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I am nerdier than 99% of all people. Are you a nerd? Click here to take the Nerd Test, get nerdy images and jokes, and talk on the nerd forum!

CadaverForSale.com - How much is your cadaver worth?

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» Thrown away: The stuff you loved and lost.

Childhood Innocence
Not funny, not clever, just fucking tragic.

My father died of cancer when I was 11. He'd had skin cancer some years before and had it removed (all the time I knew him he had a big scar on his face from the skin graft). About a year before his death he went to the doctor to say he'd got that "funny feeling" and thought the cancer might be back again.

Fucking doctor didn't believe him.

My father ended up with cancer nodes behind his knees, from something that started near his face. If I ever see that cunting doctor again I will make him eat his own balls.

We kept him (my father, not the doctor) at home as he slowly declined. After a while, he became bedridden. Then he had to have a frame to keep the blankets off as he was in so much pain he couldn't stand the weight. He went through a box of morphine a day and was still in excruciating pain much of the time.

Eventually he couldn't speak and couldn't chew. I'd bought my mother a seive (one of those things you use to sift flour) that Christmas and she wore a hole in it mashing up veggies for dad to digest, as that was about as much as he could stomach.

Except he couldn't stomach it - he threw it up regularly. At this point he was too weak to sit up, so someone would have to help him sit up to throw up into the bucket kept beside his bed. He was also too weak to yell, or even talk most of the time, so he would signal his need to vomit by grunting.

This meant that someone had to be in the room with him at all times, otherwise there was a real risk he would pull a Hendrix and drown in his own vomit.

Can you see where this is going?

My brother (13) and I (11) would have to take shifts sitting alone with my dying vegetable of a father in case he had to throw up. Thankfully we weren't expected to help him sit up to do so but had to go and get my Mum.

(This is making me so angry my hands are shaking - I've had to walk away from the keyboard several times just to get this out. It's not cathartic - it's just making me fucking angry.)

I remember the morning my mother came in to my room to tell me he had died - I was relieved. I remember early on in my father's illness - before my mother told us he was going to die - seeing one of my school chums being picked up and hugged by her dad and thinking I was never going to get to do that again.

Fucksocks. Too early to drink.

Length? About 6 to 8 months of pain and humility (him, not me).
(Fri 15th Aug 2008, 11:44, More)

» Get Rich Quick

Free money!
Back when I were a wee lad of about 8 or 9, my family lived in a caravan park for a short time while my dad was renovating our house. On this caravan park they had a kiosk, where residents could buy the necessities and the not so necessaries.

This was long enough ago that soft drink / pop / what-have-you was sold in large glass bottles. After consuming the sugary goodness therein, said bottles could be returned for a hefty deposit of two bob (twenty cents). This was a princely sum to me - it was more than a week's pocket money! I didn't actually get any pocket money at the time, but that's neither here nor there.

Understandably, much time was spent scouring the caravan park for empty bottles, which were quickly exchanged for silver. However, it was a slow process and fraught with danger (lots of barking doggies in this caravan park, not to mention scary shouty caravan-dwelling troglodytes).

One day, we found where the kiosk staff stored the empty returns. Hundreds of them, around the back of the kiosk, in big crates, hidden behind a fence, with an open gate. Where no-one could see you.

Yes, I did get rich quick. Unfortunately I spent all my ill-gotten gains on lollies / sweeties and was violently ill for the next 6 hours. I didn't do it again.
(Thu 31st Jul 2008, 19:57, More)

» Tactless

Tactless Gifts
My best friend was diagnosed with a brain tumour a couple of years back. Before he popped his clogs, we managed to meet up a few times for beers. On most occasions, I presented him with gifts that I thought would help him through the difficult time he was having. These included:

* A nintendo DS complete with Dr Kawashima's Brain Training game, just before he went in for an op to excise the tumour. The idea being, he could compare his scores before and after the op to see if it had affected his cognitive abilities.

* A geiger counter, just after he'd had his first dose of radiation therapy, so we could find out if there was any lingering radioactivity (there wasn't, disappointingly).

* Further down the line, when the growth of the tumour was affecting his coordination, a jelly mould in the shape of a brain, so he could replace the bits that weren't working.
(Thu 10th Nov 2011, 9:08, More)

» My most gullible moment

Thankyou Lady of leisure!
My two little ones were just drinking their milk before bedtime while the eldest (three) regaled me with stories of their visit to the local farm. It seems they had fed all kinds of animals and a puppy had even eaten her cake.

When she told me they'd seen a Llama, EvilArgyle (he's red and sits on my right shoulder) immediately thought of Lady of Leisure's story of shiraffes. GoodArgyle was busy watching cbeebies and didn't have much to say.

"Did you know that when you have a mummy sheep and a daddy giraffe you get a baby llama?"

"Really? That's amazing!"

"Aww - that's sweet," I hear you say. And it would have been, apart from that fact that it was my wife that said it.

Yes, she believed me. As outrageous a claim as it was, she believed me. One hundred percent. Without a shadow of a doubt.

I only stopped laughing after she kicked me in the nutsack.
(Fri 22nd Aug 2008, 19:38, More)

» DIY Techno-hacks

I want my MTV
Some 12 or 13 years ago I moved out of my lovely flat, which came with satellite tv, to move in to a flat with Mrs Argle, which didn't (the flat, not Mrs Argyle). After moving in, I dutifully enquired with the landlords as to the possibility of erecting a satellite dish. "No chance," says they, "it's a listed building." "Fucksocks," says I. I may have also said "Mother pus-bucket," but I'm not sure.

Undaunted, I went ahead and purchased a satellite dish, box and subscription. Thinking I'd figure out how to set it up, without the landlords knowing, after the fact (you may notice a theme here). Took it back to the flat. Looked at it. Looked at the lovely terrace that came with the flat. Looked at the satellite dish. Had a cuppa. Looked at the satellite dish a bit more. Went for a pint. Came home. Looked at the dish again. Looked at my camera tripod. Eureka!

With the aid of a drill and a convenient bolt, I managed to mount the satellite dish on the tripod and set it up on the terrace. But how to aim it? Well, with the aid of a convenient website, spirit level, angle finder and one of those crap compasses you can buy from a garage, I managed to aim the dish roughly in the direction of the satellite and get a signal! Result!

"Genius," I called myself. "Genius," Mrs Argyle called me. "Fucksocks!" I yelled every time the wind blew the damn thing over. In the middle of the night. In the dead of winter. In the rain.
(Tue 25th Aug 2009, 13:57, More)
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