavs on the street who can barely string together a sentence who seem to manage! Hmmm, although we may be into a chicken/egg thing here. Anyway, it's not the not being able to get high that bugs me so much as not being able to do something that for the rest of the world seems as easy and natural as wiping ones arse.

Hmmmm, not sure whether to round off with a length gag or a MASSIVE DRUGS!!11! On reflection, I think I'll go with a pre-emptive Fuck you AB! :P
( kappynitty doubled your entendre on, Fri 16 Jul 2010, 15:54, 12 replies)

K2K6 reminds me...
Years back I was at a family do in one of the local village halls. Having quaffed a fair bit of ale, the call of nature took hold and I nipped off to the gents. Just as I was about to release the flow, Uncle Ted (actually my ex mother in law's uncle, but everyone called him Uncle ted anyway) stepped up to the plate beside me, as it were, and began chatting to me about what a great night this was and how much he was enjoying the party.

Talking and pissing at the same time didn't seem to be part of Uncle Ted's repertoire, unfortunately, as I became acutely aware of a rhythmic yet powerful drumming on my right foot, accompanied by a slight dampness creeping up the corresponding leg of my trousers. I didn't dare look down for fear of catching sight of what I knew would be his knob pointing lazily in the direction of my legs instead of the trough as uncle Ted looked sideways at me, still in jolly conversation mode, instead of concentrating on the job in hand. Quite why I didn't simply shuffle along a few inches I don't know; paralysed with incredulity, I should think.

I really wish I'd gone to that party in my customary black Docs and black jeans. Quite why I was possessed to wear a pair of burgundy coloured boots and cream coloured pants I'll never know, but I spent the next hour sat with my legs and feet hidden under a table until I dried out, as my ex and her mum ripped the Michael out of me for having had Uncle Ted piss all over me.
( Davros' Granddad a voice of calm reason in a world of spastics., Fri 16 Jul 2010, 15:44, 8 replies)

Back when I worked in London...
A lady phoned one day and asked me if we had a West End office.

"No" I replied, but we have one in Central London (which was in fact not only the office I was in, but also our ONLY office)

"Ooh, can I have the number of that one then please?" asked she

"Certainly" replied I, giving her the number (completely failing to realise that it was the number she'd already rung)

"Thank you!" she cheerily responded (completely failing to realise that it was the number she'd already rung)

I so wish it had been me who answered the phone when she called back. That wouldn't have been awkward at all!
(Professor Kenny Martin Hmm? What?, Fri 16 Jul 2010, 15:42, Reply)

In search of the mighty mighty orgasm
If you were to gauge an opinion on my sexual prowess to all the lucky ladies I have been with, the one word that will come up often is energetic. There is a reason for this. So sit back, pour a drink, light your pipe and prepare to be amazed by my blind stupidity with a touch forced ignorance.

In a previous QOTW (http://www.b3ta.com/questions/childishthings/post524490) I recanted my school days and how much they stunted my social interaction skills. If you can’t be bothered to read that post I’ll explain quickly: I went to an all boy’s catholic boarding school in the middle of the English countryside (yes, bumming was a plenty amongst the more light footed members of the clergy and unsuspecting choir boys). I cannot begin to explain how laughable the sex education was at this school. An example of this is when I raised the point of contraception use with your hepatitis-infected wife, basically we were told to dive in like a retard with wet fingers to a live plug socket. So, we learned the square root of fuck all when it came to women and sex. On the upside though if you were in the choir you learned a lot about buggery.

Roll on many years, I leave at 16 and stumble off to college were I meet a new breed of human being, girls. Confused is a term that is used to lightly in our society these days; I was fucking bamboozled by their forthcoming nature and their need to be so close. The wanking around this time was of an Olympic standard and I was just struggling to deal with girls sitting next to me in class without having to run off to the bogs to knock one out like a rabid masturbator. This level of hardcore self abuse and shyness continues for at least 2 years (yes, I was still a virgin) until I meet Helen. My oh my was out to impress, she was very pretty, long thick hair and massive tits. The dates were the usual collection of teenage fuck ups and ill-advised tit fumblings in the dark, but she stuck around. I should point out at this point that during my time at college I had gotten involved with a bunch of class A nutters who enjoyed marathon cycling, 24 hours plus in one sitting. As you could imagine I was quite skinny and full of energy.

So after some false stars in the bedroom I eventually popped my cherry with her. This sexual conquest continued for some time until these odd emotional feelings started crossing my mind, for some reason I wanted to spend every fucking waking hour with her. The next logical step for me was to get her pregnant. Fucking Genius I’m sure you’ll agree, get her up the duff and she’ll be mine forever. This is the attitude of people who kidnap women and hide them in a man made basement for 20 years.

Due to my ignorance and lack of education I was blissfully unaware that she was on the pill. I had never heard of the pill before and I was slightly surprised that she allowed me to “swim without a snorkel”, but I loved it. I was also aware that I had not made her orgasm yet. This is the mental bit, I someone attributed her lack of pregnancy due to the fact she had not orgasmed yet. Hells bollocking bells, I out to ride this horse through the valley of minge, over the mountains of clit and circumnavigate the woods of gash. Thankfully, the Internet has just started taking off and it was the perfect reference library for the undiluted perverts of my generation. So I studied hard, looked up all the techniques and in a short time I was ready to attempt my “attack run”. I will not pass on the details but needless to say, I went at it like a mad man and thanks to fingering techniques that can only be attributed to continually trying Zangief’s spinning pile driver move on street fighter, I was able to make her come just before I did. My work was done. In the post sex conversation we talked endlessly about how much we loved each other while listening to champagne supernova and I said these immortal words:

“I suppose there is a chance you may be pregnant now”
Her:
“how did you work that one out?”
Me, stuttering like a Parkinsonis victim:
“Well, you come ”
Her:
“hahahahahahahahahahahaha”

This laughter continued until I was completely embarrassed beyond the pale. She then gave me the patronising sex education I should have gotten at school, she admired my enthusiasm and energy. This relationship did come to an end but we are still good friends and she often tells people about my lack of education which usually brings laughter and often a few ahhhhhs. Fuck it though, I’m now a sex god of hell fire and I bring you….. length
(CaptainCuntyBollocks the man who can with a frying pan full of lamb, Fri 16 Jul 2010, 15:17, 1 reply)

A slight drawback
Men, you know how when you go for a piss, you get the wee man out, pull back your foreskin, aim, and then commence the flow?

Well, when I was younger my aim was frequently well off. I'd squirt streams of piss over the top of the toilet bowl and sometimes even dribble onto the floor.

But then I discovered I'd been doing it wrong. I hadn't been pulling my foreskin back, which meant that I was pissing out of a floppy fold of skin, which was diverting the flow in random directions.

The only thing is, I was well into my 20s until I discovered this. I would blame my dad for not teaching my properly when I was an infant, but I can distinctly remember being a wee lad and watching him pee, and my commenting on him 'putting his willy's jacket on again'.

As a result of my relatively new-found knowledge, I have improved my accuracy significantly.
( K2k6 has a proper job these days, Fri 16 Jul 2010, 15:08, 21 replies)

I Rang Directory Enquiries...
A miserable Scottish call-centre donkey answered.

'Name?' she asked.

'Um, IChewCandlewax.' I said.

'Address?'

'1 Bengal road...'

At this point sheer the number of collapsing red-faced office colleagues alerted me to my error. Too embarrassed to own up to the phone-donkey, I sheepishly continued to try find out my own home phone number. Then I hung up.

My boss called me a Spazz and threw a used teabag at me.
(IChewCandlewax, Fri 16 Jul 2010, 14:55, 4 replies)

I'm obviously doing something wrong
Barely a week (sometimes a day) goes by without some helpful chap of far Eastern persuasion called Bob ringing me and helpfully telling me how he can help me write off my debts thanks to some spanking new Government initiative. Each time I politely, but firmly, tell him that my debts are relatively small, of my own choice, and perfectly manageable thank you very much; and besides I have no interest in declaring myself bankrupt.

And yet still, he keeps calling. Despite the one time that Sweary Jr answered the 'phone and wouldn't let Bob get a word in edgeways for 20 minutes as he spouted random shite down the line at the poor, unsuspecting call centre monkey. I imagine Bob cowering in his seat, trying to get a word in as he was bombarded with a stream of 14 year old guff about guitars and chocolate and video games until Bob finally hung up... then rang back two minutes later, only to be treated to the same aural assault by SJ, who was by now really getting into his stride and subjected him to another ten minutes of verbal overload before he hung up again.

The other day, Bob got the missus this time, and she asked to speak to their supervisor to politely request that Bob stops ringing us as we are not interested in financially cunting ourselves in the fuck for the sake of writing off a few grand's worth of perfectly manageable debt. Supervisor agreed that they will stop calling us from now on since we clearly do not want their services. Yay. Message has finally sunk in...

A few minutes ago the telephone rang, and sure enough, it's Bob again. There is obviously some sort of communications breakdown somewhere along the line because I don't seem to be able to make myself understood at all.

Perhaps he can't understand my accent? I speak with a hint of Geordie, a soft lilt compared to some others but it's there all the same. Maybe that's it? Next time Bob rings I'll answer him in a Brummie, or Irish, or Scots accent; maybe all three. I'm getting desperate so I'll try anything to try and make him understand that bankruptcy and IVAs are not, and never will be, part of my grand scheme in life.

Or perhaps I should simply tell him to fuck off?
( Davros' Granddad a voice of calm reason in a world of spastics., Fri 16 Jul 2010, 14:40, 13 replies)

It's all my own fault...
so I've got an iPhone 4 with no signal.... clearly that's because I'm holding it wrong (i.e. using my fucking hands!!)

fuck you Steve Jobs!! if I was a thalidomide or Jeremy Beadle, I might be able to get a fucking signal would I???? no... because some fruit-obsessed nutter devised a phone which is held together by conductive materials which bridge a gap between the antennae, but no-one thought this might be a problem with reducing the operations of the device!

and you call yourselves a technology company!
(Anne Frank started to build a loft conversion on, Fri 16 Jul 2010, 14:39, 7 replies)

Lightly baste your pea with duck fat, turning every so often until cooked through.
Emacs, the god of all text editors, comes with this plugin caled "Dr. Fill". You talk to it and it attempts to psychoanalyze you, with predictable results.

The following is the result of a combination of puerile infantilism and cold logic (the program talks, then TT, and so forth):

I am the psychotherapist. Please, describe your problems. Each time
you are finished talking, type RET twice.
-hi. my bumhole hurts
Maybe you should consult a medical doctor; I am a psychotherapist. .
-no, the bumhole in my forehead
Why do you say the bumhole in your forehead?
-cos it hurts
Perhaps you should consult a medical doctor; I am a psychotherapist.
-ok, changing the subject: im emo
Is it because of your plans that you say you are emo?
-what plans
Maybe your life have something to do with this.
-check your grammar
What makes you believe check my grammar?
-your balls, is what
Can you elaborate on that?
-testicles
I would appreciate it if you would continue.
-my testicles are swinging
Is it because of the people you hang around with that you say your
testicles are swinging?
-yes. they jiggle my balls and make them swing
Is it because of problems at school that you are going through all
this?
-yes. my friends at school also used to thump my balls around. it made
fapping a bit difficult
Tell me about your school.
-we used to fap a lot. oh, and jiggle each others' testicles
Are you sure that that?
-yes, i am sure that that
Go on, don't be afraid.
-i am thinking that you are a dirty old man and need to be sterilised
Is it because I am a dirty old man and need to be sterilised that you
came to me?
-yes. i want you to stroke my bumhole and stop it from hurting because
you are a dirty old man
Does it bother you that I am a dirty old man?
-not at all. i love it. it means that you will jiggle my balls and
stroke my bumhole
When did you first know that I will jiggle your balls and stroke your
bumhole?
-when you pooed on my forehead. that's normally a good indicator
What do you think?
-it was tasty
Earlier you said I am a dirty old man and need to be sterilised?
-yes. the argument stands
How do you reconcile any hobbies you have?
-by sticking my cock in them. normally, cake is involved
Are you afraid of sex?
-no. only sex with chips. the oil makes my shlong blister
Talk about something about your sexual history.
-this one time, i fucked a plate of chips and got blisters on my wang,
it made screwing the rubber giraffe impossible for a few days
Perhaps you could discuss your sex life...
-i take my pleasure from foodstuffs, rubber animals and pictures of
janet jackson with a dong photoshopped onto her forehead. also, i love
it when dirty old men poo on me
What happened when dirty old men poo on you?
-i jizzed on their faces
Do you really think you jizzed on their faces?
-yes. the white streaks of spaff were fairly telling evidence
You mentioned that I am a dirty old man?
-yes. you are.
Perhaps this has something to do with your sex life?
-we've already covered this...
Is it because of hangups you have that you say we've already covered
this?
-yes
I see... Well, what makes you think this is so?
-goodbye. you've been supremely unhelpful
My secretary will send you a bill.
-fuck her. i pooed on her face.
/cock
EDITED for line breaks...
(Tiktock Beating off flamers with a shitty stick, Fri 16 Jul 2010, 14:21, 2 replies)

Call of Duty
I only play hardcore, and I'm very patriotic. I log out if I'm not american and find another game.
After finding a game where I am an american, I shoot everyone I see.
Everyone yells at me and says I'm fucking up their game, but they do want a realistic look at how war is right?

Be glad I'm not French or you'd lose if you play with me.
(CactusZack Shaved his coin purse on, Fri 16 Jul 2010, 14:17, 4 replies)

Instrument of Torture
My infant school was leaky, crumbling and lacking in equipment - but one thing it did have was a trolley contraption filled with various musical instruments. Every so often, we'd have a music lesson, and this basically involved our being released on these instruments and making a din.

Maybe I was slow-moving that day and all the interesting instruments had been bagged, or maybe it was allocated to me, but on one occasion I ended up with a triangle... and was subsequently told that I was playing it wrong.

Puzzled, I altered my grip a little, and tried again. I was still doing it wrong. This happened a couple of times; and, with each repetition, I became more and more perplexed, and my teacher became more and more exasperated.

I'm willing to guess that my teacher's exasperation evaporated long ago; to be frank, she's probably long dead. But my perplexity lingers. I never did figure out how I was playing the triangle wrong, nor how I could play it any better.

But I never played it again.
( Enzyme is powered by sunlight, Fri 16 Jul 2010, 14:05, 6 replies)

juice and weeds
I once took out the orange juice from the fridge, took the lid off it and then shook it!! very sticky mess!

another time i wanted to know if a plant growing in my garden was a weed, so I asked my BF at the time to "enter in" weeds in the gardening book he was holding... then remembered BOOKS ARE NOT GOOGLE!

I also must stop throwing cutlery in the bin or leaving them in the fridge! very annoying!
(piggietress, Fri 16 Jul 2010, 14:04, 2 replies)

ZOMBIE HEAD
Having never had a period or given birth I couldn’t honestly tell you how that feels.

But I do know that if you happen to own a cock then you know a thing or two about pain. Take the hardest bastard in the world, the type of burly uber-man who shits bullets and eats babies for breakfast while sharpening his teeth to points on a rusty hacksaw and kick him squarely in the happy sacks. He’ll go down faster than a load of MILFS at an after screening Twilight party when that gay vampire emo dude walks into the room with his flies unzipped.

And that brings me onto Georgina...

Greek bird I knocked about with at Uni for a bit. Hairy. Very hairy. You needed a permit from the Forestry Commission and a compass to go anywhere near her bush. Her pubic mane was so thick and dark I half expected to find a lost Incan city or a tribe of pygmies having a little dance round a human sacrifice while prodding about down there.

Anyway, Georgina was a pretty straight-laced girl who’s idea of ‘naughtiness’ stretched to giving me a hand job while the TV was still on. When I offered, in a very gentlemanly way, to clear out her shitpipe with my hot meat injection she declined and suggested I may be the child of the anti-Christ.

But way before this, back in the early fumbling stages of our relationship, I was walking Georgina back to her halls, being all nice and charming while wondering to myself if she gushed when she came. We get into her place. Thankfully my good friend alcohol had been consumed by the bucket load and I knew I had a crack at getting near Georgina’s greasy beef bucket.

We chat. We laugh. I’m starting to get bored. So I think: Bollocks to this and dive on. Georgina’s receptive, thank fuck, and we start a bit of a snogging sesh. Eventually, after rubbing my hard-on against her leg for twenty-odd minutes like a dog in heat, Georgina takes the hint and reaches for my fly.

WAAAYYY-HEEEAAAYYYY !!! WE HAVE LIFT OFF !!!

While stroking Georgina’s long dark hair I whisper romantically: “How about a blowjob?”

Georgina looks up at me with her chocolate brown eyes and almost immediately descends on my purple-headed wank wand. And clamps her mouth round it. And keeps it there. For about thirty seconds. Puzzled, I start rocking my hips about while gently pushing her head down, trying to get a bit of life into the situation. It was like getting a blowjob from a fucking zombie.

Then, all of a sudden, realising things weren’t going to plan, Georgina takes in a deep breath through her nose and
BLOWS hard down my japs eye like she was playing the fucking tuba. I jerk backwards, PAIN??? FUCKING P-A-I-N !!! I twat my head hard against the wall, my arms go up and I somehow manage to cuff Georgina round the face with my fist. This causes Georgina to bite down hard on my man meat as if she were having her leg sawn off without aesthetic. I scream. Georgina screams. I start sobbing, so does Georgina. My cock shrinks so quickly I thought it was going to invert into my body and I’d suddenly become transsexual.

So, I’ve had air blown into my prostate with the violent force of a localised hurricane, I’ve got a gash on the back of my head from where I headed the wall, and I’ve got a nice ring of bloody teeth marks on my – quite frankly tiny, trembling and scared - baby batter bazooka. Oh, and I’ve also got a sobbing girl with the first blossomings of a black eye to contend with.

I take the only sensible course of action. I put my head to one side and vomit. In Georgina's bed.

Could say that night was a bit of a disaster. And it’s sort of not following the instructions properly. How the fuck was I to know that sweet, innocent, incorruptible Georgina had never given a blowjob before???

And the weird thing is later that year I found out Georgina had had a DP session with a couple of lads on the engineering course...

...(if only I'd have gotten to know her later in the year).
( SpankyHanky, Fri 16 Jul 2010, 13:47, 6 replies)

Texting
On Monday, my girlfriend sent me a text message. Only problem is, it was a message that was clearly meant for somebody else.

She's now my ex-girlfriend. Whoops.
(TheManWithThePlan cussed your mum on, Fri 16 Jul 2010, 13:38, 15 replies)

My WoTQ answer
Nobody is exempt from making silly mistakes right?

Well I was driving down the street the other day when I saw what appeared to be a large heavy gentlemen dealing the MASSIVE DRUGS, did I mention that this is right around the corner from the local primary school? Well that was his first mistake.

I revved up the engine on my HONDA CIVIC and drove right over there, I wanted to pin him against the wall but I missed and just drove mostly into the wall. But then I got out and roundhouse kicked what was apparently his PRESCRIPTION MEDICINE out of his hand. Though it turns out he wasnt a drug dealer he was a policeman and I got arrested, but the jokes on them because when I got out I went back to my MINGING GIRLFRIENDS house and played xbox all night with TOTACH.

Apologies for shortness.

Your all gay.
(Psymon_Spark Jesus Saves! The rest of you take 4d6 damage, Fri 16 Jul 2010, 13:14, 7 replies)

Wacko
Until very recently (and I'm nearly 30), I thought the Jacksons were singing about spending the night in Bristol, when blaming it on the Boogie.
(commodore69 loves big butts, Fri 16 Jul 2010, 13:13, Reply)

Online computer users often engage in what is affectionately known as
"cybersex". Often the fantasies typed into keyboards and shared through
Internet phone lines get pretty raunchy. However, as you'll see below, one
of the two cyber-surfers in the following transcript of an online chat
doesn't seem to quite get the point of cybersex. Then again, maybe he
does...

Wellhung: Hello, Sweetheart. What do you look like?

Sweetheart: I am wearing a red silk blouse, a miniskirt and high heels. I
work out every day, I'm toned and perfect. My measurements are 36-24-36.
What do you look like?

Wellhung: I'm 6'3" and about 250 pounds. I wear glasses and I have on a
pair
of blue sweat pants I just bought from WalMart. I'm also wearing a T-shirt
with a few spots of barbecue sauce on it from dinner... it smells funny.

Sweetheart: I want you. Would you like to screw me?

Wellhung: OK.

Sweetheart: We're in my bedroom. There's soft music playing on the stereo
and candles on my dresser and night table. I'm looking up into your eyes,
smiling. My hand works its way down to your crotch and begins to fondle
your
huge, swelling bulge.

Wellhung: I'm gulping, I'm beginning to sweat.

Sweetheart: I'm pulling up your shirt and kissing your chest.

Wellhung: Now I'm unbuttoning your blouse. My hands are trembling.

Sweetheart: I'm moaning softly.

Wellhung: I'm taking hold of your blouse and sliding it off slowly.

Sweetheart: I'm throwing my head back in pleasure. The cool silk slides off
my warm skin. I'm rubbing your bulge faster, pulling and rubbing.

Wellhung: My hand suddenly jerks spastically and accidentally rips a hole
in
your blouse. I'm sorry.

Wellhung: I'll pay for it.

Sweetheart: Don't worry about it. I'm wearing a lacy black bra. My soft
breasts are rising and falling, as I breath harder and harder.

Wellhung: I'm fumbling with the clasp on your bra. I think it's stuck. Do
you have any scissors?

Sweetheart: I take your hand and kiss it softly. I'm reaching back undoing
the clasp. The bra slides off my body. The air caresses my breasts. My
nipples are erect for you.

Wellhung: How did you do that? I'm picking up the bra and inspecting the
clasp.

Sweetheart: I'm arching my back. Oh baby. I just want to feel your tongue
all over me.

Wellhung: I'm dropping the bra. Now I'm licking your, you know, breasts.
They're neat!

Sweetheart: I'm running my fingers through your hair. Now I'm nibbling your
ear.

Wellhung: I suddenly sneeze. Your breasts are covered with spit and phlegm.

Sweetheart: What?

Wellhung: I'm so sorry. Really.

Sweetheart: I'm wiping your phlegm off my breasts with the remains of my
blouse.

Wellhung: I'm taking the sopping wet blouse from you. I drop it with a
plop.

Sweetheart: OK. I'm pulling your sweat pants down and rubbing your hard
tool.

Wellhung: I'm screaming like a woman. Your hands are cold! Yeeee!

Sweetheart: I'm pulling up my miniskirt. Take off my panties.

Wellhung: I'm pulling off your panties. My tongue is going all over, in and
out nibbling on you... umm... wait a minute.

Sweetheart: What's the matter?

Wellhung: I've got a pubic hair caught in my throat. I'm choking.

Sweetheart: Are you OK?

Wellhung: I'm having a coughing fit. I'm turning all red.

Sweetheart: Can I help?

Wellhung: I'm running to the kitchen, choking wildly. I'm fumbling through
the cabinets, looking for a cup. Where do you keep your cups?

Sweetheart: In the cabinet to the right of the sink.

Wellhung: I'm drinking a cup of water. There, that's better.

Sweetheart: Come back to me, lover.

Wellhung: I'm washing the cup now.

Sweetheart: I'm on the bed aching for you.

Wellhung: I'm drying the cup. Now I'm putting it back in the cabinet. And
now I'm walking back to the bedroom. Wait, it's dark, I'm lost. Where's the
bedroom?

Sweetheart: Last door on the left at the end of the hall.

Wellhung: I found it.

Sweetheart: I'm tuggin' off your pants. I'm moaning. I want you so badly.

Wellhung: Me too.

Sweetheart: Your pants are off. I kiss you passionately - our naked bodies
pressing each other.

Wellhung: Your face is pushing my glasses into my face. It hurts.

Sweetheart: Why don't you take off your glasses?

Wellhung: OK, but I can't see very well without them. I place the glasses
on
the night table.

Sweetheart: I'm bending over the bed. Give it to me, baby!

Wellhung: I have to pee. I'm fumbling my way blindly across the room and
toward the bathroom.

Sweetheart: Hurry back, lover.

Wellhung: I find the bathroom and it's dark. I'm feeling around for the
toilet. I lift the lid.

Sweetheart: I'm waiting eagerly for your return.

Wellhung: I'm done going. I'm feeling around for the flush handle, but I
can't find it. Uh-oh!

Sweetheart: What's the matter now?

Wellhung: I've realized that I've peed into your laundry hamper. Sorry
again. I'm walking back to the bedroom now, blindly feeling my way.

Sweetheart: Mmm, yes. Come on.

Wellhung: OK, now I'm going to put my... you know... thing... in your...
you
know... woman's thing.

Sweetheart: Yes! Do it, baby! Do it!

Wellhung: I'm touching your smooth butt. It feels so nice. I kiss your
neck.
Umm, I'm having a little trouble here.

Sweetheart: I'm moving my ass back and forth, moaning. I can't stand it
another second! Slide in! Screw me now!

Wellhung: I'm flaccid.

Sweetheart: What?

Wellhung: I'm limp. I can't sustain an erection.

Sweetheart: I'm standing up and turning around; an incredulous look on my
face.

Wellhung: I'm shrugging with a sad look on my face, my weiner all floppy.
I'm going to get my glasses and see what's wrong.

Sweetheart: No, never mind. I'm getting dressed. I'm putting on my
underwear. Now I'm putting on my wet nasty blouse.

Wellhung: No wait! Now I'm squinting, trying to find the night table. I'm
feeling along the dresser, knocking over cans of hair spray, picture frames
and your candles.

Sweetheart: I'm buttoning my blouse. Now I'm putting on my shoes.

Wellhung: I've found my glasses. I'm putting them on. My God! One of our
candles fell on the curtain. The curtain is on fire! I'm pointing at it, a
shocked look on my face.

Sweetheart: Go to hell. I'm logging off, you loser!

Wellhung: Now the carpet is on fire! Oh noooo!


Sweetheart: (logged off)
(countwilfredthehairy i wasn't born to live, Fri 16 Jul 2010, 13:06, 13 replies)

Wiping Your Arse
Apparently you sit down on the loo to do it.
(rhyswynne - on every social network mullarkey known to man, Fri 16 Jul 2010, 13:03, 11 replies)

I used to get so confused
Now I understand...

A sale of a commercial property as a freehold is standard rated for VAT, whereas selling a residential property is zero-rated if its freehold or a long lease (of more than 21 years) and the lease is granted by the constructor, or if its a renovated property that's been empty for moe then 10 years, otherwise it's VAT exempt. Unless it's a commercial lease and there's an option to tax. I think.

Easy, really. Don't know why I used to make such a meal of it.
(Neil_E_There didn't the Aussies used to be good at cricket?, Fri 16 Jul 2010, 12:55, Reply)

Doing IT wrong

( jim_bob can herd cats., Fri 16 Jul 2010, 12:51, 9 replies)

Apparently
I was only supposed to blow the bloody doors off.
( JeffTheDogFucker Can you dig it?, Fri 16 Jul 2010, 12:34, 2 replies)